So I hit 30. Yep. The big three-oh. I half expected some magical wisdom download the second the clock struck midnight—like suddenly I’d crave kale smoothies or start Googling “how to keep houseplants alive.” Spoiler: I still kill houseplants, and I still eat cake for breakfast sometimes. But hitting 30 has me thinking about the big stuff—music, modeling, life here in Florida, and whether or not it’s time to finally do that boudoir shoot I keep joking about.
On the music side, I’ve stopped apologizing for being picky. I don’t say yes to every gig anymore. When I was younger, I’d sing anywhere, anytime, even if it meant getting paid in soggy pizza slices and “exposure.” At 30, exposure isn’t rent money. I’d rather play fewer shows that actually mean something—where the sound system isn’t held together with duct tape and the audience isn’t just one drunk guy yelling “Free Bird.” Miami has taught me that saying no can be powerful. It keeps me sane and leaves space for the yeses that matter.
Modeling feels different too. I’ve grown into my skin in a way I didn’t see coming. At 20, I thought confidence meant trying to look like someone else. At 30, it means knowing how I like my eyeliner and not apologizing for refusing bad lighting. I’ve learned how to arch a brow in photos that says, “Yes, I’m hot, but I’m also thinking about tacos right now.” And you know what? That works. The best shots always come when I stop overthinking and just let myself be… well, me.
And then there’s life in Florida. Living in Miami at 30 is like existing in a giant, sweaty, neon playground. Everyone’s either in bikinis or business suits, sometimes both. The weather keeps you half-naked nine months of the year, which is a constant reminder to stay camera-ready, but honestly? I’ve learned to love it. There’s something freeing about walking outside in January and not needing ten layers. England-me would’ve fainted at the thought.
I really think doing a full nude boudoir photo shoot for my 30th is exactly what I need. Before I’m old and wrinkled, you know.
Now, about this boudoir thing. Part of me thinks, “Jess, this is crazy. Do you really want nude photos floating around on the internet forever?” And then another part of me—the part sipping wine in my kitchen wearing nothing but eyeliner and confidence—says, “Why the hell not?” Maybe turning 30 is about throwing the rules out the window and saying, “Here I am. Take it or leave it.” If I find the right photographer (and if you know someone good, seriously send them my way), I just might do it. And yes, I might even put a couple shots on here. It’s my blog, my rules. I like being naked. And I have nice boobs, lol.
Of course, there’s still that whole single thing. People keep asking if 30 makes me feel “behind.” Behind who, exactly? A timeline someone else made up? Sure, I’m picky. I’m picky about songs I sing, jobs I take, and yes, men I date. I’d rather stay single than settle for someone who complains about my late-night rehearsals or freaks out if I steal the covers. Being picky is underrated. At 30, I’m embracing it.
So what does 30 really mean? Honestly, it means I’m still figuring it out. But now I’m doing it with more self-respect, better eyeliner, and hopefully a killer boudoir photographer in my corner. If anything, 30 feels less like an ending and more like I just unlocked the next level. Messier, yes. But also braver. And maybe a little hotter.