How I Sweat, Spiral, and Still Show Up With a Smile



Let’s talk about the moments before the dreamy golden hour light, before the giggles and the flying curls, before the partner who swore he’d hate this actually starts smiling (because of course he does). I’m talking about pre-shoot stress, bébé.


Picture this: I’m pacing around the living room, muttering like a French existentialist poet on too much espresso. Palms sweaty. I check Unscripted for the 103rd time, save the same three pictures I always save for inspiration, then immediately hop over to Pinterest for...you guessed it - more of the same. Spoiler alert: I will remember none of these. Zéro. Nada. Because once we start shooting, we’re in the flow. The chaotic beautiful flow. The unposed. The untamed. No Pinterest board has ever survived a toddler jumping on his parents' bed while yelling “POOPY HEAD!” for no reason.


And then comes the mental spiral:

What if the partner is not into this?

What if the kids are in full gremlin mode?

What if the light is nonexistent? You know, that signature NYC high-rise mood lighting: one window, zero sun, 100% character.

What if I forget my memory cards?

What if I forget how to use my actual camera? (yes, this crosses my mind every. single. time.)

What if I, a mother of two - including one toddler currently starring in “Terrible Twos: The Musical” - cannot handle high-energy children?

What if…

What if…

What if…

(I mean. It’s laughable. But it’s also so real.)


So how do I deal with this delightful frenzy?

First, gear check and map. Always planned the day before. Because ISFJ brain says: “Don’t do five minutes before you leave the house something you could do now.” Here is my little ritual: clean lenses, charged batteries (one in each camera + one back up), formatted cards, hand sanitizer especially when shooting newborn and a backup snack (mostly for me). And then - a map. A real, clear, double-checked route because Google Maps will betray you at the worst time (happened to me twice already in June only). A solid cushion of time for subway roulette or a flat tire (it’s summer, it’s the Tour de France in my head, and I bike everywhere). And of course, kids care all lined up and a whispered “Good luck” to whoever’s staying behind (mostly super Dad). Only then do I step out the door feeling like a mildly frazzled professional.


Then, a mantra. Usually something deep and poetic like:


“You’ve done this before and nobody died.”


“This is not a medical emergency, this is family photography.”


“If all else fails: backlight, wide aperture, blurry hug shot. Voilà”

“You’ve got two kids, you’ve been pregnant, postpartum, and sleep-deprived - you’re basically trained for emotional triage.”

“These people poop, cry, and probably have meltdown like everybody else. Even Beyoncé probably has a meltdown or two behind those perfect curtains. We’re all just doing our best.”


I know. Très spirituel…


Sometimes I also scroll through old galleries I’m proud of and read client messages again - yes, even the one that said, “Thank you for capturing my husband’s one smiling photo in the past 7 years.” Mood booster.


But most of all? I remind myself why I love this. The full why? That's a story for another blog post (and probably a bottle of wine), but here’s the abridged version: I love being invited into the messy, tender, ridiculous beauty of people’s lives. Even if I start the session low-key sweating through my linen t-shirt and pretending I didn’t just rehearse “how to suggest flattering yet natural poses” in the car. I always leave with my serotonin levels higher than my messy bun in a Parisian heatwave. Oh wait, I just cut my hair.


So if you see me before your shoot and I look like I’m mentally rewatching a YouTube tutorial on aperture, don’t worry. I’ve got this. I’m just having my pre-session existential moment.


Bisous et backup batteries.

Agathe