In The Thick Of It

A love letter to my postpartum body (kind of)

In a society that profits from your self-doubt, liking yourself is a rebellious act.

author unknown

I turned to my left and caught sight of my reflection. Disheveled hair, unkempt clothing, pale in complexion, and heavy around the midsection (among other areas). I didn’t spend a lot of time in this room, and I wasn’t used to the placement of things. I avoid mirrors for the most part (I’ll tell you about that in a second), yet there it was. My reflection— looking straight at me, as if I just cussed out her kid. For a split second, I thought I was in a fucked up dream because I sure as hell don’t remember looking like this.

It’s been 21 months since the birth of my last child, but I could easily be mistaken for someone who was currently expecting. I have come to terms with this, yet I can’t help but feel slightly wounded. In the age of “snapback culture”, it’s almost unheard of to look very much like you’re still in the 4th trimester when it’s been nearly two years after you’ve had that baby. That’s considered a travesty. You’ve surely just let yourself go. Shame on you, you losyang you.

Well, to that I say— people need to calm their tits and fuck right off.

IT’S ALL DOWNHILL FROM THERE

My transition into being a SAHM was not an easy one. I had a very delicate pregnancy and was under strict instructions by my OB to cease any physical activity that could put pressure on the baby. I had worked so hard to stay in shape up until that point.

Zero exercise paired with an uncontrollable craving for sweets was all it took for me to pack on 80 pounds (yeah, I know). I ate bread (or some kind of dough) almost everyday, which included waffles at Pancake House at least twice a week. I’m telling you, it was ridiculous.

When my daughter was born (after 56 hours of labor, and a failed epidural) I decided that I had earned myself a well-deserved break. As much of a break as you could possibly get with a newborn at home, anyway. What I really meant was— no restrictions. I allowed myself to indulge as a way to appease my exhaustion, and make up for the time I no longer had to do the things I wanted to do.

IT’S NOT WHAT IT USED TO BE

I was used to 10 hours of daily alone time (while my eldest was in school). Sometimes more, if he was staying with either Nana or Grams (his lolas— oh, the perks of co-parenting). Seemingly overnight, I found that I had literally no time for myself at all. There was no way I was going to snap back into a 5.8”, 130 pound frame. No way in fucking hell.

So much for “breastfeeding burns calories”, because despite all of my research, nobody told me that producing milk would give you the appetite of a racehorse. I thought I would be too tired to eat. What is this bullshit? I felt deceived.

By the time i gave birth to my third baby (which is another horror story for another time), any weight I had shed within the last 20 months found its way back to me with a vengeance. I now had two little ones under my care and even less time for myself than ever before.

STICKS & STONES

I understood perfectly well what my body would have to endure in the process of bearing children. However, what I didn’t anticipate was the shitty metabolism that came with being in my 30’s, and the unimaginable burnout that came with having back-to-back babies. Giving up carbs just wouldn’t cut it. Not this time.

So yes, I feel slightly wounded. You won’t catch me wearing anything without sleeves outside of the house, and I don’t have it in me to even consider rocking a bathing suit anytime soon. I hate almost every picture taken of me with my kids, and the thought of going shopping is just absolutely unnerving. That’s the truth.

Social media and advertising have made it a business to turn women against their bodies. In a world that glorifies perfection, encourages you to hide “flaws”, and promote the most flattering filter-heavy images, they are banking on you to dislike what you see in the mirror. Even with much resistance, we can’t help but fall into this trap. You certainly don’t have to look like these picture-perfect mothers, but it’s hard not to want to.

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You can’t hate yourself into a version of yourself that you can love.

Lori deschene

A woman and her body. It’s a complicated relationship. Creating a human being and birthing them into this world tends to complicate it further. You think back to what you were able to accomplish, and you can’t help but feel invincible; a being of strength and power. Then, when the high fades, and fatigue sets in, it’s hard to ignore just how much your body has changed.

Skin, bones, and organs have had to shift, and move, and adjust to accommodate the miracle of life growing inside you. Once you’ve labored that life out into the world, you realize it takes quite a while for everything to go back to where they used to be… and for some, they seem to have lost their way entirely (these fuckers).

BEAUTY HAS NO WEIGHT LIMIT

I’m not an expert on body positivity, and my self-love needs a bit of work too. But having gone through this three times, there are a few things I have learned about my relationship with my motherly postpartum bod.

Everyone loves the extra cushion for cuddling, and I’m incredibly happy snacking on chips, and cookies, and pizza. Trying to catch up on three years of messed up sleep means I’m not ready to put my physique through the ringer just yet, if only to be able to fit into my pre-baby clothes.

I’m typically low maintenance, but it doesn’t mean I don’t give a shit about what I look like. I’ve come to understand that it’s just not the way I was built— to easily shrink back to my pre-pregnancy form. But my relationship with my body is a forgiving one.

LET LOVE IN

It has lived through fractures, scrapes, cuts, burns, and bullet fragments (another story). This body has given me the opportunity to compete in sports, dance for a living, and birth three beautiful children. I abused it for years with vices like alcohol and smoking, fad diets, and hunger pains. I’m one of the lucky ones that has never had to experience the agony of a severe illness. I’d say it’s done me pretty solid.

Like a lot of things in motherhood, we learn to let things go. We love ourselves despite the so-called flaws, and show our bodies the respect it truly deserves. In all it’s glorified form, no matter what that may be; a little fuller, some would say thick, with more bounce than you’re used to. Slightly droopier in a few places, new stretch marks and unfamiliar blotches, but beautiful nonetheless. For all the good it’s ever done, you owe yourself at least that— Honor your body.

And if I ever figure out how to get into the swing of fitness things, I’ll let you know. But as of right now… I think I’m good.

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Feature image by Yari