Burlesque, Rebellion & the Return to Joy

My burlesque days weren’t about being provocative. They were the comeback tour of a body I never meant to abandon.

And yes, there was heels, glitter, costumes, and at least one questionable dance move.

I didn’t seek out burlesque to feel powerful. I wasn’t looking to be bold or undone. I was looking for the part of me I had stopped hearing.

Not because she was broken. But because she was drowned out, by effort, by expectations, by the kind of stillness that doesn’t feel peaceful, just numb.

And somehow, I found her under stage lights. Not because of the costumes or the music. But because, for the first time in a long time, I moved without bracing.

And I remembered what was still mine.

It Was Never About the Glitter

From the outside, it looked like play. A little theatrical. A little absurd.

Feathers, lashes, red lips, poses.

But that was never the point.

The point was presence. Deliberate, embodied, electrified presence.

The kind that makes your skin feel real again. The kind that doesn’t apologise for being seen.

In that studio, I didn’t feel like I was becoming someone new. I felt like I was coming back to someone ancient.

Someone who had waited patiently beneath the quiet, the cleverness, the control.

Shame Doesn’t Leave Quietly, But It Can’t Dance Either

Shame has its own choreography. Smallness. Tension. Averted eyes.

It showed up the moment I entered that space. Before I even moved.

Who do you think you are?  It whispered that I was too old, too soft, too serious.

That I was trying too hard. That I wasn’t cool enough. That this kind of thing wasn’t for women like me.

But here’s the thing I learned about shame:

Shame can’t stay when you’re fully in your body. And you can’t shame a woman who’s not apologising.

So I stopped apologising and learned to strip, not just clothes, but the shame I no longer wanted to carry.

And something in me unclenched.

Not all at once. But enough.

The Feminine Is Not a Costume

We’ve been taught to fear the feminine. To narrow it down into something soft, submissive, ornamental. To dress it up when it suits a role, and toss it away when it becomes inconvenient.

But the feminine is not a style. It is not an energy to access when it's convenient. It is not the opposite of strong.

It"s a force. It’s the part of us that creates, that holds, that knows. It’s the capacity to feel deeply, to sense what's unsaid.

It’s wild. And cyclical. And often misunderstood.

And when you’ve spent a lifetime shrinking or straightening yourself to be palatable, coming back to your own feminine side is not always graceful.

Sometimes it looks like grief. Sometimes it looks like rage.

And sometimes it looks like dancing in a way that doesn’t make sense to anyone but your bones.

That’s what burlesque became for me. A place where I could move without explanation. Where I didn’t have to soften my edges or hide my hunger.

Where the feminine wasn’t something to perform, but something to remember.

And This Was Never About Performing

Though, I did perform. More than once. On stage. In heels. Red lips. Sparkly pasties. Naked under lights.

But not for applause. The performance was never for them.

It was for me.

A reclaiming. A reckoning. A ritual of yes, I am still here.

I didn’t need to be perfect. I needed to be present.

This Is What It Looks Like to Come Back

Coming back to yourself doesn’t always look sacred. Sometimes it’s awkward. Sometimes it’s fierce. Sometimes it’s glittery and raw at the same time.

Sometimes it’s a stage. Sometimes it’s the moment you stop holding in your belly.

A sway in the kitchen. A barefoot dance in your lounge. Maybe a dance class that makes you blush.

Because the feminine lives in movement.

In hips that circle, in arms that reach, in rhythm that isn’t measured by reps. She doesn’t want to be sculpted or toned. She wants to be felt. So feel her. Feel you.

And that might be the most radical thing you do all year.

A note that Burlesque might not be your thing

Perhaps there’s some silent judgement. A raised eyebrow. A flicker of really?

Maybe you wonder what kind of woman chooses to take her clothes off in front of strangers, and calls it healing. The judgement. The discomfort. Maybe even the quiet assumption that this kind of thing is indulgent or naive.

And that’s okay. I’ll leave that with you.

But here’s what I want to say, gently and clearly:

I know I write this from a place of choice. Of privilege. A choice to dance naked and a choice to walk away.

To the women who don’t get to choose, whose sexuality is not expressed but extracted, commodified, manipulated, or used as currency, I see you.

To those whose bodies are negotiated before they are even understood, whose power is not a performance but a risk, whose survival has nothing to do with glitter or music or applause, I honour the weight of that.

And I don’t mistake my liberation for something universal. What I found on stage was mine. I do know what it cost others just to be seen.

But the right to be seen, that’s the rebellion.