Weaponized Empowerment: The truth about sex work, shame and self-liberation

I didn’t stumble into sex work—I dreamed it. Despite my upbringing.

When I was around 12 or so, I remember seeing bits and pieces of the movie  “Memoirs of a Geisha” and seeing a world where sensuality was an art form. Where mystery was power. Where intimacy could change everything. Her grace, her poise, the devotion to beauty and presence—it lit something in me.

I didn’t want to just be seen.

I wanted to be unforgettable.

So I became her.

From the little I saw of that film, I started to dream of becoming something far beyond what the world expected of me. I imagined myself studying philosophy, art, politics, human behavior—so I could hold meaningful conversations with the upper echelons of society.

I wanted to be well-rounded, worldly, and utterly captivating.

In some ways, I wanted to be like Cleopatra—soft, powerful, studied, and deeply influential.

I believed my sensuality could become a portal. A way to offer space, access, and freedom to others who didn’t have a place at the table.

I saw myself as a bridge between worlds.

A living work of art with a purpose.

Becoming a sex worker was a choice.

It was thoughtful. Purposeful. Empowering.

But it hasn’t always stayed that way.

Last year, when I couldn’t pay my bills and sugar dating was not an option,  I became a stripper out of desperation.

Before I ever even set foot on stage, I used to glamorize it.

I imagined the stage lights, the music, the money falling like rain. I imagined power. I remember telling myself “I’m going to meet and fall in love with an 87-year-old billionaire and I will ‘Anna Nicole Smith’ my way out of this”.  

But no one tells you what it takes to survive that stage.

No one tells you about the men trying to grope you, shove their fingers inside you, treat you like a piece of meat.

I’ve never felt so violated. So dirty. So dehumanized.

Stripping was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life as a sex worker.

And I don’t think people understand what it does to your spirit to keep showing up in spaces that only want pieces of you—not your whole self.

When I would dance, I’d come home around 5 a.m., numb in my body but overwhelmed in my heart.

I would shower and desperately try to scrub off the scent of the men who had groped me— their fat, sweaty, disgusting fingers all over my skin like I didn’t belong to myself.

I hated it.

I would cry myself to sleep most nights, because I had no support.

No one to talk to. No way to unload the grief that had nowhere to go.

And then, like clockwork, I’d get up, post on Instagram like I was having the time of my life as if I wasn’t dying inside.

Also, I was sober the entire time. 

Not because I didn’t have access—but because I wanted to feel it.

I wanted to be present. I didn’t want to check out.

I needed to know exactly what this was doing to me.

But I understood why half the girls there were always drunk/and or coked out.

That same year, I did my first—and last—bukkake scene for a porn shoot, I thought I could handle it.

I had dissociated through other scenes. I thought I was strong enough.

But afterward, I came home and collapsed.

I scrubbed my skin raw. I still felt dirty.

I couldn’t explain it. I could barely hold myself up.

You don’t always know what something will do to your soul until it’s already happened.

That’s why watching Lily Phillips cry during her interview broke my heart.

She spoke about a scene where she slept with over 100 men—and how deeply it traumatized her. She wept while telling the truth. And the comments?

Cruel.

Dismissive.

“Well, what did you expect?”

“You’re a porn star, not a victim”

As if sex work voids humanity.

As if trauma makes her less valid.

As if being a sex worker means we forfeit the right to feel anything at all.

This is what I mean when I say empowerment becomes a weapon.

People only want to hear about sex work when it sounds beautiful. When it fits a clean, curated narrative.

But the second we speak the pain, we’re met with blame.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have become a stripper.”

“You signed up for this.”

As if we can’t change.

As if we can’t be hurt.

As if we’re not human.

For some, sex work is a choice. For others, it’s a last resort.

And either way—we deserve compassion.

It’s not always empowering.

It’s not always glamorous.

It’s not always safe.

It’s not always healing.

Sometimes, it’s lonely.

Sometimes, it’s survival.

Sometimes, it’s deeply traumatizing.

And those truths deserve space, too.

And when you carry identities that the world doesn’t know how to hold—like being Black, neurodivergent, femme, and a sex worker—it becomes even heavier.

There are layers to this that people don’t talk about.

People say “amplify marginalized voices,” but then only uplift the ones that feel palatable.

They celebrate the aesthetics that feel safe, familiar, and brand-friendly—while narratives like mine get buried. Silenced. Shadowbanned.

Being a Black, neurodivergent sex worker who educates, reflects, and speaks openly about the parts of this work that aren’t shiny… it’s not easy.

The lack of support, the silence, the “I see you” in private but never in public—

it can feel discouraging.

It can feel like shouting into a void while others thrive for saying less with prettier packaging.

But I keep going.

Because this story isn’t just mine.

It’s the story of so many people who are erased, dismissed, or quietly pushed to the margins.

We deserve to be heard—not just when our stories are convenient, but especially when they’re not.

Final Thought:

I’m not here to shame sex work.

I’m not here to glamorize it either.

I’m here to tell the truth—because someone needs to.

Because we all deserve to be seen, held, and heard.

Even in the parts we were told to hide.

Affirmation:

My story is still valid, even when it hurts. I honor my softness, my survival, and my truth. I am human, and I deserve to be held with care.