Every few weeks, I grab my tripod, throw on something sexy from the client wardrobe, crank the music, and take self-portraits.
Not because I think I’m perfect.
Not because I’m fishing for compliments.
But because I fucking need to.
Because if I’m gonna tell my clients to love themselves, I better be walking that same goddamn path.
Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s hard.
Even if my inner critic is screaming at me the whole time.
Let’s get brutally honest:
I’m a big girl.
I’ve got thick thighs, soft arms, a belly that jiggles, and tits that could probably smother a man if I leaned the wrong way.
I’ve also got trauma.
And a head full of voices — some my own, some planted by assholes over the years — whispering and shouting that I’m too much, too loud, too fat, too weird, too broken, too “ugly to be loved.”
I’ve had people say shit like “no one would ever want a blowjob from you because of your teeth.”
Like... sorry, what? Are you okay?
Touch some grass and go to therapy.
People have picked apart every inch of me — my body, my brain, my existence — since I was a kid.
And for a long time? I believed them.
But here’s the truth I clawed my way to:
I don’t anymore.
This version of me didn’t appear overnight.
She was built. Slowly. Fiercely. Painfully.
Through therapy. Through panic attacks. Through dragging myself out of bed and putting on makeup like war paint.
Through crying in the shower, then standing in front of the camera like a goddess.
Through realizing that fat isn’t a dirty word — it’s just one part of me.
And also? I look fucking amazing.
I’m autistic. I have PCOS. I live with anxiety and depression.
I’m neurodivergent, chronically overwhelmed, deeply emotional, and occasionally feral.
But I’m also funny. Creative. Resilient. Sensual. Me.
And when I take these self-portraits, it’s not vanity — it’s defiance.
Every click of the shutter is a middle finger to the shame.
Every photo is a “fuck you” to the voices in my head and the people who tried to shrink me.
I am allowed to take up space.
I am allowed to love my body.
I am allowed to be seen. Fully. Unfiltered. Unapologetically.
And I want you to know that when you step into my studio — scared, unsure, second-guessing everything — I get it.
I’ve been there. I am there, some days.
I’ve stood in front of that same mirror and picked myself apart.
But I’ve also come out the other side with a camera in one hand and a fuck-you attitude in the other.
Because boudoir isn’t about the lingerie.
It’s not about posing the “right” way.
It’s not about looking hot for someone else.
It’s about showing up exactly as you are and saying,
“This is me. And I’m fucking worth it.”
So here’s to the thick thighs, the stretch marks, the messy minds, the belly rolls, the weird laughs, the scars.
Here’s to you.
And if those voices in your head are still telling you you’re not enough?
Let this post be your permission to tell them where to shove it.
Because if I can love this big, bold, bruised, beautiful body —
then babe, you can love yours too.
🖤
—Em
