Sometimes, when you live inside the same routine for too long, you start missing yourself.
You miss the version of yourself that feels excited. Creative. Feminine. Light. The version of you that remembers what it feels like to want something just because it is beautiful.
That is what happened to me when I decided to book this year’s photoshoot.
Some of you may remember the long, ridiculous, emotional chase after the dress I wanted so badly from House of CB. The shipping issues, the closed skies, the endless messages, the feeling that getting a dress into Israel during wartime had somehow become a full-time job.
And then somehow, against all odds, it arrived.
Two days before the photoshoot.
I still remember opening the FedEx package almost nervously, as if I was afraid to trust that it had really made it all the way to me.
But there it was.
Soft blue fabric. Tiny lace details. Delicate straps. The kind of dress that immediately makes you stand a little differently the second you put it on.
I tried it on right away.
And it felt magical.
The color was the softest powder blue, almost like the sky right before sunset. It had this romantic, slightly vintage feeling to it, with delicate embroidery scattered across the fabric and lace trimming along the neckline. It felt feminine in the quietest, prettiest way. Not too polished. Not too perfect. Just soft.
The straps were a little too big, so my boyfriend suggested we find a tailor in the city. We went straight away, dress in hand, and somehow even that felt like part of the story.
A small adjustment. A little tightening. A few careful stitches.
And suddenly it was perfect.
Exactly the feeling I had been chasing in my head all along.
The mood I wanted
I knew from the beginning that I wanted this photoshoot to feel like something out of a novel.
I wanted flowers. A basket. Bare feet. Soft hair. A countryside feeling.
I wanted it to feel like I had wandered out of the pages of a Jane Austen story and into a field somewhere at golden hour.
So I booked professional hair and makeup. I ordered a bouquet made of white English roses and peonies, with little soft purple flowers tucked in between them. I asked for them to be arranged inside a basket so it would feel as if I had just picked them from a garden on the way.
When I saw the flowers for the first time, I almost wanted to cry.
They were exactly what I imagined.
Big, creamy petals. Pale blush ribbons. Soft greens and dusty pinks hidden between all the white.
Everything looked so beautiful that day.
The dress. The flowers. The basket. The book I brought with me.
Everything except the way I felt.
The migraine I was terrified of
I was so nervous before this photoshoot.
Not because I was worried about how the pictures would turn out.
I trusted Yasya completely.
But I was terrified that I would get a migraine and ruin the whole thing.
I had worked so hard to make this happen. The dress. The flowers. The tailoring. The timing. The entire vision.
And migraines have a cruel way of showing up exactly when you are most afraid of them.
That morning, one started.
Not a small one.
One of the worst migraines I had in months.
I took painkillers. I tried to rest. I tried to stay calm. But by the time I was fully dressed, with my makeup done and my hair curled and the flowers waiting beside me, I could barely open my eyes.
The photoshoot was meant to start at 5 p.m., right when the sun begins softening into that warm golden light.
And there I was, sitting there in my beautiful dress, feeling like my own body was betraying me.
I remember being so afraid that the pain would show on my face.
That no matter how beautiful everything around me was, I would still look tired. Or strained. Or sad.
But I was determined to go anyway.
I had not fought this hard for this moment just to stay home.
The yellow flowers everywhere
Yasya picked me up from the train station, and somehow, almost magically, once I got into the car, the pain started fading.
Not completely. But enough.
Enough for me to breathe again. Enough for me to feel excited. Enough for me to look out the window and remember why I wanted this day so badly.
She took me to the most beautiful place.
The kind of place you would probably drive past without even noticing.
A little green area by the side of the road, somewhere between cities, completely covered in tiny yellow flowers.
This is the season of blossom in Israel. From north to south, everything starts blooming at once.
There are red anemones, colorful ranunculus, fields full of wildflowers.
But these little yellow flowers felt different.
They covered everything.
Bushes overflowing with tiny golden blossoms. Long grass glowing in the light. Trees and branches catching the sun in a way that made the entire place feel warm and dreamlike.
The light was exactly what I had hoped for.
Soft. Golden. A little hazy.
The kind of light that makes everything feel prettier than it really is.
Mud, bare feet, and thorn-covered dresses
What the photos do not show is that everything was muddy.
Completely muddy.
The ground was soft and wet and messy from winter, and every beautiful corner Yasya found required climbing through grass, crouching in bushes, stepping carefully over uneven dirt, or sitting in places that probably should not have been sat on.
And somehow, it made the whole thing even more fun.
I walked barefoot almost the entire time.
From one little corner of the field to another. From one patch of flowers to the next.
At one point I was lying completely in the grass, dress spread around me, holding my book against my chest while yellow flowers framed my face.
At another point I was sitting in the dirt with my basket beside me, laughing because I knew the bottom of the dress was getting dirty and I simply did not care anymore.
By then I was too excited. Too happy. Too inside the moment.
The dress ended the evening with a few stains, little thorns caught in the fabric, and traces of the field all over the hem.
And honestly, I loved it even more because of that.
By the time we finished, I came out breathless and giggly, with tangled hair, dirty feet, thorns stuck to my dress, and the happiest kind of exhaustion.
The strongest version of me
There was something very emotional for me about taking these pictures.
Not only because I loved how they turned out.
But because of what they represent.
These are not pictures from before.
Before the migraines. Before the war. Before the uncertainty.
These are pictures from during.
During the hard season. During the pain. During the version of life that is much more complicated than I ever imagined it would be.
And somehow, there is something powerful about looking at yourself in the middle of all of that and still seeing beauty.
Still seeing softness. Still seeing joy.
I think part of me needed these photos to remind myself that I am still here.
That I am still myself.
That even when my body feels difficult, even when life feels frightening, even when I spend days scared of the next migraine or the next siren or the next thing I cannot control, there is still a version of me that can put on a beautiful dress, walk barefoot through a field of flowers, and feel completely alive.
Maybe that is why I wanted these photos so badly.
Not because I wanted perfect pictures.
But because I wanted proof.
Proof that even now, there are still beautiful versions of life waiting for me.
And maybe that is what I will love most about these pictures years from now.
Not the dress. Not the flowers. Not even the light.
But the fact that I know exactly what I was carrying underneath all of it.
And I did it anyway.
