I think I have spent a surprising amount of my life being afraid of looking ridiculous.

It started early.

I was in Grade 1 when my parents bought me the most beautiful blue bicycle for my birthday. I loved that bike.

But apparently, my happiness was a little too much for someone else.

A girl in Grade 2 felt the need to tell everyone that her mother had said my parents couldn't afford to feed us, let alone buy a brand-new bicycle.

I was six

I don't remember exactly what I said or did in that moment. But I remember how it felt.

Like I had something I wasn't supposed to have.

Like somehow I was less than the other kids. Like having something beautiful made me an imposter.

Funny how those little moments follow us.

Growing up, there were plenty of other reminders that maybe I wasn't quite enough. That I wasn't going to accomplish much. That other people belonged in certain rooms and maybe I didn't.

And then I became a photojournalist.

I walked into a profession that, when I started, was very much a man's world.

And believe me, there were men along the way who were more than happy to let me know they didn't think I was good enough.

So I did what a lot of women do.

I worked harder.

I learned.

I showed up.

I built a career.

I photographed history. I photographed ordinary people living extraordinary moments. I photographed joy and devastation and everything in between.

And eventually, I spent nearly three decades doing the very thing some people didn't think I was good enough to do.

Then I did something else that might have seemed ridiculous.

I started over.

I built Willow Creek Studio & Boutique and began creating a completely different kind of photography business — one centred around celebrating women and the lives they've lived.

And wouldn't you know it?

Ridiculous showed up again.

Recently, two different people told me my prices were ridiculous.

That word stuck with me.

Ridiculous.

First of all, Step One is in this process has been learning how to spell ridiculous.

I have now typed it enough times that I think I've finally got it. 😂

But Step Two is much more important.

Embracing it.

Because maybe I am building something ridiculous.

Maybe it is ridiculous to believe a woman deserves an entire day devoted to herself.

Maybe it's ridiculous to have her hair and makeup done, put on the beautiful dress, drink the wine, wear the angel wings and be photographed like she matters.

Maybe it's ridiculous for a woman in her 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s or beyond to stand in front of a camera and say:

This is me.

Not twenty years ago.

Not twenty pounds from now.

Not when life finally settles down.

Now.

Maybe it's ridiculous to celebrate the business she built, the children she raised, the career she created, the people she loved, the losses she survived, the chances she took and the woman she fought to become.

But you know what I think is actually ridiculous?

Waiting.

Waiting for someone else to tell us we're good enough.

Waiting until we feel worthy.

Waiting until we lose the weight.

Waiting until we have more money, more confidence, more time or fewer wrinkles.

Waiting for permission to celebrate a life we're already living.

I've spent enough years worrying about whether someone else thinks I belong here.

The little girl with the blue bicycle didn't need to feel ashamed because someone else was jealous of her joy.

The photographer didn't need permission from the men around her to believe she was good enough.

And the 64-year-old woman building this business doesn't need everyone to understand what she's creating—or agree with what it's worth.

Maybe that's one of the gifts of getting older.

You finally begin to realize how much of your life you can waste trying not to look ridiculous.

So I'm trying something different.

I'm embracing it.

The ridiculous ideas.

The ridiculous dreams.

The ridiculous outfits.

The ridiculous angel wings.

The ridiculous belief that women deserve to take up space, celebrate themselves and leave behind beautiful evidence that they were here.

This was me.
I was here.
I lived fully.

And if that's ridiculous?

Good.

Let's be ridiculous.