Fuck It. Here We Go.

I've been hiding this for three years.

Not because I'm ashamed of being abused.

I'm not.

I'm ashamed that I ended up here again.

That's the truth.

And before anybody starts with the "Christine, don't be hard on yourself" messages, trust me, I've already had that conversation with myself.

About a thousand times.

Because if you've been following me for a while, you know this story isn't new.

I literally built my photography business while leaving abuse.

Photography wasn't some cute little hobby that turned into a career.

Photography saved my ass.

Photography fed my kids.

Photography paid my rent.

Photography gave me something to believe in when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

So here I am, sixteen years later, having to admit that somehow I ended up right back in the same damn lesson.

And that is a hard pill to swallow.

Like... a horse-pill-sized pill.

The kind that gets stuck halfway down your throat.

The kind that makes you sit there and go, "How the fuck did I get here?"

I've asked myself that question every day for the last three years.

How does a woman who spends her life empowering women lose herself?

How does a woman who teaches women about self-worth forget her own?

How does a woman photograph hundreds of women finding their power while slowly giving hers away?

I wish I had some profound answer.

I don't.

I think it happened the same way it happens to a lot of women.

Not all at once.

Slowly.

One compromise.

One excuse.

One apology.

One more chance.

Then another.

Then another.

Then one day you wake up and realize you're exhausted all the damn time and you don't even recognize yourself anymore.

And that's exactly where I've been.

For three years.

Exhausted.

Heartbroken.

Trying to save something that couldn't be saved.

Trying to love someone into loving me the way I deserved.

Trying to carry a relationship that felt like dragging a dead horse uphill while wearing flip-flops.

At the same time, my family was falling apart.

My older kids weren't home.

My heart was breaking in a hundred different directions.

And if I'm being really honest?

Most days I wasn't okay.

Like at all.

Not Instagram not okay.

Not "having a rough week" not okay.

I mean laying in bed staring at the ceiling wondering how the hell I was going to keep doing this kind of not okay.

The kind where answering a text feels impossible.

The kind where your inbox becomes a mountain.

The kind where even the things you love start feeling heavy.

And the crazy thing is most people had no idea.

Because every few days I'd throw on a dress, grab my camera, hike a mountain with one of you beautiful humans, and create magic.

And for a few hours, I'd remember who I was.

Honestly, I think that's why these shoots have always meant so much to me.

Because they were never really about the photos.

The photos are the proof.

But that's not the magic.

The magic is watching a woman remember who the fuck she is.

And the irony isn't lost on me that while I was helping women do that every single week...

I was forgetting.

Me.