I hate pictures of myself.

(Well, I used to. Still working on it.)

I could have sworn I had 5,000 selfies with friends. Or it seems like it. Reality is often a bit off from our imagination. Turns out it's about 800. This just means I have to do more. Is 800 enough to help me come to terms with who I am?

At some point, you start seeing patterns. You start seeing yourself the way your friends see you. You start noticing that maybe, just maybe, you're not the monster you thought you were.

The camera is always up high. Always looking down. Classic selfie angle, right? We all know this pose. But after hundreds of these shots, I'm realizing it's not just about the angle that's supposedly "flattering." It's about seeing myself in relation to other people. It's about documenting my place in community.

Which, for someone who spent most of her life believing she didn't deserve to take up space, is kind of revolutionary.

What We Get Wrong About Selfies

Everyone thinks selfies are narcissistic. Shallow. Meaningless.

But what if they're actually radical?

What if the act of repeatedly photographing yourself—especially when you've spent decades avoiding cameras—is an act of reclamation? What if every click is you saying "I exist" and "I deserve to be seen"?

For someone with an eating disorder, for someone who has always felt too big, too much, too visible in all the wrong ways—the selfie becomes a tool. Each one is practice. Practice at being seen. Practice at existing in the frame without apology.

Multiply that by 800. (And counting.) See what happens.

The Thing About Repetition

I keep coming back to this in my work. Repetition. Over and over and over.

In Face/Love, I photographed myself daily until I could look at my own face without flinching. In Perceive Me, I posed for 60+ artists until I could stand naked in front of strangers and feel powerful instead of ashamed. My Zoom freeze selfies taught me to find beauty in moments I couldn't control.

The friend selfies are the next step. Not just accepting my image, but actively celebrating it. These aren't accidents or forced confrontations with my reflection. These are choices. Joy. Proof of connection.

See yourself enough times genuinely smiling next to people who love you, and something shifts. The voice that says "you look terrible" gets quieter. The evidence starts piling up against it.

Community as Medicine

What makes this different from my other self-portrait work is obvious—I'm not alone in these pictures.

Every friend who leans into frame becomes part of my healing whether they know it or not. These images are proof. Proof that I exist in relationship. Proof that I am loved. Proof that I take up space in other people's lives in ways that bring them joy.

The selfie requires intimacy. You have to get close to fit everyone in frame. You have to agree, together, to document this moment of connection. In a culture that makes bodies like mine invisible, these pictures are evidence. I am here. I am loved. I belong.

From Hiding to Here I Am

When I started making art, I couldn't look at photos of myself. Literally couldn't. Would cover my face, delete images, avoid mirrors.

The progression feels important:

• Face/Love: confronting my reflection until I could see it

• Zoom freezes: finding beauty in the unguarded moments

• #selfieswithfriends: choosing to be seen, choosing to celebrate

Each series builds on the last. Each one teaches me something about visibility, about worthiness, about what it means to take up space.

These 800+ selfies (so far) represent hundreds of small acts of courage. Hundreds of moments where I chose to be present, to be visible, to claim my place in the frame.

And I'm not done. If you see me out and about, let's do a selfie. Let's add to this collection. Let's keep building this evidence of connection, this archive of joy.

The Art in Ordinary Moments

Not everything has to happen in a gallery to be art.

Sometimes the most profound work happens in accumulated moments of daily life. My selfies with friends are evidence of a life lived in community. They're documentation of healing in action.

Each image asks the same questions my other work asks: What does it mean to be seen? What does it mean to belong? What does it mean to love yourself enough to document your joy?

In a world that profits from our self-hatred, showing up in the frame—again and again and again—becomes resistance.

These aren't just selfies.

They're 800 acts of radical self-love. And counting.