Aussie vulva photographer, Ellie Sedgewick, shares her story…
Sitting in class, the boy behind me leant forward with a note.
Do you have an innie or an outie? it read.
His mates snickered, but I had no idea what he meant.
“He means your vagina,” my friend said after class. “Boys like them neat.”
At 14, I’d never considered that the shape of a vulva might matter.
Is mine weird? I panicked.
Living on Sydney’s Northern Beaches, I was often in my swimmers, hanging out with boys.
One weekend, I was taunted by a guy from school, looking at my crotch.
“It always looks like you have sand bulges in your swimmers,” he laughed.
Another time, I overheard my sister, Nikki’s boyfriend mocking her to his mates.
“It looks like a badly wrapped kebab,” he laughed.
As I became sexually active, I often cried imagining how the guys and girls I’d been with might speak about my genitals.
One night, I received a message from the brother of a guy I’d slept with.
He said your vag looks like a truck ran over it, he wrote.
These comments convinced me there was something wrong with my vulva, and I felt too ashamed to discuss it with girlfriends. I was convinced I needed surgery to make it normal… whatever that was.
“I want to get labiaplasty,” I finally confessed to Nikki.
“You don’t need to,” she insisted, but I couldn’t be dissuaded.
At 21, I visited two separate cosmetic surgeons and both agreed to perform labiaplasty without looking at my vulva.
If the procedure hadn’t cost over $3000, I would have had it done.
In 2016, I took a nannying job with a family in India, which allowed me to save up.
While there, I visited a local surgeon. Too embarrassed to tell him what I wanted done, I pulled down my pants and pointed.
“You should google what other vulvas look like,” he said, “because you don’t need surgery.”
That night, I did as he said. Some vulvas were dark, some lighter, some had lots of hair or moles, some didn’t. I realised there was no ‘normal’ look.
I wish I’d known this in school, I thought, ditching my desire for surgery.
Read more: We created a sex toy for our friend who’d never had an orgasm!
Two years later, I was moving home when I hit it off with a guy on the flight.
We kept in touch and soon started an intimate relationship. Despite my awareness of vulva diversity, I still feared what he’d think.
I tried to distract him by lowering the lights and hiding under the covers.
One night, he addressed my inhibition.
“Why are you so self-conscious about your vulva?” he asked.
Sensing I could trust him, I confessed about my anxiety.
“Show me what you’re insecure about,” he suggested kindly.
In the shower, I let him look at me.
“Don’t you think it’s ugly?” I winced.
“No! I think it’s beautiful!” he insisted.
Having someone admire it, without judgement, was liberating. Afterwards, we had sex and because I finally felt comfortable in my body, I had my first orgasm at age 28.
I wish I could give other women this freedom, I thought.
After some brainstorming, I decided to create a book with photographs of different vulvas. It would allow the participants to have their bodies viewed without judgement while showcasing vulva diversity.
Each would be a close-up of the vulva to maintain the model’s privacy.
I posted on Facebook, seeking volunteers and the first to respond was Hannah, a midwife.
“You have no idea how many mothers don’t want their partners to see their vulva when they’re giving birth,” she told me, eager to take part.
With little camera experience, I approached my dad, Peter, a photography teacher.
“I want to shoot vulvas,” I told him.
At first he didn’t understand and changed the subject but when Nikki told him what I’d been through, he came around.
“I’m so sorry, I had no idea,” he said.
He advised me to get legal support so the participants and I were protected. Then, he gave me lessons, shooting flowers as practice.
Once I had the hang of it, I arranged for Hannah to come round. As she disrobed, I felt nervous, but her confidence put me at ease.
“You can’t just shoot me standing up,” she said before lying down and spreading her legs.
The second woman I shot had been badly body shamed by a previous partner.
“This is the first time I’ve been naked in front of someone in over a year,” she confessed.
I started sharing useful information around female anatomy on my Instagram page, @comfortableinmyskin_.
“What do you wish you were told when you were 13?” I asked my followers.
Soon after, my mum, Sue, texted me.
If I’d known, I would have taught you, but no-one taught me either, she wrote.
More women came forward to be photographed and share their stories.
One participant’s fiancé messaged me just before their wedding.
The girl I’m about to marry is a new person because of that shoot you did, he wrote. She’s finally happy in her body.
As interest in the project grew, and I increasingly saw its power, I quit my job as a pre-school teacher to take my photography on the road.
In 2022, I bought a Toyota Coaster and started the Comfortable In My Skin tour of Australia.
Participants would pay to take part in a five-hour workshop to discuss anatomy, pleasure, observe our vulvas in a mirror and let go of old negative comments.
Afterwards, everyone had the option of being photographed for the book, and most were keen.
After two years travelling, I’d photographed 500 women of all shapes, ages and ethnicities.
In November 2024, Flip through my Flaps: An Exploration of the Vulva was published. It’s a coffee table book showcasing vulva diversity and sharing journeys to body acceptance.
I hope to get it in schools and libraries around Australia.
The trauma I’d have avoided if a book like this existed when I was a teen is unimaginable.
I wish I’d known all along that we’re all beautiful down below.
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