This Well-Worn Terrain

Lately I’ve been feeling self conscious about my body — primarily, this “mom pouch” that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere despite my renewed commitment to leading a healthier lifestyle, which includes exercising regularly and being more mindful about what I put into my body. I’m not perfect at keeping up a consistent workout routine or refusing to give in to my every craving, but I’m trying and that’s what matters.

In the meantime, as I am getting back on track with my physical health, I still want to accept and honor my body for what it is right now, in this stage.

But that’s easier said than done.

Right after giving birth I wrote this passage in my journal:

The complexity of a woman’s body truly amazes me. I’ve grown used to spilling over a little extra in places I never used to before. The firm stomach that I used to know is now extra skin — sagged and flabby in areas, stretched and worn.

I remember my first look at myself after giving birth and getting settled in my postpartum room. I somehow managed to pull my aching body from the hospital bed and scoot my way into the bathroom while my husband and baby were sleeping. I kind of just stood there for a minute, expecting to hate it, expecting to feel foreign and not at home. But even though I questioned its beauty, it was like love at first sight. Like, ‘Wow, this is you after carrying and giving birth and you’re nothing like you were before but that’s completely OK.’

I’m not sure when that changed or why I started becoming more self-conscious of my body, but nowadays it’s a wrestle to feel fully beautiful in my skin.

I’ve always been used to being known as “the skinny girl” and getting picked on for my weight. Questions like “Do you even eat?” and statements like “You need more meat on your bones” were pretty common throughout my childhood and into adulthood. And now that I’m actually gaining weight, I’m having a hard time with the transition.

I try not to complain because the statements through adolescence did make me yearn to be able to hold more weight. But after having a baby, I just don’t think I was prepared for where the weight would take place and having to part ways with the body I knew before motherhood.

It’s been a hard battle realizing some of the styles I used to love no longer compliment my body in a way I’m comfortable with. I don’t wear a crop top unless I have high-waisted pants to cover my belly, and it’s even rare that I wear bottoms that aren’t high-waisted.

The truth is my clothes just don’t fit the same anymore, and it’s hard for me to find pieces that I feel comfortable in. Every time I walk past the mirror, the weight gain that has replaced the slim woman I used to be never fails to catch my eye — and often harsh judgement and self-criticism.

Getting dressed these days reminds me of the battle that used to be changing my baby’s diaper — the quest for finding the right outfit equates to what would be my son’s endless twisting and turning as I fought to get him fully clothed again. Figuring out what to wear often leads to an emotional tantrum of my own. I now have an inability to be on time to places because I get caught up in how my body looks in every piece of clothing I try on. Yet upon finally finding something to wear, I somehow still end up feeling defeated and uncomfortable.

I try not to let my child hear me talk down about myself. After all, this body of mine was his first home — his making place.

When he sees me trying on clothes in the mirror, he often makes a statement like “Mommy’s so pretty,” or “That’s cute,” and in a way I have to remind myself to view my body through child-like eyes — not with the carved in idea of what beauty standards are nowadays, but with complete awe and adoration and unconditional love.

When I find myself wrestling with my postpartum body, I tend to revisit these words that I wrote in my book, Beckoning of the Wind: An Ode to Motherhood:

This earth has spread my hips. I find a new language in each stretch mark that traces the length of my thighs, relish in the glory that the blueprint of home is a woman’s body and that under September’s sky God filled my belly with a sun, made my bones a roadmap for my child to know his own lineage, made my womb an altar for the flesh of another being to be covered in my worship and soft supplication.

This body is my child’s blueprint of home — and I shall love it as it is, through every stage.

If you’re struggling with your body image, I hope you find some time today to remind yourself just how beautiful you are.

From one mother to another,
Mariah Maddox