Alright, as much as I don’t want to do this, it’s 2020, and I feel like everything we say needs a disclaimer. I’m not looking for praise or reassurance. I’m just writing my truth.
It’s been just over nine months since I had Maize, and she is the light of my freakin life. I wouldn’t trade her for the world. What I would like to trade is my postpartum body for my pre-fertility body. It’s no secret getting pregnant with Maize was a struggle. But before all the fertility meds, the stress, and the postpartum body, I was essential the same size I was when I graduated high school, 11 years before. I had always rocked the larger legs and big butt, even before it was cool. My BMI has always been “obese” due to my more muscular frame, and I was okay with that because that’s who I was.
Fast forward to almost a full year of hormones, stress, and then wham -bam, thank you, ma’am, a pudgy belly appeared. Before you roll your eyes, I know I was not “fat” by any means; it was just different. Different than before, different than my norm. I had days I was more insecure than others, but I knew it was for a purpose, so I invested in flowy tops and went on with life.
When I got pregnant, I gained about fifteen pounds of fluid before the pregnancy test lines even appeared. Once again, a welcomed change. I truly enjoyed every day of my pregnancy. Pregnancy is a gift; a healthy baby growing inside me is a miraculous gift. But that didn’t stop the insecurities. One day I remember getting all dolled up to take fall family photos. Both Theresa, my sister in law, and I were pregnant simultaneously after both struggling to get there. It was a memorable moment, and I could not wait to document it. Looking at the pictures on the camera, I was discouraged by how I looked, but I pushed those thoughts out of my head and attempted to live in the moment. A few days later, we got the pictures back. I took one look and instantly bawling. That girl in the photos was without a doubt me, but how? I remembered feeling so beautiful, but looking at the photos, all I could see were my tree trunks for legs, my eight chins, and the bat wings I call arms. At five months pregnant, I was larger than Theresa was at nine. I was an absolute wreck for almost a week.
This continued for probably three more months until I was nine months pregnant. You know the time I was without a doubt the largest but surprisingly the most secure. Everyone around me loved to make comments about how I would definitely deliver early or that my dates must have been messed up all due to my size. I understood it was all in good humor but damn. Near the end, it did start to hurt. From start to finish, I gained a whopping seventy pounds while pregnant. Granted, I didn’t exercise due to being high risk, but I also didn’t eat badly. I had a pop here or there, an occasional bowl of ice cream, but my main craving was salads of all things. I did all the “right” things, but in the end, my body knew exactly what it needed. And still, to this day, I’m thankful for it because it allowed me to deliver a healthy 6 pound, 12-ounce baby girl. Seventy additional pounds on my 5’3” frame was a lot. And I knew it was time to get it off.
The week after I got home from the hospital, I was down thirty-five pounds. I was ecstatic. I figured this postpartum journey was going to be a piece of cake. Every thought was, “obviously; I was one of the lucky ones. You know the moms who’s weight just fell off, right?” Right? Oh, I was wrong, oh, so wrong. Since that thirty-five pounds magically fell off at seven days postpartum, I have only gone on to lose ten more. Ten pounds in nine months. Do you know how that feels to say out loud? How I’m ashamed that my weight and shape are what prevents me from posting certain adorable pictures of Maize and me. I have worked out since six weeks postpartum, some weeks more than others but a conscious effort none the less. I have tried multiple diets, tried cutting out all sweets, alcohol, bread but nothing stuck. After all, it is 2020, and with that, the world has thrown at us a glass of wine or a bowl of ice cream doesn’t seem that detrimental. However, that doesn’t change the fact that I compare myself to every other mom I see.
“Her baby looks roughly the same age as Maize; how does she have that flat of the stomach?”
“My god, look at her perfectly toned arms? Why don’t mine look like that?“
“Jeans? She’s rocking jeans and smiling? Not pulling them up to cover her biggest insecurities.”
What’s the next step? Where do I go from here? How do I stop feeling this way?
Step one: Continue to work out because while I know it is good for me, it truly makes me feel better. Remember that while the number on the scale may not be moving, my pants’ waistband is getting loose, which is the true test.
Step two: Focusing more on the fact I have a husband who loves me and stills enjoys seeing me naked. He does not pick me apart as I do, so maybe just maybe, I should be more like him.
And lastly, step three: Writing. Like always, I’m hoping writing this will help. Help me stay more accountable, help me be more loving towards myself
Many people talk about postpartum so that you should have only love for your body and the miracle it created. While all of that is true, I believe it’s vital to talk about how women struggle with liking their new shape, extra fluffy, maybe even their mummy tummy. — Just because you are struggling, feeling self-conscious, or have newfound body insecurity does not make you a bad mom or ungrateful for the miracle of life. It makes you human, a woman, a mother.
Cheers to us, ladies; we can get through this together. We can teach our girls how to love themselves from the beginning. And when they begin to waiver, we can be there to support them and tell them it’s ok. Now I’m off to enjoy an adult beverage because you know why? It’s 2020, and I can.
