Boudoir photographer. Mom of three. Loud laugher. Disney adult. Swiftie. Taco snob. Messy bun wearer. Soul igniter.

But more than anything, I’m a woman who spent years doubting herself — and finally decided she was done with that shit.

For most of my life, I shrank myself. I picked apart my body in the mirror, covered up my softness, ignored my needs, and poured from a damn empty cup. I watched the women around me do the same. And I thought that was just how it was.

But motherhood cracked me wide open.

I caught myself looking at my daughters and realized something gut-wrenching — I was teaching them how to hate themselves. Not on purpose. But in the quiet ways. The body shame. The side-eye at my reflection. The way I held my breath instead of taking up space.

That realization wrecked me — and saved me.

Because that’s when I decided I’d be the last woman in this family to carry that weight.
I stopped hiding. I started healing. And boudoir became my rebellion. My therapy. My sacred fucking magic.

Now, I spend my days showing women what they’ve forgotten:
That you were never broken. Never too much. Never not enough.

You’re art. You’re power. You’re worth being seen — as you are, right now.

If no one’s told you that lately, let me.

And if you're ready? I’ll show you.