Okay, so I did a boudoir shoot. Yup, me. On the beach. With actual people walking their dogs twenty feet away and a very patient photographer named Michael Jones from Sin Boudoir telling me to “arch more, chin up, trust the light.” I wanted to laugh, cry, and suck in my stomach all at once.
But let me tell you… I loved every second of it.
It started as one of those impulsive “why not?” moments. I’d seen other women do these stunning shoots, all glowy and powerful, and something inside me whispered—quietly at first—“you deserve that too.” Fast forward a few weeks, and there I was standing barefoot in the sand, wearing lace that barely qualified as clothing, praying the wind would behave and that Michael wouldn’t capture the exact second a mosquito bit my thigh.
He had this calm energy that made me feel totally at ease, like this wasn’t a big deal at all. Just another evening in Miami—except instead of chasing Nico and Anthony with sunscreen, I was posing with my hair blowing dramatically in the golden light like I was in some kind of perfume commercial.
I’d told Rex about the shoot in this very casual “oh by the way” tone, pretending I wasn’t totally nervous about what he’d think. He just grinned and said, “Do it. You’ll look amazing.” Which, okay, easy for him to say—he wasn’t the one baring his soul (and almost everything else) to a camera lens.
But you know what? That first click of the shutter… something changed. I stopped thinking about my mom belly or the stretch marks that have been hanging out since Anthony was born. I stopped thinking about who might see me or whether I was “too much.” The sun was dipping into the ocean, and suddenly it was just me—feeling wild and free and kind of unstoppable.
By the end, I was laughing so hard my eyes were watering, sand stuck to every inch of me, hair tangled, makeup smudged—and I swear I’ve never felt prettier. There was this electric little buzz that followed me home that night. Like, oh hello, she’s still in there.
When the photos came back, I opened the album slowly, half excited, half terrified. And then… wow. Just wow. There I was—soft, strong, sexy in a way that didn’t feel forced. I think I gasped out loud. I didn’t see “mom of two” or “tired woman who hasn’t had alone time since 2018.” I saw a woman who’s lived, who’s loved, who’s found her way back to herself a little.
Giving that album to Rex was hilarious. He flipped through it in total silence, his jaw literally dropped. Then he looked up at me and went, “You sure you don’t want to frame one of these?” and I burst out laughing. (No, Rex, we are not hanging naked beach me next to the kids’ school photos.) He keeps sneaking peeks though, I catch him every time.
I did a few full nudes, too, after the area cleared out and nobody was around—nothing I’d ever post (sorry internet, those are staying between us). But they’re my favorite ones. Not because of how they look, but because of how I felt in those moments—like I’d peeled away all the layers and was just me again. No mom guilt, no “is this okay?” loop running in my head. Just me and the waves and this weird, beautiful confidence I hadn’t felt in years.
Would I do it again? Absolutely. 100%. Maybe next time with a cocktail in hand and fewer insecurities tagging along.
If you’ve ever thought about doing something like this—something that scares you a little, something that feels wildly indulgent—please, please do it. Don’t wait until you’ve lost ten pounds or until your schedule magically clears up (it won’t). Just do it for you.
You’ll walk away with more than pretty pictures. You’ll walk away with this spark that says, “Oh yeah, I’m still here. I’m still magic.”
And that’s better than any filter or perfectly lit selfie ever could be.
