Boudoir Goggles:

I see the women in the world through boudoir goggles.

Where she sees a messy ponytail, I see a woman who is too busy kicking ass to spend time pushing her hair out of her face.

Where she sees thighs that rub holes in her jeans, I see curves and feminine beauty.

Where she sees crow’s feet, I see someone who laughs so hard her face squinches up.

Where she sees short, I see petite.

Where she sees awkwardly skinny, I see leggy.

Where she sees a soft tummy, I see a body that created a human.

When a woman talks to me and tells me she could never do a photoshoot because of (enter one of thousands of excuses here), I want to just shake her and prove that

1) She’s exaggerating her insecurities 5-fold so that they take on a life of their own.

2) She is enough, she is beautiful. Her femininity is aching to be recognized.

3) She deserves to be served. She deserves to receive the energy that she lavishes out to everyone else.

I see all women as these amazing humans with superhuman potential and incredible beauty. It’s such a privilege to capture that with my camera and I never take my role for granted. It’s my job to guide you to recognizing that beauty in yourself. Even when you’ve got a messy ponytail, shadows under your eyes, and jeans that won’t quite button that day.

If you’re ready to see yourself through boudoir goggles, please allow myself or another experienced photographer show you who we see.

Or send a quick e-mail to receive more information:

Whoa - A Blow to My Self-Esteem - Christmas Tree Disease

So this is kind of an odd post, but hey what's a blog if you don't get personal and a little bit vulnerable.  I am a very self-aware person and there are a few things I know I'm not... a food sharer, organized, patient or comfortable with vulnerability.  I was raised to be confident in myself and when I'm not... to fake it.  And I admit I fake it a lot because I cannot stand the idea of being seen as less than perfect.  I know I'm not, but I don't want anyone else to think that. Ha. Anyway, so maybe that's why the Universe/God decided to hand me a big fat blow to my confidence. A while ago, I started getting this bizarro rash. What does one do in 2016 when they get a rash?  Google.  So I came to the conclusion that I had chicken pox (pretty much impossible to get twice) or eczema. Frustrated (and bawling my eyes out in the shower because I felt absolutely hideous) that my home care (and expensive eczema potions) were doing nothing, I went to the doctor.  It took him less than 2 minutes to tell me I had pityriasis rosea.

You'd think a diagnosis would be good, because then I could fix it.  I'm a bit of a control freak... when there's a problem, I fix it. Guess what... the only cure is time.  Remember when I said patience was not one of my strong suits? Commence googling once again.  The takeaway... the only thing that actually seems to help is UV light (great... wrinkles & cancer) and taking care of my body and mind to boost my own immune system.  Fabulous... give me a pill, a shot, a cream... anything but required patience.

Nine days later (and almost a month since it first showed up), I think maybe, just maybe, it's going away. I've never been so happy to have scabs!

But here's what I learned... we are all just a random disease away from feeling like crap about ourselves.  Whether we have a few extra pounds, butt-acne, unruly hair, a new wrinkle, or a rash... we let it get waaaay too involved in our self-image. I know logically, that I am still exactly the same person I was in January (except I may have an occasional pity-party for one), and my husband/family/kids/clients still love me.  You know what they don't love?  My whining.

So my takeaway, get over it.  That doesn't mean I have to love my rash (the little bastard virus needs to go pronto), but I means I need to suck it up and focus on the 99.9% other things I actually kind of like about myself. Forget your lack of thigh gap or whatever it is that drives you crazy because it's sooo not worth your time.

P.S. Mom, you're still going to get whiny texts with photo updates because you're my mom, and that's what you signed up for when you birthed me. :-)

Want to see the stupid thing that's got me so "whoa is me!"? You'll probably laugh at me for blowing it so far out of proportion.  I'll spare you the photos of my torso, though.

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Happiness is being a boudoir photographer.

The other day on Facebook, I posted, "I love my job!"  It was after an amazing day with a wonderful client.  She was so nervous to shoot last weekend.  She brought moral support and sort of tip-toed her way into the session.  By the end, she was rocking it.  She got to see her photos for the first time yesterday and loved them.  She confessed that the night before she'd had a nightmare that she looked gruesome in her photos.  Yeah, like I would let that happen! Out of dozens of photographs there were only three that she could live without.  She walked away thrilled to have purchased a gorgeous leather-bound album full of her favorites.  I walked away thrilled to know that maybe on a day when she's not feeling so glamorous, she'll pull that album off the shelf and remember just how gorgeous and sexy she really is.

Every single day, I get to help women feel beautiful.  That is an amazing privilege, despite the hard work.  I feel so blessed to help build women up when the world often seems set on tearing them down.  The magazines send messages like, "You're not thin enough," or "Your skin is the wrong color."  I get to work with a client and prove that she is sexy exactly the way she is.

On a side note... I'm going to London next week!  Yay!  Stay tuned for pictures.