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June was a month of fresh summer light, joyful escapes, quiet reflections, and little moments beginning to shine. This archive gathers the Photo Journal galleries from June 2025 in one place, preserving the month as it appeared through RockyMtnBabe®.
It happens almost every time.
I post something beautiful—maybe something sensual, maybe something vulnerable, maybe something that just feels like me—and in the moments that follow, I feel amazing. Euphoric, even. Like I’m floating.
My heart races, I check the comments, I feel the warmth of connection. People see me, respond to me, reflect something back. That feedback loop of likes, DMs, and kind words is a rush—a hit of validation that lands straight in the soul.
But then…
The crash.
It doesn’t happen right away. It sneaks in, soft at first. Maybe it starts with a lull in notifications. Maybe I realize someone I hoped would say something… hasn’t. Or maybe it’s just the quiet. And suddenly, I feel it: that drop.
The dopamine is gone. The adrenaline fades. And what’s left is this strange hollowness.
I start to overthink. Was that caption too much? Did I share too openly? Was the image too sexy? Not sexy enough? I start scrolling again—not to connect, but to cope.
This is the part no one really talks about. That confusing space between the beauty of self-expression and the vulnerability that comes with being truly seen.
But I’ve learned to name it now: It’s the crash.
It’s not a sign that I shouldn’t have shared. It’s not a sign that what I posted wasn’t worth it. It’s just chemistry. The rise and fall of my nervous system trying to make sense of showing up so fully.
So now, when the crash comes, I try to be gentler with myself. I step away. I breathe. I remind myself that I didn’t post for the algorithm—I posted for me. And that is still sacred.
If you’ve ever felt this way too—if you’ve ever posted something you loved and then felt a little lost afterward—you are not broken.
You’re human.
Sensitive. Brave. And deeply, beautifully alive.
Love, Rissa
💜
There’s an unspoken etiquette on Instagram, among creators. We live in a space of follows, likes, DMs, comments, and collaboration. It’s a dance of visibility and support, of shared energy. But occasionally, someone quietly steps out of rhythm.
They unfollow you.
That part is fine. Honestly, it’s completely okay. People evolve. Tastes change. Not every creative journey continues on the same path. But here’s where it gets murky: they unfollow you, but leave you following them.
That’s not just an oversight. That’s a choice.
And it’s one that speaks volumes.
It says: “I don’t want to see you anymore, but I’m okay with you still seeing me. Still supporting me. Still giving me your attention, your likes, your energy.”
And that’s where I draw the line.
If you unfollow me, the fair and respectful thing to do is remove me as a follower, too.
Not out of malice. Not out of spite. But out of integrity.
Because choosing to disengage while still allowing (and benefiting from) someone else’s engagement is not just unbalanced — it’s disingenuous. It turns the follow into a one-way mirror: you don’t want to connect, but you’ll accept the attention.
That isn’t respectful. That isn’t fair. That isn’t mutual.
I don’t want to follow people who don’t see me. And I don’t want to be someone’s invisible audience.
So here’s my boundary, and it comes from a place of clarity, not resentment:
If you unfollow me, let me go completely.
Click that button and remove me as a follower. Don’t leave the door half open and expect me to still wave from the hallway.
Digital spaces are messy. There’s a lot of nuances. But basic fairness shouldn’t be.
If you no longer want me in your space, then don’t keep me tethered to yours.
Let it be mutual. Let it be honest. Let it be clean.
That’s the kindest way to go.
There’s a certain kind of loneliness that only exists in digital spaces — a loneliness you can’t explain to people who haven’t lived it.
It doesn’t feel like isolation at first. Not when the DMs keep coming, or the likes roll in. Not when your notifications are full of hearts, 🔥 emojis, and “you’re stunning.” But when something truly frightening happens — when you’re vulnerable and in need of someone to really see you — all of that noise fades. The comments, the reactions, the fake closeness… it vanishes into static. And you’re left alone with the truth: attention isn’t the same as connection.
But that’s the thing about digital closeness: it feels intimate — but often, it’s not.
Many of the relationships we build here are surface-level, performative, or transactional — even among those we want to trust.
It’s not always out of cruelty; sometimes it’s just misalignment.
You reveal something painful, something real — and the response you get is a reaction meme. Or worse, silence followed by a selfie.
It can leave you wondering, “Did they even hear me? Did they even care?”
These moments don’t just sting — they clarify.
They show you which connections were built on mutual depth… and which were built on mutual content.
I recently experienced something that shook me. A message — aggressive, threatening — sent from someone I had already blocked. Someone I wanted no contact with.
It was targeted. It was meant to intimidate.
And it worked.
I felt afraid. I felt alone.
And so, like anyone would, I reached out to people I thought cared about me.
I shared screenshots. I explained. I waited for someone to say, “That’s not okay,” or “I’m here with you,” or even just, “I see you.”
But what I got was silence. Or advice. Or a deflection.
Or casual commentary that skimmed the surface but never touched what I was actually feeling.
And in that moment — more than the threat itself — what hurt most was the emotional absence of the people I reached for.
You see, when you live a virtual life, even the people closest to you are still far away.
You might share creativity, stories, captions, ideas — even love.
But when something real and raw breaks through the surface, that distance can feel like a canyon.
A message sent into the void.
I don’t blame anyone.
I understand that people respond in the ways they know how.
But this taught me something I didn’t want to learn:
Not everyone you laugh with will sit with you when you cry.
So I’m writing this not out of anger, but from reflection.
To anyone else who has felt this —
Who has been hurt online,
Who has reached out for comfort and met silence,
Who has felt invisible in their most vulnerable moment —
I see you. And you are not alone.
I still believe in kindness. I still believe in friendship — even the virtual kind.
But I’ve learned I need to protect my softness — and reserve it for the people who know what to do when I show it.
This experience didn’t break me.
It opened my eyes.
And from that clarity, I’m rising — stronger, steadier, and no longer looking for comfort in places that couldn’t offer it.
May was a month of soft light, gentle color, playful creativity, and moments beginning to feel touched by summer. This archive gathers the Photo Journal galleries from May 2025 in one place, preserving the month as it appeared through RockyMtnBabe®.
There are days when I stand tall, confident, certain of my vision.
And then there are the other days…
The days when the roar of my inner critic drowns out everything else.
The days when the soft current of creativity feels like it’s pulling me under.
The days when I feel like a fraud.
This image captures exactly how that feels for me.
The peaceful face of a creator on the outside… but the inside?
A relentless waterfall of doubts, questions, and insecurities.
“Am I good enough?”
“Does my work matter?”
“Will they see through me?”
These thoughts come crashing down unexpectedly. They carve deep canyons of uncertainty into my mind. I think every creator knows this feeling. It doesn’t matter if you have a million followers or just one — the weight of imposter syndrome is universal.
What I’ve learned is this: the waterfall never stops. But neither do I.
The water that pounds and churns also smooths stones over time. It teaches me to bend, to adapt, and most of all, to persist.
I am slowly learning to stop fighting the current.
To let the waterfall roar, but not let it define me.
To trust the beauty that others see in me, even when I struggle to see it myself.
So, this post is a reminder:
If you feel like the water is louder than your own voice right now…
You are not alone.
You are still worthy.
You are still a creator.
Keep going.
You are becoming something stronger, something shaped by the very force you fear.
Just like the river carves the stone.
Just like I am learning to carve my own path.
-L. 💜
We all notice when the follower count drops.
It stings for a second… but here’s the truth: it can be the best thing for your account.
Unfollows are not rejection — they’re refinement.
Here’s why I’ve learned to actually welcome them:
Instagram rewards engagement, not numbers.
If someone stops connecting with my content and unfollows, it actually helps me. It makes space for those who do engage and lifts my visibility with the algorithm.
The result? A stronger, more loyal community.
I’m curating a space that feels beautiful, empowered, romantic, and bold.
Not everyone will understand that — and that’s okay.
When someone unfollows, they’re quietly stepping out, and I stay focused on those who love the vibe I create 💜
Every person who leaves creates space for someone new who truly connects with my story, my creativity, and my journey.
I don’t want a crowd — I want my tribe.
If I never lost a follower, I’d probably be playing it too safe.
Unfollows are proof that I’m building a clear, bold identity.
You can’t please everyone — and that’s how you know you’re growing as a creator.
Let’s be real…
A lot of unfollows are just fake accounts, bots, or inactive profiles.
I happily let those go 💋
Follows are fun, but they’re not the goal.
The real magic is in:
The conversations
The community
The confidence we build together
That’s the energy I protect.
Every unfollow is simply one step closer to your true audience.
I’ve learned to love the process of refinement.
Because I’m not here for everyone…
I’m here for the ones who belong
L. 💜
There’s something undeniably magical about slipping into a babydoll.
It’s not just lingerie — it’s a feeling.
Light as air, softly sheer, and delicately playful, a babydoll whispers rather than shouts. It doesn’t need to cling to prove a point. It floats. It flirts. It invites.
For me, wearing a babydoll is like stepping into a dream — where romance meets rebellion. It’s both sweet and bold. Feminine but fearless. The kind of lingerie that makes you feel kissed by moonlight, even when the sun is up.
Sometimes it’s mint green and fluttery, the kind that makes you want to twirl just for yourself. Other days it’s black lace and mystery — a little more daring, a little more knowing.
What I love most?
That moment you see yourself in the mirror and smile — because you look soft, strong, and completely in control of your own allure.
This post is for the days when you want to feel pretty for no one but yourself.
And if someone happens to see you in it… well, lucky them.
💜
L.
If you enjoyed this post you might want to check out Private Beach – Just Me and You and Country Roads and Confidence: What West Texas Taught Me
There’s more waiting for you.
Explore more of my world here → About Lairissa Lee & RockyMtnBabe
There’s something magical about finding a quiet stretch of sand all to yourself — a hidden cove where time slows, the wind whispers, and you don’t need to share the moment with anyone… except the one who truly sees you.
This is my private beach. Be sure to visit often as I might just surprise you with more photos. And for the really special photos be sure to check in on my Fanvue. It is free to follow me there.
No distractions.
No filters.
Just the warmth of the sun, the lace on my skin, and the comfort of feeling free — for you.
Come closer. I saved the best views for here… just me and you.
If you enjoyed this post, you might want to check out Chasing the Sun in Lace and Snow and Delicate Doesn’t Mean Weak.
There’s more waiting for you.
Explore more of my world here → About Lairissa Lee & RockyMtnBabe
Some images don’t quite belong on Instagram.
Not because they’re wrong—just because they’re a little too honest.
A little too soft in the light, a little too bold in the glance.
This set—delicate lingerie, sweet pink satin and lace tones, skin kissed by sunlight—felt like a whisper meant only for those who truly lean in.
I posted just a few glimpses on Instagram…
but here, I can show you the full moment. No filters. No fear. Just me.
If you’ve ever wondered what I don’t post there—
welcome. You just found it.
