Unmasked: The Photoshoot That Caught Me in a Lie
Behind the scenes in the studio… lights, backdrop, and a couple of chairs waiting for their moment.
Disclaimer: This post talks about trauma, meltdowns, periods, and all the messy human stuff that comes with them. If that’s not what you need in your head today, skip it and come back when you’re ready. No shame, no judgement.
Yesterday I did the Unmasked photoshoot. I was buzzing for it.
Thought I was walking into my big “fight song” moment… Cinematic rise from the ashes, dramatic soundtrack, slow clap at the end.
Reality? Full nervous system ambush before the first flash.
Having your photo taken isn’t simple at all. I couldn’t relax. Couldn’t switch off. Not my brain, not my body, not even my bloody face. Before the camera even pointed at me, I was choking back tears.
I tried everything: blasting powerhouse tunes, singing at the top of my lungs, sitting, standing, dancing like a prat.
FFS. I can belt out a tune in a room full of strangers, no problem. But I couldn’t even face myself through the lens of a camera.
My body had already clocked the pretending before my head had. It knew I was slipping back into old habits, and it called me out. Publicly. The bar steward.
Every shot was either “about to sob” or “about to star in Crimewatch.” Forget fierce and free… I was serving sad girl energy with a side of serial killer chic.
I was gutted. Embarrassed. Frustrated. Proper raging at myself.
So I gave in. Let the tears come. Snot, mascara, the lot.
Then I phoned my pal, because sometimes you need someone to wise old owl the shit out of you. And she did. She even had me singing down the phone while she sat on a train, because she knows music regulates me. Legend.
Only then did I even consider dragging myself back in front of the camera.
The Sciencey Bit (The Short, Sharp Version)
Brains and bodies don’t forget.
Trauma doesn’t just pack its bags and f*ck off because you decide “be confident now.”
Pretend long enough, and your nervous system will call bullshit. Cortisol spikes, muscles lock, face freezes.
That’s your body saying: “Stop talking shite. This isn’t you.”
So why does a camera push the big red button?
Loss of control – it freezes you in a moment you didn’t pick.
Identity clash – what you feel inside vs. what you see outside doesn’t always match. That stings like grief.
History baked in – every “too much / not enough” comment comes roaring back.
Vulnerability – a photo says “Here I am.” If being seen ever felt unsafe, your nervous system isn’t clapping, it’s panicking.
Now, let’s just sprinkle in my brand of ADHD for good measure shall we?!
My head goes big-budget drama, like I’m about to win an Oscar.
Reality? Shaky hands, sweat patches, and a moustache twinkle I never asked for.
Oh and not to mention the fact that of course I didn’t read the assignment and I turned up in me She-ra vest, wide leg trousers & crocs without an additional snazzy outfit to wear!
FML!
Add some biology to the mix now:
Empty stomach + high stress = your sensible brain legs it. In charges the amygdala, sword raised, screaming “Danger!” at a harmless lump of plastic, the camera.
Heart thumps, muscles lock, cortisol pours in like cheap lager at Wetherspoons.
Congratulations, your nervous system just re-enlisted for war… over a sodding photoshoot.
The Curveballs and the Self-Sabotage Specials
Because I clearly like to make life interesting, I stacked the odds against myself.
I hadn’t eaten since 7 am by 5 pm, the start of my photoshoot, my fuel tank was emptier than my patience.
All I’d managed was one sad coffee and a sugar-free Mango Tango.
The kind of combo that gives you shaky hands, questionable breath, and absolutely zero brain cells left to rub together… My stomach was basically writing angry letters to my brain.
Then hormones gate-crashed.
Day two of my period = knackered, cramps that could floor a horse, mood swings wide enough to take someone’s head clean off, plus Peri-Bitch Menopause throwing in hot flushes for good measure and BOOM… Molotov Cocktail!
If there’s a wrong way to prep for a photoshoot, I’ll find it.
Hungry, late, hormonal, sweaty… Basically, the human version of a “what not to do” handbook.
The Slap Back: Friends, Boob Tubes, and a C-Bomb
Negative self-talk dies hard.
My brain still drags me back to:
“Be the good girl.” “Smile.” “Don’t cry.” “Don’t take up space.” “Perform or else.”
Like some tired old record that’s been on loop since childhood. And I’d started playing it without even noticing.
Luckily, I wasn’t alone. Joanna and hubby Dave gave me patience when I had none left for myself, perspective when all I could see was failure, and… most importantly: a well-timed C-bomb followed by “come on you daft bitch.” That laugh cracked the spiral.
The other unmaskers rallied too. They shoved boob tubes, vests and jackets into my hands along with loads of other genuinely supportive sh*t.
Now, what I ended up wearing I’d never normally pick (my belly was out!), but somehow I pulled it on, and to my surprise, I actually felt… kinda cool. Not Instagram-perfect, not polished, just cool in my own scruffy, mismatched, non gender conforming way.
That’s when something shifted.
I stopped flogging myself for not being perfect, for not being pretty enough, feminine enough (this one surprised even me!), gentle enough, organised enough, sexy enough, composed enough, relaxed enough or anything else I was tearing into myself about today… urgh… I leaned hard into my knobheadedness.
I owned the awkward.
I stopped trying to channel the sexy, the cool, or the trendy, scripted by music videos and the Cosmo Girl from back in the day, and instead found my own version.
Fuck it. This is me. Lines on my forehead. Burn mark on my tit. Slightly sweaty. Period bloat. 42-year-old Tantrum throwing me.
BT - Before Tears
The Mirror Check: Who Am I This Time?
A couple of weeks ago, I did a photoshoot as a veteran representing the fact that women anre veterans too… and smashed it.
Outfit changes, confidence, the lot.
So why did this one knock me flat?
For the veteran shoot, I forgot it was happening until the day before. No time to catastrophise. I just rocked up and cracked on.
I’ve had 9 years to figure out who “Ria the veteran” is. I like her. I know her. I own her.
I’m still figuring out who “Ria the entrepreneur” is. She changes faster than I can pin her down.
And honestly? Having the time to overthink meant…
Brain said: Beyoncé world tour, spotlight on, flawless.
However Reality & Body said: bags under the eyes, belly bloat, sweaty pits, and a grown woman crying into the camera.
I’d created a bedazzled box for myself and taped it shut so tight, I couldn’t open it quickly enough to stop the suffocation.
The lie?
That I needed to perform to become.
That if I didn’t nail the “moment,” I wasn’t enough.
The truth?
I already am.
The Point
Unmasking isn’t easy. It isn’t graceful. It isn’t a TikTok glow-up.
It’s messy. Raw. Inconvenient. It shows up when you least want it to.
Sometimes it’s just not possible either.
Yesterday I chose not to keep pretending. It was hard!
I let my vulnerabilities show. I let people help me. And I actually regulated myself long enough to get the job done!
Yeah, I cried the whole two-hour journey home with no music on (that’s unheard of). But I did what I went there to do.
We don’t need to perform to become.
We just need to stop pretending long enough to see that who we are…
Creases, wrinkles, meltdowns, mismatched outfits and all… IS already enough.
Further Reading (The Science Receipts)
Bessel van der Kolk (2014). The Body Keeps the Score. Viking.
Barkley, R. A. (2015). Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder: A Handbook for Diagnosis and Treatment. Guilford Press.
Porges, S. W. (2011). The Polyvagal Theory. Norton.
Gilbert, P. (2010). Compassion Focused Therapy: Distinctive Features. Routledge.
Inzlicht, M., & Kang, S. K. (2010). Stereotype threat spillover. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 99(3), 467–481.
Shaw, P., Stringaris, A., Nigg, J., & Leibenluft, E. (2014). Emotion dysregulation in attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder. American Journal of Psychiatry, 171(3), 276–293.
Ria Jackson with short blond hair, large glasses, and a white IMUK t-shirt smiles at the camera. She wears a lanyard that reads “Making Neuroinclusion the Norm.”
Meet Ria Jackson: SHE-EO and Chief - Brewmaker of IMUK
Forget a closet full of clothes, Ria has a hat rack overflowing with experiences! Engineer, educator, mindset coach, NLP practitioner and coach, specialist study skills tutor for ADHD and Autism, trauma-informed practitioner, senior leader, and the list goes on!
She brings a wealth of experience, shaped by her journey as a neurodifferent woman, veteran, and Mum (her whole family is basically a full neurodiversity ad campaign in itself!)
Ria's life and career have been anything but linear!
Now, as the SHE-EO of IMUK, she brings a wealth of experiences and a unique perspective.
Sick of the same old, same old, and wanting to forge a better future for her neurodifferent daughter, Ria's here to disrupt the system!
With a background as diverse as her passions, she's on a quest to make neuroinclusion the new normal.
She believes in authenticity and leaving a positive impact, as evidenced by her closing quote:
"Always be yourself, cos everyone else is already taken!"
(Oscar Wilde, apparently).
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