Baby Got (my pre-pregnancy body) Back (sort of)

4 days post-partum looking as preggers as ever. Peep the peri bottle in the mirror.

For 10 months, I watched my body grow and stretch and morph in ways I had no control over. I enjoyed the fact that for a few sweet months, I could walk into any establishment and draw in the eyes of nearly everyone. Smiles and kind questions. Doors opening and chairs magically appearing. Is this what it feels like to be gorgeous? Then, quickly I toiled with thoughts of feeling “too big” for where I was at in the process. People still smiled and jumped to attention in case I needed help. But there were more looks of sympathy and pity. There were comments about “popping” and estimates about how much time was left. There were assumptions about how I was feeling and what would be happening next. Most days, I enjoyed the attention. I was excited so I was excited to talk about it. But other times, I wanted to remove my growing belly and leave it at home for the day.

It’s been 8 months since the birth of my son and in many ways, my body looks way closer to my pre-pregnancy body than I thought it would. I can still run and lift pretty similarly to how I did before. I can still squat deep, maybe deeper! My face looks the same, my feet are the same size, my arms are more toned from carrying a 23lb weight in the form of a baby. I expected to be unrecognizable. But what I see now is just me, a little more tired, with a thick belly shelf and some wicked tiger stripes that run down my tummy. But after 8 months, even those have faded quite a bit. 

As someone who spent years in a constant competition with myself to lose “just 10 more pounds,” I learned how to analyze every nook and cranny of my body. I then spent years learning how to unpack all of those techniques and develop a healthy relationship with food and my body. Then, I struggled to get pregnant and started to resent my body and the relationship I had so carefully rebuilt. Only to get pregnant and be thrown into a time warp, where my body took off changing and growing and building a human, while I ate Cheeze-Its and Sour Punch Straws and went about my business, always 10 steps behind where my body was off to next. My baby got bigger and bigger and before I could process, he was rolling his little arms across my side and kicking my husband in the head when he laid on my tummy. And suddenly I was a week past due, riding on a pontoon with my friends, hoping and praying my body would respect me and go into labor before my scheduled induction the next day.

1 week post due, about to go on the pontoon cause why not

But alas, my body disrespected my wishes and we rolled into that hospital on a hot Sunday night to help my old friend, my body, get this show on the road. And then things spiraled and I entered another time warp where one second I was feeling my first contractions and apparently 36 hours later I was being split down the middle. Somewhere in between there, I was taking a bath, I was Snapchatting my friends, I was gripping onto hospital bars and contorting my body, I was begging for oxygen on my hands and knees, convinced I was going to die, I was pushing for 5 hours, I was listening for the first cries of my baby and instead heard a loud “pop” noise as the vacuum popped off of his head for the last time. I did everything I could. I didn’t give up. But why did you fail me, old friend? 

My logical brain knows this is a story I’m telling myself. My emotional brain wants to get revenge, punish my body for not doing what it was supposed to. What I trained for, prepped for, meditated for, exercised for. 

He’s here. He’s healthy. I am healthy. My body is thriving. But that rage still lingers on. Most days, it’s a subtle buzz, a soft little whisper at the back of my mind that I can convince to drift away. Some days, it’s strong and powerful like my pushes. Undeniable and frustrating.

8 months later and I still struggle to fit in most of my pants. I struggle to feel confident or beautiful. I am proud of my body, but I don’t like what I see in the mirror. I wish I did. I want to love this body. You can think you’re the most body positive person on earth and still struggle with this transition. I really do believe that all bodies are beautiful. But I am the exception. I am always the exception.

My body changed so rapidly as I chased behind it. My son was born and I felt I caught up. But the thing my body had been carefully, meticulously building, was no longer a part of me physically. So here I am, exhausted and breathless after a 10-month marathon, knocking on my body’s door, gasping “...I…” “...Made...” “...it!” My body hands me a 9lb larva, a deflated balloon of a stomach and vibrant red stretch marks and slams the door in my face. 

I was looking at old pictures the other day and stumbled upon a selfie I had taken 1 month after my son’s birth. And to me, I looked the same as I do now. 7 months later. I cried. Why isn’t my body doing what I taught it to do before we created this baby? I fed it and fueled it and cared for it and it cared for me back by kind of always just staying the same size. I am respecting my body by not dieting or fasting or depriving it in the way I once did, why won’t it respect me back?

Maybe this is punishment for all of those years I did deprive it. Or maybe my body is doing exactly what it needs to do. It’s bulking up my arms to hold that 23lb weight. It’s teaching me to find joy in movement that prioritizes my son. It’s reminding me that food isn’t just fuel, it’s beautiful moments that we share as a family. It’s showing me that bodies can still be strong, powerful and attractive even as they get larger or looser or just look different. And I’m honoring it by rebuilding that trusting, healthy relationship once again.