I look in the mirror.
My boobs are saggier. My stomach is softer and squishier. My legs are thicker. My hips are wider.
I pinch my belly fat. I lift my breasts to where they sat before. I release them. I sigh.
My initial reaction is that I want to shrink it. Have my body go back to the way it was. When I was 15 pounds lighter. When my clothes fit and lay where they were meant to lay — before they felt too tight, too restrictive. Before they bunched up in all the wrong places. Before the zippers and buttons refused to close.
But then my gaze falls onto the scar. The scar that lay below my bikini line. A light pink line just a few inches long. Or depending on the lighting or time of day, a dark purple one.
It’s then that I remember that this body that I was scrutinizing, this body that I was critiquing, this body that I was looking down on was a whole home. The very first home that held my baby. Where she slept, ate and played. Where she developed her big eyes, dimpled grin and tiny fingernails. Where we first formed the bond and relationship we have now. For over 9 months my body nurtured and grew her. And to do that, I nurtured and grew it.
And here I was, wanting to demolish that home. I wanted to raze, level and flatten it. I wanted to burn its fat, fleshy walls down. I wanted to make it seem like it was never there before.
Tears begin to form in my eyes as I realize what that would mean. I become angry with myself. How dare I disrespect this place that did so much.
I become torn. A part of me wanting to erase this place, wipe it from existence. Another part of me wanting to preserve it. Protect and maintain it like a museum. Marvel at it.
I tell myself I want my body to go back to the way it was because I want to feel more myself. But if I didn’t see countless women through my phone screen “bounce back” so quickly — whether through simple genetics or mommy makeover surgeries or hard work at the gym or starving themselves or joining the many who turn to Ozempic — would I still feel that need? I don’t know.
This resentment towards my new body isn’t just for aesthetic reasons, though. Just a few months ago, it was full and large — brimming with literal life. And now, it’s deflated. It has been vacated. It lays as a reminder of what was. It sits like a sad, empty, forgotten home.
But maybe I need to let myself just be in it for a while. Get to know it better. Take a second look and cherish all its nooks and crannies. Maybe instead of tearing it down, I could build upon it. Work on its foundation to make it stronger, sturdier — not smaller. Make it more mine.
When I was pregnant, I was happy for it to grow and enlarge. I encouraged it and celebrated it and wore clothing that accentuated it. Now, I try to hide and disguise it. Maybe it’s time I learn how to decorate it.
Perhaps I need to see this — this more large, more soft, more spacious body — as truly more and not less. Let myself look and feel and admire it the way I would a place I revered and respected.
What if instead of rushing to erase and flatten the parts of my body that grew and expanded to house my baby, I chose to appreciate them? What if I stopped expecting my body to return to what it was and accept that it has simply changed? What if I found a way to strengthen it and rebuild it — with time, intention and care — to now house both parts of me?
The part of me that existed before my body made way for a human life. And the part of me that created one.