For this intimate short series, I invited Alexandra, the featured model, to share her own perspective in her words. Below is her meaning and her thoughts on this brief photographic journey— mixed in with the imagery I created.
Let me share how a photo shoot has changed my life.
There are moments in life that etch themselves into your memory, and when it comes to my relationship with my body, most of those moments are not exactly the kind you want to hold onto. They’re the kind of memories that slip in like unwanted guests, reminding you of how your body has never quite been enough—not slim enough, not firm enough, not worthy enough. The noise, the constant hum of self-criticism around my shape, my size... it’s been there as long as I can remember. Tied so tightly to my sense of worth, it sometimes feels like an unbreakable thread.
I still remember the first time I was told that my teenage body was "inappropriate" and I should change my clothes. A family member, of course—who else could devastate your fledgling self perception so casually? I was fifteen, barely old enough to grasp what it meant to inhabit a woman’s body, when I was told to cover up, that my stomach was a "gut" hanging out, something to be ashamed of. That moment has lingered, weaving itself into the story I’ve told myself about my belly ever since.
I’ve wrestled with it my whole life—my belly. Growing up in the late '90s and early 2000s, when the world seemed obsessed with only one kind of beauty—painfully thin, impossibly flat. The lowest-rise jeans that clung to nonexistent hips. I remember staring at those magazine covers and thinking, *this is what I have to become if I want to be beautiful*.
When I became pregnant for the first time, I felt something like relief. Finally, I was "allowed" to have a belly. My body could expand and grow, and for once, it felt like there was permission to just BE. But something I learned about me: there were no small, dainty, demure bellies here - my body did magnificent work and made huge bellies.
Now, as my youngest son turns nine, I still find myself hesitating, holding back from truly loving my body, from feeling worthy as I am. The voice in my head is still there, constantly whispering, *Maybe when you lose the weight. Maybe when you fit into pants properly. Maybe when you finally get your body back. Maybe then you’ll be worthy of desire and love. Maybe then...*
So, when Michael posted about seeking models for a nude photography project, I scrolled past at first. *Me?* No way. Not with this belly, this softness that I’ve fought with for so long. But something tugged at me—a quiet voice that’s been growing louder lately. I’m in my "all in" era, after all. Why not be brave? Why not see myself through someone else’s eyes?
So, I messaged Michael, nervous fingers tapping out, "I don’t look like other bodies in your portfolio, so I’m not sure I’m what you’re looking for—but that’s okay if I’m not." I figured I was already showing up for myself by putting it out there, regardless of what the response was. But Michael immediately messaged back, assuring that he would love to partner together - and that his work represented all bodies.
When the day came for our first session, something happened that I never expected.
The room was demarcated with light and shadows, and I was so nervous - but also glad to be bringing myself into a space where I felt safe and seen by Michael and Meg (assistant). As the photographers moved around me, exploring my form within the light and shadows, something surprising happened. They lingered on my belly, that part of me I’d always hidden, always struggled to minimize and hide. They murmured to each other, admiring the softness, the curves, the way the light fell on my skin. MY belly, the part of me that held so much shame, was suddenly the star.
Pose after pose, we adjusted, finding the angles that brought out the beauty I had never seen in myself. The images that appeared on film—they stunned me. The words spoken over me—gentle, reverent—they reached into some part of my soul that had been starved for so long. If they could see it - why couldn’t I?
It was cathartic. It was like a slow, steady exhale after holding my breath for years. I thought of all the women immortalized in art—Rubens’ soft, sensual bodies, the lush curves in Ingres and Titian’s work. For the first time, I saw myself reflected in that lineage of beauty, not as an outlier, but as part of it.
And just like that, something inside me shifted. I saw myself through their eyes—through art, through history—and I was beautiful.
Paintings as references:
Peter Paul Rubens, the 3 graces 1635
Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres, "Le Bain Turc," 1862
Titian, "Venus and an Organist and a Little Dog," 1550
Gustave Courbet, "Young Bather," 1866
Renoir, "Diana the Huntress," 1867
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A wonderful story❤️
Beautiful 🫶🏼