Wine, Bodies, and Shame: A Manifesto of Freedom
The ice clinks in my glass. Salt from the ocean seeps through the balcony door, sticky on my skin, heavy in the air. The waves keep their rhythm, indifferent to everything I once thought was important. This scene? It’s mine now.
I don’t remember the exact moment wine stopped being a sin and became sacred. I don’t remember when my body stopped being a war zone and started becoming a playground. But I do remember one thing: I am not going back.
The City Girl Who Ran
For years, I lived like an off-brand Sex and the City character. Not the glamorous one in designer heels with men falling at her feet. No — more like the exhausted one. Perfect hair, perfect outfit, perfect smile plastered on top of constant self-doubt.
Every mirror was a critic. Every outfit a silent jury. Every meal a negotiation between desire and guilt. My worth was a currency traded on how well I could pretend it was effortless.
My body wasn’t mine. It was a project. A prop. A silent apology for daring to take up space in the world.
And so I ran. Ran through jobs, diets, dates, distractions. Ran myself thin and breathless—yet never free.
Bikini Panic and Spanish Reality Checks
Then came the trip. And the damn bikini.
Every holiday before had been a rerun of the same toxic loop:
“Is my stomach flat enough?”
“Are my thighs okay?”
“Will this picture make me hate myself later?”
So I posed. I sucked in. I twisted my body into something Instagram-worthy while silently begging the sun for mercy. It was exhausting.
But Spain cracked me open.
On the beach, women were free. They weren’t hiding, apologizing, or shrinking. They didn’t wait until they were “ready” for the bikini — they just wore it. Soft bellies. Silver hair. Laugh lines. Boobs out, joy out. Big women in tiny dresses, eating ice cream like queens under the hot afternoon sun.
They weren’t “brave.” They weren’t waiting for permission. They were just… living.
And in that moment, I realized: all my shame had been self-inflicted. I’d built my own prison brick by brick. Spain handed me the key.
Wine, Pleasure, and Dropping the Script
Spain tasted like rebellion. A glass of Rioja heavy on my tongue. Garlic and seafood dripping through my fingers. Endless dinners that blurred into midnight laughter and new friendships.
Food wasn’t the enemy anymore. Wine wasn’t “bad.” Pleasure wasn’t a trap — it was a way home to myself.
By day three, my makeup bag stayed zipped. My skin breathed. My hair curled in the salty air. My face wasn’t a project anymore — it was simply me.
This wasn’t laziness. This was clarity. A reset button smashed against all the lies I’d been fed about how women are “supposed” to look, eat, move, live.
The Shame Purge
And the shame?
It started melting.
Shame for cellulite.
Shame for aging.
Shame for ordering dessert.
Shame for taking up space in the world.
Piece by piece, I ripped that cloak off and left it behind in the sand.
This wasn’t some polished “self-love” retreat with staged photos and curated hashtags. This was sweaty, salty, messy freedom. This was me laughing too loud over a second bottle of wine, sunburnt and barefoot, breathing in my own skin without apology.
Because real freedom isn’t found in smoothing yourself down to fit. Real freedom is blowing up the damn mold.
I Won’t Go Back
I won’t go back to apologizing for existing. Not in a bikini. Not at dinner. Not in love. Not in life.
And if you’re still whispering, still waiting for permission to take up your space — girl, maybe it’s time to scream.
Join me in #lifeunfiltered