When the Camera Is a Weapon 📸

Dear younger me— don't smile into that camera

You weren’t wrong to feel it.
That burning in your chest when you saw him, phone in hand, pointing it at you like you were an object on display.

You were just existing.
Wearing a nice outfit at a family function. Smiling. Breathing. Being.

And yet—he clicked.
And clicked.
And clicked.

The camera flash didn’t burn me. The silence did.

Let me say this clearly: he had no right.
Not to look at you like that.
Not to capture you without consent.
Not to make you feel like your skin was something shameful for simply being seen.

And no one said a word.
Because “he’s your uncle.”
Because “he didn’t touch you.”
Because “respect your elders”—even when they’re violating every boundary that should protect you.

In this world, unless someone lays a hand on you, your discomfort doesn’t count.
And that, my love, is where the rot begins.

They told you to lower your gaze.
But no one taught him to raise his standards.
They told you to cover up.
But no one covered for you when your dignity was being stripped away one photo at a time.

You hated him for it.
But you hated yourself for feeling powerless.
You didn’t say anything.
And neither did anyone else.

This is how girls learn silence—not from being told to shut up, but from watching the world ignore what hurts them.

And it didn’t stop there.
That man—the one everyone calls “uncle”—once locked the door behind your mother.
She told you what happened.
How she ran.
How she shook.
How your father’s footsteps down the hall JUST saved her life that day.

And yet—there he is. Still invited. Still allowed. Still holding his phone.

How do you sit at the same table with someone who almost broke your family with his presence?
How do you smile politely when you’re haunted by the thought of what he does with those photos?

We’re told to keep peace in families, even when we’re protecting monsters.

You’ve spent years trying to forget. (FYI- never try to forgive.)
Trying to not let the rage poison you.
But today, I want you to remember:

You didn’t deserve it. Your mother didn’t deserve it. None of us do.
And the shame?
It doesn’t belong to you.
It never did.

Let this letter be your rage, your release, your reckoning.
And to anyone reading this—if this sounds even a little familiar:
Tell your story. Drop it in the comments. Let your voice do what silence never could—heal ❤️‍🩹

Some men collect photos. We collect scars. Let this be the place we put them down.