Every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I feel a wave of despair wash over me as I notice my stretch marks and extra weight. My hips have widened to a size I never imagined, and after two C-sections, it seems inevitable that my belly overhang will linger. I often feel repulsed by my reflection. In moments of vulnerability, I grab handfuls of my stomach and break down in tears, the pain of my self-loathing choking me.
“Mama!” my second child, Lily, yells from outside the bathroom door, convinced that if I’m in there for more than a minute, I’ve fallen into some kind of time warp. I quickly wipe my tears, pull down my shirt, and open the door just in time for her to burst in, her smile lighting up the room.
I step back into the chaos of our home, where my oldest, Mia, is juggling twin brothers. “They were crying, so I picked them up after finishing my homework,” she says with a proud grin, her maturity alarming for an eight-year-old.
In that moment, I pause. I feel a flicker of joy. I realize that my body, the very one I’ve criticized, has achieved incredible things. It has carried and nurtured four beautiful children. My body held the twins for a full 37 weeks, defying expectations and ensuring their health until an emergency C-section was necessary. It protected one daughter from a serious car accident, serving as her shield when danger struck. The very fat I despise played a crucial role in sustaining my children even when I struggled to nourish myself.
How can I resent a body that has accomplished so much? Why have I allowed societal pressures to distort my self-image to the point where I continually berate myself? I force myself to eat foods I dislike and shun those I love, all in the name of an unattainable ideal: a flatter stomach, toned arms, and the myth that stretch marks are unattractive.
Products designed to erase stretch marks target mothers like me, perpetuating the idea that we should be ashamed of the physical evidence of motherhood. But I refuse to accept that narrative.
I am done believing I must change to feel worthy of love and admiration. I refuse to hide my body or crop my photos to showcase only my face. I refuse to live in constant self-doubt.
Yes, I have curves, my stomach is soft, and my stretch marks tell a story. But they are also a testament to my strength. Each mark is a reminder of the months I dedicated to bringing life into the world. The hips my partner loves are the same ones that cradled four children. The extra weight on my body was nourishment for my kids when I couldn’t quite keep up with my own needs. My body is a powerhouse, deserving of respect, not shame.
Hating my body is senseless. So, I’m choosing to embrace my worth and redefine what sexy means. Sexy is every woman, in all her forms. It is real, raw, and rooted in the unwavering love and commitment required to carry a child.
I am sexy exactly as I am.
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In summary, embracing my body and its journey has become a powerful declaration of self-love. I refuse to conform to societal standards that dictate my worth. Instead, I celebrate my body as a remarkable vessel of life and love.