My Body - Young The Giant

I fit into a pair of shorts today that I used to wear before I was pregnant. I wore them up until I was about eighteen weeks and then, abandoned them for dresses which wouldn’t squeeze my ever-growing belly.

I have never really liked the way I look and like many women I know, I’ve wasted hours in front of a mirror disparaging my reflection.

I grew up with Barbies and their concave stomachs and Bollywood dancers gyrating flat bellies while their bejeweled lenghas twinkled under bright lights.

I was a teenager in the late 90s and early 2000s - an era of dagger sharp clavicles and bellies flatter than a knife’s edge.

This is what I’m supposed to look like, right? This is what pretty is.

I have never looked like that. Even in high school when I thought a granola bar was lunch and was forced to run the mile in gym.

The poison runs deep and I don’t mind admitting that for a long time, the best I ever thought I looked was during the worst period of my life.

I had just turned 30, moved back home and was at my lowest - both physically and emotionally - weighed a scant 93lbs.

Stress from an impending divorce coupled with barely eating will do that to a girl.

I was stressed all the time, I was cold all of the time, and my hipbones jutted out like a craggy peninsula luring sailors to their doom.

I remember once, I ran to answer the phone and my shorts - shredded size 2 scraps of denim - literally started slipping down my body.

But, I was thin and thin is in and anything else is a sin, so let us begin.

A year back in Florida changed things.

I started to gain weight again due to Mom’s home cooking, bottomless chips, salsa and margaritas and dating a guy who always shared his fries and I realized that I wouldn’t trade a single ounce for nights at Lupita’s, Mom’s potato curry or dates with a guy that I was slowly falling in love with.

Pregnancy changed me further still.

Now, I have stretch marks on my stomach.

Pearlized tributaries against brown sugar skin, proof that my son once nestled inside of me, kicking his long legs and growing stronger every day.

My body is softer, rounder, warmer. It makes me think of pancakes with warm maple syrup or Yorkshire puddings with butter melting in the folds.

In a previous life, I would have been disturbed, even disgusted by this but now?

How could I possibly dislike proof of something so amazing?

I’m still want to lose the weight I gained during my pregnancy. I want to look good in our first family Christmas photos but I’m not going to beat myself up over it like I would have done in years past.

My body is amazing - it has (and continues to) nurture my son. It fights an immune system disease, it has hiked to the top of mountains and wandered miles through concrete jungles. It has danced to Maps by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs at our wedding and curls up against my husband in our happiest moments. It has eaten tacos, tapas and pizza all over the world, practiced yoga in studios and on beaches and every single day, it flings itself around the necks of our dogs, lavishing them with kisses.

My body GREW a human being. Not just any human being but my kid who, not for nothing, is pretty fucking amazing.

How could I possibly disparage something so incredible?

I don’t know if I’ll ever love my body.

The decades long campaign of media and marketing are basically psy-ops created to make women constantly question their worth and it’s tough to combat that.

But right now? I like my body a lot more. I respect my body - even though I firmly believe that Olivia Pope style dinners of wine and popcorn are totally acceptable - and I hope that my body continues do incredible things.