I finally dug out the maternity boudoir photos I took ten years ago with with Sin Boudoir. They’d been sitting in an old folder on my laptop like a little time capsule I kept meaning to open, but life kept sweeping me from one messy season to another. I honestly forgot how round my face was… and how much space Ethan was taking up in my ribs. That kid started taking over my life early.
Looking through them last week hit me harder than I expected. I’d just come home from an appointment where I learned I won’t be having any more babies. I sat in my car afterward, hands on the steering wheel, just trying to catch my breath. It felt like the air was thick, like the Florida August air but without the fun of a thunderstorm to watch. I didn’t cry right away. I just felt this heavy quiet settle in.
Later that night, I went searching for these photos, not really sure why. Maybe I needed proof that my body did it once. Proof that I had that softness and glow people swear pregnant women have. (Personally, I felt sweaty and slightly feral most days.) But as soon as I saw the first image, me leaning back on that velvet couch, belly big and proud, I stopped scrolling. My throat just tightened.
I remember that day—the studio was freezing, and Josh kept trying to make me laugh behind the camera, which only made Michael glare at him in the funniest “sir, please” way. I remember waddling out afterward to get tacos and nearly crying with joy when the cashier added extra guac by accident. It was one of those days that felt ordinary at the time but now feels like a little jewel I didn’t know I’d need later.
I’m sharing the photos now because they mean something different to me. They feel like evidence of a chapter I didn’t know was limited. I’m grateful I have them, even the ones where my hair looks like a squirrel attacked it. They give me this warm, aching mix of pride and tenderness I don’t quite have words for. Maybe I don’t need perfect words. Maybe these photos are doing the talking for me.
