Okay, confession time: I did a maternity boudoir photoshoot ten years ago when I was pregnant with Ethan, and I never showed a single soul besides Josh. Why? Because I felt huge. Like, full-moon-in-leggings huge. Back then, I couldn’t see past the swollen ankles and stretch marks long enough to notice anything remotely “beautiful” about it.
Warning: mild nudity ahead, friends—nothing wild, just a mama body doing her best a decade ago.
We were still living in or small Orlando apartment then, and I booked this photoshoot with a photographer named Michael Jones. He was super nice—one of those artsy types who could make a pile of laundry look poetic. But me? I went full budget mode and booked the cheapest hotel I could find. Think floral comforter, buzzing light, and carpet that probably held more secrets than my teenage diary. My one big regret. If I could redo it, I’d splurge on a pretty Airbnb or a 5-star hotel with soft lighting and actual curtains that didn’t look like they’d been through a frat party.
Still, even in that dingy hotel room, there was something kind of magic about it. The photos weren’t glossy or perfect, but they were real. Me—round belly, messy hair, freckles showing, and this quiet confidence I didn’t even know I had at the time. I didn’t see it back then. I just saw “too big,” “too tired,” and “not Instagram-ready.” But now, a decade later, I look at them and see life. I see Ethan’s tiny kicks that used to make my belly jump.
It’s funny how time changes what we notice. Those photos used to make me cringe; now they make me teary. They remind me that my body wasn’t something to hide—it was doing something incredible. Growing a human.
So, here they are, ten years late and finally shared.
