At my first Fantasy Fest–my inaugural ball of. . . well, balls (they were painted, but still)–it was eight days of watching the Halloween festival progress and me right along with it. It’s advertised that there’s a Nudity Zone on a few blocks of Duval Street at the heart of the party, but I dipped into a parking spot on the edge of the island where across the street a woman was walking her dog, topless. At first blush, I did blush. But only briefly.

Her freedom ushers in my own. Not right away, but slowly, in a soft rain that builds into a deluge, I ease my way through my uneasiness. At first I just take my top off as I ride my bike back to that parking spot–hidden in the dark, dark that comes with the after midnight hour and sheltered by the brevity of time in which I pedal by any one set of eyes. It felt naughty. It felt fun. I felt bold, like I belonged to the totally-okay-with-my-body sect that I’d only up until now admired from afar.

The next day I bare my belly and the rose tattoo that blooms across it. I wear a sexy wig and a cleavage enhancing top a la Beyonce`. All the while I’m upping my game I’m watching others who were still ahead of me, egging me on benignly. Enticing me with their confidence level and their free-to-be-me laissez-faire attitude.

This is the good side of competition.

A body painter camping at the same park that I’m workamping at by day before slinking off into the night, offers to paint me for free. My head nods enthusiastically, accepting the offer. But the small quiet voice coming from the inside of my belly button whispers Ohh, no. We could never do that.

I don’t like that voice. She tries to keep me down. Low. Where no one can see me. She likes to play it safe so no more hurt occurs. But that’s not how life works. It moves, changes and challenges you. And as my costumes got skimpier and skimpier over the weeklong celebration, there was eventually nowhere left to go, but. . . nude. That’s when my head chimes in with the It’s now or never bit. And when I don’t quite bite, offers up the Quick, while no one really knows you here closer.

I step into her booth, gingerly, like I was barefoot avoiding chards of broken glass. Maybe it was my crumbled ego. Or at least crumbling. I disrobe in the corner, scanning the photos of all the brave who had gone before me hoping to borrow a cup of courage. The paint tickles my nipples and as she transforms me into living art, her touch feels sensual in a new kind of way. I feel bold. I feel badass. But when it comes time to cross the threshold again, I feel vulnerable and unsure. That belly button voice was back.

I take a deep breath, tenderly push through and merge my Poison Ivy into the sea of bodies flowing by. About three steps in, someone asks to take my picture. Then another one a few more steps in. Then another. I begin to see myself from the perspective of the people looking at me and saying, ‘Beautiful,’ ‘Amazing,’ ‘Wow.’ I feel the drop in barometric pressure that is my trepidation. I feel my self-image rise with every flash.

I am this girl, too.

I’m the belly button voice, I’m the headstrong voice barreling into what lies just out of my reach, and I’m this girl—quivering a little less with every block she covers. I am naked, but I am not afraid. I’m vulnerable, but I’m not in danger. I’m exposed, but I am safe. No one got hurt and I got to grow.