Sexy, Apparently: A Field Guide

Confessions of a Late Bloomer Part 12

In high school, a friend once told me,
“Miranda, you’re not sexy. You’re cute.”

And I carried that line for years.
It nestled somewhere between my collarbone and my confidence,
tucked itself into the soft spaces of my growing body,
and whispered a story I didn’t know I had permission to question.

As if sexy was something other girls just were,
and I… wasn’t.

Maybe that’s part of why I waited until marriage to have sex,
that, and purity culture,
and the thick hum of shame sewn into my skin.

But also?
Because sexy never felt like something that belonged to me.

It was something I’d observe from a distance,
admire in others,
and quietly disqualify myself from.

It felt like an exclusive party I wasn’t invited to.
Like some secret language everyone else seemed to know,
while I stood outside, smiling politely, pretending I wasn’t dying to be let in.

And even with zero prior sexual experience,
I knew the first time was bad.
Not painful, just… hollow.
Unwritten.
Unfelt.
Unclaimed.

And over my very brief, stumbling stint in marriage, it never got any better, just… bearable.

Fast forward to my first post-divorce sexual encounter:
also a disaster.

Not in the dramatic, regret-filled way.
Just… awkward. Disconnected.
Unimpressive in every sense.

I was so unsure of my body, so unfamiliar with how to feel sexy,
that I did the only thing that made sense at the time:

I got completely naked in front of my best friend
and asked her if anything looked… wrong.

She fell off the couch laughing.
Like, actually fell off the couch.

Then she gave me the most sincere, slightly teary-eyed reassurance a girl could ask for.

Because that’s what friendship looks like when you’re in your late twenties,
when you’re half-laughing, half-aching,
learning your body,
trying to find your sexy in a world that told you to suppress it.

So no, my sexy didn’t arrive in stilettos and red lipstick.
It didn’t slink in with a wink and a whisper.

It came in awkward questions.
In hilarious moments.
In deep breaths and slow returns.

It came with curiosity, not confidence.
But it came.

And I’ll be honest:
I’m still working on the whole body acceptance thing.

Some days I feel beautiful.
Some days I forget how.
Some days, I remember halfway through a laugh,
or a glance in the mirror that catches me by surprise.

But I’ve stopped waiting for someone else to tell me I’m sexy.
Because sexy isn’t something you’re handed.
It’s something you grow from the inside out.

And the version that arrives after self-doubt?
After the giggling, the grief, the falling off the couch?

That sexy is earned.

In all the tiny moments.
In the way you stretch into your own skin without apology.
In the brave little ways you come back to your body and say,
“You’re mine.”

Sexy, I’ve learned, isn’t a performance.
It’s presence.
It’s laughter that echoes louder than doubt.
It’s slipping into your own skin like it’s your favorite song.
It’s the soft hum of being alive.

I’m still cute.
But now I know:
I’m sexy, too. ️

Always,
Your Trusted Friend ❤