Black-and-white-photo-of-nude-woman-in-apron-icing-a-cake.jpg

What made me brave enough to do a shoot? Nothing.

I was terrified right up until I introduced myself. And nervous for quite a bit after that. Coming up the stairs I thought for sure I would pass out. I sat in my car trying not to cry before that. Trying and failing.

I hadn’t, “reached my goal weight.” I felt unprepared, did I pick good outfits? My husband wasn’t interested in the photos and even viewed my choice negatively, saying it was a waste. I had brought a deconstructed cake with me, for Pete’s sake.

In fact, the only thing I felt confident about was that I wanted to share my photos and my story.

St. Auburn-CA-Luxury-Boudoir-Portraits.jpg

“I wanted women like me to see someone they could relate to. See the beauty in average.

I’ve not had photos taken of me where I felt great about myself since my senior portraits. Which were done specifically to spite the people in my life who tried to crush my spirit.

Yea, I had maternity pictures. But those were about my unborn child and the experience didn’t feel glamorous or inspiring. I have almost no pictures of myself up in the house because I take them all or I’m not proud of how I look.”

“You see, I was fat-shamed most of my childhood. Even by people who should have taught me to love myself.

I was put on diets and singled out. But yet, I wasn’t allowed to join sports and was taken out of dance. The house was chaotic and there was quite a bit of mental and physical abuse happening around me. My parents had divorced and remarried. My stepfather abused my biological mother, who left us for him. My stepmother was… unkind. My hair was chopped off regularly so I couldn’t “hide my weight” behind it.

I was forced to grow up quickly and had a lot to take care of between my siblings and the daycare we had at our house. I was taught that self-care is selfish. Taking care of others before yourself was ingrained in my mind.

I was verbally and mentally abused. Regularly told I was a horrible daughter, that my siblings hated me because I had to parent them. I was homeschooled and wasn’t allowed to go to prom or dances. It was terrible.

When I was in school I was bullied for developing early and I was overweight. Peers chased me with pins and mechanical pencils trying to see if I was hiding water balloons in my shirt. Called me fatty. Called me all sorts of terrible things that I believed were true. There was no support for this besides more diets.

Then, when I had finally found a good support group of friends, I was pulled from school to take care of the kids at home…I mean to be homeschooled.

St. Auburn-intimate-bedroom-photography.jpg

We were taught to hide our femininity. It was shameful to be distracting to the opposite sex. Heck, sex was a bad word in our house no matter the use. It was oppression.

I was left broken and tired. Even after moving out, I was told by many people that I was just an attention seeker when I would try to share my story. All I wanted was for people to understand me. Even writing this I am hesitant to share too many details.

Don’t get me wrong, my entire childhood wasn’t horrible. I had a dad who loved us all very much. It was hard to ‘share’ him. Even now, I feel like I’m low on the priority list. But he was there for me when I needed him. We had fun, my dad always made sure we were busy doing some adventure or another. And I love my siblings very much. I hated having to be their parent and tried my hardest to just be a sister once I had moved out.”

But I never want my daughter to feel the way that I did. I want her to grow up confident in herself.

Since she was born I have struggled to try to be more body positive for her. And by slowly changing little habits from how I look at myself in the mirror around her or not talking negatively about my size, I started to change how I perceived myself. I am a completely average-sized woman, size 16, one breast is significantly bigger than the other, cellulite, and scars. But…. It’s me.

My daughter has taught me how to love myself. And in return, I want to teach her to do the same. She is strong, compassionate, and lovely. She’s stubborn, goofy, and full of fire. A fire I never want to squelch. Maybe coax it in the right direction. But I hope she continues to burn brighter and brighter. She’ll need it to move mountains.

Sunlit-black-and-white-photo-of-nude-woman-in-apron-kneeling-on-bed.jpg

During my photoshoot, I felt shy at first. Hiding with my robe on.

By the end, through support and encouragement about how beautiful I truly am, I ended up standing bare in front of a mirror stating that “I am beautiful.”

I turned and smiled, threw my hands up, and said: “This is me and I am beautiful.” At that moment the song This Is Me from The Greatest Showman came on. A personal favorite for many reasons, but the ending of my shoot couldn’t have been more perfect.

The words echoed in my mind giving me a new confidence that I had made the right choice. I arrived scared, nervous, and shot down. I left walking taller, sitting straighter, and feeling more confident in myself than I have in a long time.

Me, that average-sized, working mom, who normally can barely get out the door in the morning… I am beautiful. From the Bella team to the adorable dogs, the beautiful sets, lingerie, and amazing makeup artist, the entire session was better than a dream.

The hardest part about the experience was choosing my pictures. Going from 177 photos to 27 was not an easy feat. It didn’t help that I walked back in feeling insecure again. My husband didn’t want to see the pictures, work had been hard, and my little girl had been sick.

But I cried. I cried seeing the me that I see in my mind, in front of me on a screen. Scars, jiggle, and all. It was beyond amazing. It was uplifting on so many levels.

Five months after my photoshoot, my husband died of a suicide.

It was a devastating blow. He had greatly discouraged my getting the boudoir done. Told me it was a waste of time and money and I had felt so guilty for doing it anyways. After all, I was doing it for myself and not for him.

Six months after my photoshoot, I picked up my wall art and photobook. I had zero regrets. At my darkest hour, the moment I needed to be reminded how strong I am, I was able to look proudly at the empowering photos and be reminded of who I am.

I am beautiful, strong, smart, and determined.

I now confidently display my wall art and a handful of other photos from my shoot in my bedroom so that everyday I am reminded of how far I have come. I have not only survived, but I have thrived despite the odds stacked against me.