Before you took your first step, someone dressed you.
Before you spoke your first word, someone decided how much of your body could be seen.
You were born naked. Unconcerned. Completely present. That was your original state—one of ease, comfort, and total openness.
Then came fabric. Towels. Baby blankets. Social customs dressed up as necessity. Over time, clothing became not just protection—but presentation. Identity. Even morality.
For most of us, we don’t remember that shift happening. It just did. One day you’re laughing at bath time, and the next day someone tells you to cover up—quickly. Not because you were cold. But because someone else was uncomfortable.
That moment isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just a glance. A phrase. A towel held too tight. But it stays with us. We start to learn that our body is a thing to be controlled, covered, hidden. Even from the people we trust.
This is how shame begins—not with violence, but with quiet framing. Not with condemnation, but with cultural scripts passed down in whispers.
You didn’t ask to be framed. But you were.
And the process started long before you ever had the words to name it.