I kept thinking I’d chicken out. That’s probably the real beginning of this story. I’d been scrolling maternity boudoir photos for weeks — you know that late-night, half-delusional rabbit hole where you swear you’re just “looking for ideas” and suddenly you’ve saved 47 poses you’re not even sure your body can bend into. That was me. From Cape Coral. Liking photos taken in… Orlando. Of course.
Somewhere in that swirl of Instagram tabs, I stumbled onto Sin Boudoir and this photographer, Michael Jones, who somehow manages to make pregnant women look like they own the entire planet. Not soft and delicate — more like, “Yes, I grew a human and also I look incredible, thank you for noticing.” It hit differently. I told myself I was “just inquiring,” which is basically code for “I’ve already made up my mind but need someone to pretend-talk me into it.”
The morning of the shoot, I drove the two hours to Orlando with that jittery mix of excitement and the weird urge to turn around and pretend the GPS malfunctioned. Cape Coral melted into flat stretches of highway, and I kept checking my hair in the rearview like it mattered — which, honestly, it didn’t, because maternity boudoir is 90% about attitude and like 10% about what your bangs are doing.
Walking into the studio felt a little like sneaking backstage somewhere fancy. It wasn’t intimidating; more like stepping into a version of myself that I hadn’t hung out with in a while. Michael greeted me like we’d known each other since high school — calm, unfazed, very “yes, you’re going to look amazing, let’s get to it.” The man has the kind of energy that convinces you he’s seen every insecurity and none of them scare him. Which… helps. A lot.
I won’t pretend I turned into a natural model instantly. The first few shots felt stiff; my brain kept screaming, What are your hands doing? Why are your shoulders like that? Do you even remember how to stand? Michael would just adjust one detail — tilt here, chin up, relax the fingers — and suddenly the photo on the back of his camera didn’t look like someone trying. It looked like someone owning her moment.
And there was this funny thing that kept happening: every time I thought, “Okay, that angle probably isn’t flattering,” he’d show me the preview and it would be the shot. The one where the belly curve looks like art and somehow your face decides to glow even though you barely slept. At one point I said, “How is that me?” and he goes, “It’s always been you. I just lit it.” Which is a stupidly simple sentence that I’m pretty sure I’ll remember forever.
The outfits… well, I surprised myself. I’d packed options with the careful caution of someone prepping for an apocalypse — robes, lace, a bodysuit I wasn’t convinced I could breathe in — and ended up wearing the pieces I almost left at home. It’s wild how different fabric feels when someone poses you like you’re meant to be seen.
Somewhere around the halfway point, I forgot to be self-conscious. Truly forgot. The studio lights hummed, the music played (some moody playlist that weirdly fit the whole vibe), and I started to understand why women drive hours for this. It’s not about pretending to be glamorous. It’s about catching yourself in the act of becoming someone new — a mom, yes, but also a woman whose body is doing something unbelievable and deserves to be photographed like the miracle-slash-power-move it is.
By the end, I felt lighter. Which is ironic, considering I am very much not light right now. We wrapped up, I changed back into my leggings, and my hair was doing something wild but in a good way. The two-hour drive home felt different than the drive up. Less anxious. More like I’d done something quietly brave.
And when the photos came back — I swear I stared at them for an hour. Not critiquing, not zooming in on weird details, just… studying this version of me I hadn’t realized was there. Strong. Glowy. A little mischievous. Definitely pregnant but in that goddess-energy way, not the I-drop-things-because-I-can’t-see-my-feet way.
If you’d told me a year ago I’d travel from Cape Coral to Orlando just to strip down in front of a stranger and document it, I would’ve laughed and then immediately changed the subject. But I’m glad I did it. I’m glad it was Michael. I’m glad I have proof — literal proof — that this body I sometimes complain about is actually performing a kind of quiet magic.
In the end, I decided to ditch the outfits and just get naked.
Anyway, that’s the whole saga. Or at least the part I’m willing to put in writing. The rest lives in the photos, which is probably where it belongs.
Beautiful