Embracing Burlesque: My Life as Peachy Vendetta

By Peachy Vendetta

I perform burlesque. Though even now, saying that feels a bit surreal. My performer name is Peachy Vendetta. The name itself is a contradiction, blending the sweetness of ‘Peachy’ with the intensity and rebellion of ‘Vendetta’. She's all mood and slow burn. Think Hitchcock heroine. Lynchian stillness. She’s unsettling, cinematic, and lives somewhere between femme fatale glamour and surreal dream logic. But behind Peachy is me – Amy. Middle-aged. Queer. Disabled. Married. A mum. Someone whose body short-circuits without warning. My hands tremble. My heart races for no reason. My balance shifts and sputters. There's nothing elegant about it – just something I've learned to work around. 

Peachy Vendetta performing her Mad Love act, dressed as Audrey Horne from Twin Peaks. She is wearing a black bustier-style top, high-waisted skirt, black bob wig, a vintage-style black hat with a mesh veil and cherry earrings. She strikes a dramatic pose under purple stage lights. 

My relationship with mental health hasn’t just been a chapter – it is the whole book. There have been diagnoses, treatments, and hospital admissions. There have been moments where I wasn't sure I'd make it. I didn’t like how my body looked and how I felt inside it. I have social anxiety, at times so bad I wouldn’t leave the house because even walking down the street left me feeling too exposed. 

Then the physical symptoms started. At first, I couldn’t see out of my right eye properly. Then my legs would give out and I couldn't get myself off the floor. A simple trip to the optometrist would trigger a response that would cause my heart rate to drop into the 30s. I would lose my balance and develop tremors. It was like there was so much happening inside me that it had started to overflow. There was no way I could ever be the kind of person that put it all out there for others to openly gaze at. I didn’t even feel like my body was on my side anymore. I wasn’t in control, and I started to dissociate from it. I used to be terrified of being seen. 

A mental health nurse suggested that I try reconnecting with my body by adding more tattoos. I took this advice on and got 9 new tattoos in 8 weeks. Most of my body art lives where pain used to settle. It did help reclaim my flesh as my own. I covered it with flowers and illustrations from one of my favourite artists, and a printed order to keep going. I sketched myself into my skin so I could stay inside it a little longer, but I don't usually tell people that… I was starting to learn to work with what I had. 

One of the first burlesque shows I ever saw was Bent Burlesque as part of the Midsumma Festival in Melbourne in 2013. Imogen Kelly, Glitter Supernova, Lillian Star, and Betty Grumble left me stunned (I didn’t know it at the time, but these artists are considered Australian burlesque royalty). I was heavily pregnant with my son at the time, and I remember thinking how they seemed so in touch with their bodies and their power. Picture a woman fully embodying a horse persona… a long, tight, sleek black ponytail, harnessed up and a bridle in her mouth. Yep. Burlesque has always seemed like performance art to me, despite its history and deep connections to more traditional dance styles and techniques. 

I knew there was a burlesque school in Hobart, but it still felt like something that lived on the ‘can’t do’ list because now I relied on a walking stick whenever I left the house. So, I figured that was that. But making friends with my body again gave me a bit of a ‘fuck it’ attitude and I found myself in a chair burlesque class at Miss Kitty’s. And it was strange. I didn’t know how to move a body that still didn’t feel like mine. I was stiff and avoided looking at myself in the full-length mirror in the studio. I felt like most people do at their very first burlesque class! I was just experiencing it within my own life context. I kept going. Every Sunday afternoon for 6 weeks. Then I said ‘yes’ to the opportunity to perform in the end of year showcase. That was so much harder than anything else I had done up until that point. I knew people were going to look at me. At my body. How it moved, and how it was different. I was inviting them to look. And I was really, really scared. 

It was hard. I was wobbly inside and out and I didn’t know where to look. I have learned that the audience is usually ridiculously hard to see when you’re under the stage lights but that’s not necessarily a good thing when you are trying to ground yourself in time and space. Then it was over. I felt pride and relief and all the usual things, but I also felt pulled apart. The following two weeks I went into a pretty deep depression. I was fatigued physically and experiencing what is known as a ‘glitter crash’ but I also think I was going through a massive mental shift. 

Getting onto that stage the first time will always be the hardest part of burlesque for me. It meant ignoring everything that I had believed about myself. And doing it anyway. After I made that mental jump, signing up for my first solo performance followed soon after by my second was a bit of a no-brainer. I wanted to be a burlesque performer. So, I made myself one. 

A black and white image of Peachy Vendetta wearing vintage-style lingerie and standing with both hands resting on a clear acrylic cane. She has tattoos on her arms and leg, and she wears a pink wig in a retro style. She looks confident and strong. 

My wife still cannot quite believe this is what I do now. She supports every performance but still laughs when she sees me desperately trying to get my hands to behave as I attempt to apply lashes for the fourteenth time in the bathroom mirror. ‘You? Burlesque?’ Yes. Me. Somehow. 

My disability isn't loud, but it's constant. Onstage, my body is both the medium and the limitation. And honestly? Sometimes I'm deeply frustrated because I can picture what I could do if my body worked differently. I can't wear heels, no matter how often I try to. I can't let go of my performance chair for too long – not without the very real risk of collapsing. The chair's not aesthetic. It's support. It's choreography. It's a lifeline. 

I use props. Lots of them. Objects become extensions of me – ways to fill space, to create visual interest when my body can't fling itself across the stage. But props mean bump-ins. They mean extra setup, more hands, more time. And I can't physically do it alone. I often need someone to help me carry them in. Set them up. Break them down. 

What starts as an exciting creative opportunity can quickly turn into a quiet apology. A hesitant message. A glance at a time-poor stage manager while they are trying to stay on top of all the other moving parts of putting on a show. I can feel when it’s too much and it can be very hard to not feel like a burden. Even when I know I'm offering art that matters, I worry people don't get me. That trying to create a story to distract from my lack of physicality is quite boring for others. I don’t move like other performers. I cannot command space with big choreography or bold sensuality. I move carefully. Intentionally. And I've decided that the fact that I don't look, move, or live like the typical ‘burlesque performer’ doesn't disqualify me. It expands the definition. Because of those limitations, I focus on story. I build narrative into my acts – symbolism, motifs, scenes. I use silence. Stillness. Absurdity. I try to draw the audience in not with spectacle, but with atmosphere. 

Because for three and a half minutes (let’s be honest… more like five or six), I can direct the gaze – not deflect it. Because Peachy Vendetta lets me hold the dark in a velvet glove and dare people to look closer. I don’t think I’m ‘bad at burlesque’ – I just don't perform it the way people expect. I don't get on stage to prove anything. I get on stage because it's where the contradictions make sense. For now, I don't use my mobility aids when I perform – not because I'm hiding them, but because I want the freedom to tell other stories. My disability shapes everything I do but sometimes I just want to be weird, or sensual, or abstract – without a moral lesson attached. That is what burlesque is for me now. 

Burlesque has also brought me back into the local queer scene. I took myself out of it for an exceptionally long time and it’s been fun to come into queer performance spaces like Judy’s and QT Cabaret. They are chaotic and experimental and filled with queer pride, but often I still feel like a stranger. I don't float effortlessly through queer nightlife – I lurk in corners wondering if I should have worn different shoes. I straddle queerness and motherhood and disability, and it's a strange seat to sit in, especially in a culture that worships novelty and edge. I exist in two worlds – family and fringe – and neither fully knows what to do with the other. 

Peachy Vendetta performs her Total Control, wearing wrist length black latex gloves, heart shaped pasties, and high-waisted lingerie with garters. She is holding a remote control with a long antenna made from an old computer game joystick with confidence and strikes a bold pose under stage lights, with a fierce look and a leopard-print beret over a pink wig. 

I am not cool. My body doesn't cooperate, and my presence feels like an accident sometimes. So, I become Peachy to walk onstage and let discomfort be the point. To choreograph acts that feel like old film reels: moody, off-kilter, unresolved. And yes – I might still be a logistical nightmare. Yes – I might always feel just a little out of place. After all, I am in my 40s. I'm not scene famous. I have a family. And when I come home after midnight, all glitter and existential hangover, I kiss them both goodnight like I've returned from another planet. 

Peachy Vendetta is the part of me that understands how to turn unease into theatre. She's not me. But she's mine. Through burlesque, I have found a way to reclaim my body, express my creativity, and navigate the complexities of my identity. It has allowed me to embrace my contradictions and transform them into art. Even with the challenges and limitations, I keep performing because it's where I feel most alive and connected to myself. Burlesque has become a keyway for me to express myself, heal, and build community. It allows me to reclaim my physical body and celebrate its uniqueness. Through burlesque, I have found a powerful means to embrace my identity and share my art with the world. 

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Bio: Peachy Vendetta (she/her) is a Nipaluna/Hobart-based burlesque artist known for drawing her audience into a cinematic world of power, suspense, and desire, where her mysterious nonchalance and piercing gaze collide like the best of Nordic noir. She's queer, disabled and bringing you her haunting plots with ALL the props. You can follow Peachy on Instagram: @peachy_ven_detta_burlesque