Febos, Melissa. Body Work: The Radical Power of Personal Narrative. Catapult, 2022.

In Body Work, Melissa Febos writes from her own experience as a former dominatrix struggling with addiction, and through the act of writing, she takes control of her narrative. Her memoir functions as both craft guide and manifesto, asserting that writing one’s truth—particularly for women, queer writers, and other marginalized voices—is an act of resistance. Febos argues that telling our stories is not self-indulgent but revolutionary; to write from lived experience is to fight against oppression and reclaim authorship over the self.

Though personal narrative is inherently subjective, Febos reframes this “bias” as authenticity. Writing from memory becomes a way to unearth silenced voices and heal from trauma. She states that even though writing may seem self-focused, it offers transformation both for writer and reader, allowing the veil of secrecy and shame to be lifted.

Febos confronts the cultural fear of what she calls “navel-gazing”—the critique that memoir writing is narcissistic. She quotes William H. Gass:

“To have written an autobiography is already to have made yourself a monster” (17).

The notion carries a sting of truth: society often punishes those—especially women and queer people—who dare to name their wounds. Febos insists that writing is not an act of vanity, but of courage. To face one’s own history, to process pain through language, is to step into transformation. For those who have been silenced or made invisible, writing becomes a form of survival.

Febos notes that writing has long been undervalued as a healing tool, particularly in patriarchal cultures that discourage emotional expression. She points out how journaling or personal writing is often mocked as feminine or “unserious,” yet it serves as a deeply therapeutic practice that supports both individual and collective healing. Febos celebrates the bravery of women, BIPOC, and LGBTQ+ writers who risk their reputations to speak truths that society prefers to ignore:

“Native women’s personal narratives explored the racialized, gendered, and sexual nature of their colonization” (15).

She continues, addressing the silencing of trauma narratives:

“Still, the dominant culture tells us that we shouldn’t write about our wounds and their healing because people are fatigued by stories about trauma?
No. We have been discouraged from writing about it because it makes people uncomfortable. Because a patriarchal society wants its victims to be silent. Because shame is an effective method of silencing” (19).

Through this, Febos identifies writing as a radical counteraction to shame. She makes clear that those who write about sexual abuse, addiction, or marginalization do so not to shock but to reclaim their dignity and voice.

The memoir intertwines themes of feminism, oppression, sex, religion, and repentance. Febos reflects on her past as a dominatrix and the spiritual implications of both power and submission. In doing so, she destabilizes cultural taboos around sex and morality, positioning confession and writing as parallel acts of liberation. She writes:

“Not because it’s important to make them squirm [straight readers] but so the rest of us know that it’s possible to make a white man your bitch or get spat on without shame…” (34).

She also quotes essayist Nancy Mairs:

“That is, there is no shameless man as there is a shameless woman…” (24).

These reflections link sexual power and writing as shared acts of truth-telling and autonomy. Febos suggests that healing begins when we speak the unspeakable and strip shame from our stories.

By the end of Body Work, Febos invokes the language of recovery, aligning the act of writing with the Twelve Steps:

“Only by recognizing my deed as my own can I hope to know myself as the author of my own misdeeds” (60).

Confession becomes redemption; to write one’s truth is to acknowledge the past without being imprisoned by it. Through her interweaving of sex work, religion, and feminist theory, Febos asserts that our experiences do not define us—our willingness to understand them does.

Body Work is both a craft book and a spiritual guide—an invitation to write the stories we fear most. Febos’s work has inspired me to approach my own writing as an act of self-realization and collective healing. Like her, I want to draw from my background, my fears, and my encounters with both darkness and light to create work that reflects not only my personal truth but also the cultural and social moment I live in.

Febos offers more than instruction—she offers permission. To write the “bare truth,” no matter how uncomfortable it makes others, is to reclaim one’s humanity. Through her book, Febos grants writers like me—and all readers—the right to tell our stories unapologetically.