The mirror in the bathroom of the hospital is only small enough to show my belly button up. Which, after giving birth, allows me to see myself as a mother first. The joy in my eyes, the unwashed hair that seems pretty in the way it waves onto my shoulders, the one grey hair around my temple, the lines on my forehead— I have lived, worried, grown, aged, and I am here. In the hospital mirror, my scar, the protruding belly, the discolored skin all hidden, I see myself.
The full length mirror at home in my bedroom tells a different story. This mirror has seen me at my smallest, flexing muscles in “progress pics”, admiring a flat stomach, toned arms, cute butt, long dyed blonde hair. It has watched this belly grow a human, from the early days of longing to see a cute bump, to the beautiful way it stretches and gives in the last trimester. Standing in front of it now, I am deeply uncomfortable.
The linea nigra has not gone away, the once stretched skin sags around my belly button, my scar shines purple, my belly hangs with extra pounds, my breasts, filled with milk, droop under gravity’s pull. Those comments echo in my head: “OH MY GOD your boobs are HUGE!” My face is rounder, my chin duplicative, my legs thick. My bras no longer fit, my tops accentuate my new belly, my jeans are tucked away for fear of depressing me. Stretchy pants it is!
I get dressed in the bathroom now.
I sneak peeks in the mirror after a shower willing myself to see me like I did in that hospital mirror. And no matter what logic I tell myself (you grew a human, bodies change, the bodies on Instagram are unattainable without disordered eating and exercise obsession or “good” genes, it’s unrealistic to “bounce back”)— the result is still the same: discomfort, grief.
“You look great!” people comment, unprompted. I question their intentions. Have they noticed my discomfort and they’re trying to appease me? Did I not “look great” at some point and now I do? Why the obsession with looking great right after the biggest change your body has gone through? How meaningful it would have been to hear “you’re a wonderful mother,” “the love you have for your son is amazing,” “you’re doing a great job.” But instead- “I see your body,” of course they do because women have been conditioned to be something to look at first. I don’t fault them for the body comments, this is just the society we live in, it’s expected that you say stuff like that.
I vow to disrupt the uncomfortable thoughts. The comparison: both of my old body in pictures from before, and other bodies around me… the flatter stomachs, the smaller breasts, the chiseled jaw lines. I notice the thoughts with gentle curiosity and repeat different mantras. But still I feel the discomfort.
I read the words in More Than a Body, “your body is an instrument, not an ornament,” but it doesn’t click until my therapist asks me: “What do you get to experience in your body today?”
My egg created my son. My belly protected him while he grew for 9 months. My arms hold him. My lips kiss his soft cheeks. My breasts give him nutrients and allow him to grow. My legs bounce, my hips sway, and he stops crying. He nuzzles into my chest and coos into my ear. My nose smells his baby shampoo, his hair soft against my face. My mouth smiles back at his gummy grin, my eyes admire him— and they also cry both when it’s hard, when I’m processing how much I love him, and when I watch his father talk and laugh with him. My brain learns how capable, how resilient, how resourceful I am.
My legs run, my feet propel me forward, after months of pain as pregnancy hormones stretched my ligaments. My lungs breathe crisp winter air. And they fill with the deep breath of relaxation… and comfort… at 3AM— just him and me rocking in the dark.
My body is more than what I see, more than what they see, more than my value, than a photo, a reflection, something to be gazed at, even more than just “beautiful”—as beauty implies it’s worth is solely measured by how it looks.
My body is a vessel for me to move through my life as a mother— to experience
love, joy, strength, and growth, and above all comfort, snuggled on the couch, my head on my husband”s chest, one of our baby’s hands wrapped around his finger, the other gripping mine.
I spend less time in front of mirrors— less time looking, pinching, prodding, sucking in, turning around to see new angles. I spend less time viewing my body through the lens of society’s expectations of what is beautiful, desirable, sexy, healthy, or Instagram-worthy. My worth is not determined by my size, my imperfections, or how the number on the scale has changed from before.
My husband tells me he loves watching me simply be with my son, he loves experiencing me becoming a mother, he loves the team we’ve become as parents. I don’t need him to tell me I’m beautiful, and I don’t even need to tell myself that either. What I do and who I am are so much more important than what I look like. The external validation doesn’t matter. Experiencing this beautiful life while getting to live inside my body, is what matters.