BIRTHDAY SUIT

Stripping down for my solar return

NOTE: The accompanying visuals have been edited for Substack and are SFW (don’t worry mum) so read this as you would Playboy - for the articles.

Two years ago I hit publish on my first Chili Padi post. The first time doing anything is the scariest but it opened the door to two years of becoming the writer I suspected lived somewhere inside me. It’s also (almost) my birthday so I’m feeling celebratory, nostalgic and wiser (I tink) all around. My friend Ida recently told me that I’ll always feel young to her. Maybe it’s because we met young, so we’ll always see the most carefree versions of ourselves in each other. I don’t know that I feel young but I’d like to think (though nothing’s promised) that I have a lot of life ahead of me. I hope I have lots more firsts to look forward to.

I first entertained the subject of being photographed nude years ago, at lunch with my friend Heather. We were living in our respective West Hollywood bachelorette pads, a mile apart, which made midweek lunches a breeze. Heather’s a dying breed, a real lady with impeccable manners that would make Emily Post weep with joy. But she has a naughty side (all my friends do, it’s a bit de rigeur) so we wondered if perhaps it might make sense to schedule a sitting sometime, to memorialize our early twenties-bodies while still flush with natural collagen and gravity was holding up its end of the bargain. I’ll admit the idea had been percolating since Samantha Jones did so in Sex And The City. You probably remember “The Real Me” as the iconic fashion roadkill episode (and you’d be right to), but the B plot is Samantha commemorating her body, reasoning:

“...so when I’m old and my tits are in my shoes, I can look at it and say ‘Damn, I was hot!’

It’s classic Ms. Jones: gutsy, sexy, self-possessed, even if it’s treated like it’s self-indulgent and tawdry (she does it anyway and looks fab, of course). Despite her friends’ side eyeing, it seemed like good enough reason to me! Your body is your home your entire existence - it’s with you from the moment you take your first breath (before, even) till your last, yet many of us have such tenuous relationships with ours.

Barbara Kruger, 1989.

I can’t remember the first time I was acutely aware of having a body. I love those videos of babies seeing, really seeing their hands and feet for the first time, the awe of realizing they’re real, flesh and blood, not floating untethered. I know that as a baby myself, my mum worried that I had no neck. My head rested atop my shoulders and she prayed that someday, something would grow between the two (I have one now and mostly I worry about how strained it is and whether I need neck cream, so a wash overall). I was a clumsy kid who fell a lot, which meant having unsightly, oft-scraped knees. Growing up in Southeast Asia, your body is never really yours - the blueprint is built by the aunties who squeezed your arms if you gained weight or tsked disapprovingly if you lost too much, before force-feeding you a mound of rice. I was constantly bombarded with ads for Fair and Lovely, a whitening cream and was often reminded, gently, then not-so-gently, to stay out of the sun. By the time I was in my teens and living in Texas, I’d rebel by sneaking off to tanning beds in the winter. I knew America was for me, the Land of the Tan.

So much has happened between my body and me since then. Puberty and birth control. Falls, aches, acne and waxes. Stares and gropes, push up bras and baggy shirts. Why bore you with the details, you’re human too. Besides, it’s not all been bad. Developing boobs was very exciting! I remember going to the mall to get fitted for a training bra. It had Mickey Mouse on the band, a stab at softening the blow of growing up. Standing in the fitting room together, my mum looked at me and we both knew something was changing. Not long after, I tried shaving my legs and cut my knee so deep, there’s a keloid that lingers today. I look at it now and see a girl trying to grow up too fast, but also, I see her determination.

With my birthday approaching, I knew this was the youngest I’d ever be, so I texted my friend Tash before I could chicken out. We met like most people do these days - on the internet. My print agent wanted me to build out my book so I’d gone on an Instagram photographer deep dive. I found Tash’s work and loved it; in person, she exceeded my expectations. Yes, she had a great eye and knew how to direct, but we also found our collaborative shorthand quickly. I knew I’d be in good hands with her.

Date set, I rewatched the SATC episode. Samantha announces her plan at the diner, by ordering nothing but a hot water with lemon. She wants to look slammin’ in her pics. I couldn’t fault her. The 90’s and 2000s were a trip -sure, the internet wasn’t the hellscape it is today but any pop culture we consumed had no guardrails. We were gaslit into thinking anything over a size 2 was letting yourself go. So yes, I’ve made peace with my body but any given day can feel like looking in a funhouse mirror. I wish I were taller, my thighs were slimmer, my nose straighter. But I’ve also started being kinder to who looks back at me. I feel stronger and sexier than I did in my teens and my twenties (though if I could go back in time, I’d sneak a gua sha). My body has been both a wonderland and a battlefield, but we’ve made a truce. Why not celebrate this harmony? So, I chose not to do anything special to prep (fine, I got a blowout. I’m not above a great hair day). I went about business as usual. I had a few margaritas the night before, I even ate a burger that week (I know, I am very brave).

I channelled whatever nervous energy I had into constructing a moodboard. As an actor, I’m used to being perceived. My body is my instrument and because I live in LA, I keep it fine tuned. As a writer, I live in my brain. Sometimes, I feel trapped between the two, of wanting to be seen and to hide behind my work. How to approach this in a way that felt true to both sides? My initial instinct led me to old Herb Ritts and Helmut Newton photos, tasteful and artsy. Then I felt self-conscious for leaning on a man’s perspective. In 2026, it’s never been easier to look up naked photos. Why not look up the millions of women who’d monetized their appearances, their bodies for financial security? Fourth-wave feminism decrees we can leverage our digital presences for body autonomy, subvert the male gaze for financial gain - why was I being such a prude about it? Maybe I’m a live-and-let-live-feminist - power to those who can, my body’s just too baked in cultural repression. Besides, most of the women who seemed to benefit from this exchange were white. The sexual gaze isn’t always as kind to brown ones. Another recurring theme I encountered was motherhood, from beautiful pregnancy portraits to brutal accounts of the physical changes experienced in its aftermath. I think it’s great and important - from my limited understanding, parenthood can be enormously isolating. Any conversation helps. But what if your body never becomes a vessel for a child? Does it make it less valuable? How do you mark its changes?

The morning of, I woke up and felt….fine? Usually I have a healthy amount of nerves pre-set, both out of excitement and fear, but I felt calm. In fact, I was so relaxed on the freeway, it took me a second to realize that my side view mirror was shaking aggressively. Before I could confirm I hadn’t suddenly developed vertigo, the mirror flew off, disappearing into the California skyline behind me. The person in me was anxious - was this an omen? A sign? But the writer in me thought, hmmm, now there’s something.

Naturally, I was a little shaky when I arrived. I told Tash what had happened and we laughed and soon it was time to strip down. Being naked in front of someone you don’t know very well is part of modern dating and gynecological visits, but it still feels strange. The first time I was every truly naked in front of a large group of strangers was at a Korean spa. I went with a coworker, surely an HR violation, but we worked in retail and suffered enough abuse from our clients that it made us sisters in arms. It felt strange at first but it soon became routine. I went twice a month and loved being among women of all shapes, sizes and ages, sharing the experience. Standing naked in a studio I’d never been in, with a camera on me was new. But new experiences were what I was after, so I went with it. When we wrapped, I thanked Tash and hugged her goodbye (fully clothed).

I picked the photos up a week later. Tash ran out to my car, excited, which felt encouraging. Back home, I braced myself, feeling every ounce of body shame I’d ever experienced come zooming back. A long, long time ago, someone ate an apple and our brains bloomed to consciousness. Today we hold smaller Apples and compare ourselves to others. We have apps that nip and tuck. Our front-facing cameras show someone we swear we are not. I had willingly allowed myself to be captured and now I would have to face my fears and my vanity. I wondered what I’d see and want to change. That’s the curse and beauty of modern day science - if you don’t like something you can rectify it. Boobs sagging? Get a lift! Tummy drooping? Get a tuck! Botox, filler, it’s all there. We have free will. But choice is both wonderful and damning. Narcissus was driven to insanity by his own reflection. My mirror had cracked without me even glancing at it; what fate awaited me if I dared look too long?

The photos popped up. I looked at the woman looking at back at me. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I went instantly to the things that bothered me - a roll here, my double-jointed arms. Those boobs, the same ones I’d been thrilled about, weren’t quite as perky as they once were. Still, I thought, hey, check me out. Do I wish I’d done this sooner? Maybe. There is a certain kind of beauty that comes only with youth. It’s ok, we can say that. You spend countless nights out, wake up the next day, survive on stale bagels and black coffee and still look dewy. It’s what your 20s are for. For me, the real benefit of youth was knowing I had time to go nuts. I spent my twenties like it was cash at a blackjack table - I have no regrets but I do have some really great stories which feels like a tradeoff. The dips and the cracks and the hollows looking back at me are all real. But they’re mine all the same. I thought about how every morning I sat and rubbed my collarbones, my ears and my neck, feeling the blood pumping underneath. How earlier that day my legs had taken me up and down Runyon. How I moisturized every bit of skin from my forehead to my toes. How at the end of every yoga class, I kissed both knees, thanking them for working. Corny, sure, but it made me feel good. I was in conversation with my body in some small way every day. It took me a long time to love the skin I was born in and I know I’m not alone. In a world full of atrocities, I don’t think loving yourself should be a crime. There is an Agnès Varda quote I think about often - “there is only one age: Alive.” Maybe I’ll be brave enough to do this again in ten years, twenty (maybe less). One of the joys of getting older is that you change all the time. I’m glad I knocked another first off my list - it makes room for more.

Two years!!! What a thrill it has been writing for all of you, thank you for sticking around and making this a party :) I’m heading to Vegas tonight for a 36 hour twirl and am feeling extra lucky. In lieu of the Schiaparelli kitten heels, I hope you’ll share CP with a friend, as a gift to me. Love love love you all, till next time….

….and until then, a parting gift from me and the sexiest man to ever live. Ciao!