MOMBODApril 27, 2016
If there's one selfish thought I had while pregnant, it was "my body is ruined."
For a long while, hearing someone complain about their stretch marks heated me. I used to snap at them, pull my stomach out and make them feel awkward. I mean, let's be real, for some of you reading this, this post might be hella awkward. Some of you might be thinking, "she doesn't even look bad." You're right, I really dont. I got to a point where I realized attacking other people's personal insecurities didn't make them feel better, and certainly didn't make me feel better. My insecurities aren't your insecurities and visa versa. We are human, and the skinniest person alive has insecurities.
On February 21st, 2014, Joshua and I checked into the hospital, and a nurse came in to weigh me. The scale, read 189. Again, I am totally aware that there are women that gain much more, and much less. I am not putting myself into this poor me state of being, so please please please do not interpret this post as such. A week postpartum, when your skin just hangs there like dead weight, that's when I started to get emotional. I could lie and say I felt liberated, that I felt bad ass for just giving birth, but I didn't.
Following the birth of our daughter, there were a few situations I can think of that made me feel like a total alien in my own skin. The first of which was going to the beach when Penelope was five months old. Bathing suits. I mean, need I say more? Then there was that time Joshua caught me staring in the mirror at my new found mom-bod. I remember getting defensive and yelling at him for walking in on me. I was ashamed of my postpartum belly and didn't want him seeing it. His reaction to me at my lowest was unexpected, supportive.
I have learned so much about my body in the last two years. I have learned to love it. To appreciate it. Because even those who are seemingly perfect have things they are covering up. I know this, because I do it. I choose to wear things control top, to wear high waisted pants, so you can't see the extra skin I carry around with me on a daily basis. It all used to bother me so much, but I woke up a few weeks ago, and it just didn't anymore.
You can't see it in the above photo, thanks to the wonderful invention of jeggings, but when I take my pants off, I have skin that hangs off my body and "sags," if you will. I'm 25 and saggy, and you know what, I am fine admitting it. I am fine accepting that my body isn't that of an 18 year old girl. In all honesty, this body is who I am. Every mark, every line, is my story. The story of my life and what I have been through to get wear I am today. My body is amazing, and I'm ashamed it took me this long to accept that.