I adore swimming, yet it’s been ages since I last dove into the water. The last time was during a girls’ getaway with my dear friend, Sarah—who, let me remind you, witnessed the miracle of childbirth firsthand. After that experience, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t bat an eye at my cellulite. Nevertheless, I clung to my cover-up until the very last moment, reluctantly stepping into the pool only after the water was up to my hips.
Fast forward a few years, and here I am at a bustling water park with my husband and four kids. The scene is idyllic: bright sunshine, a gentle breeze, and the delightful scents of chlorine and coconut fill the air. Laughter and splashes surround me, yet here I sit, overwhelmed with emotion, typing out this sad lament on my phone instead of joining in the fun. I feel trapped in this lounge chair by some ridiculous sense of vanity or pride.
To me, donning a swimsuit in public feels akin to delivering a speech in front of thousands—just the thought makes me queasy. Stripped down, I feel as exposed as if I were walking around naked, with a spotlight highlighting every imperfection for all to see.
I’m aware how foolish this is. I know that, realistically, no one is judging me as harshly as I judge myself. Yet, the voice in my head that calls me out for feeling gross in a swimsuit also adds a layer of Mom Guilt. It whispers, “You’re so vain. You can’t even set aside your discomfort to savor this moment with your family.”
Despite my logical side fighting back, my fragile self-esteem always prevails. How can something so wounded remain the strongest force within me?
Having had four children, my body has gone through immense changes—growing and nurturing them for years. When they finally didn’t need it anymore, they returned it to me—a weary, stretched version of its former self. It has extra weight, and when I shed that, there was still sagging skin, marked by an array of stretch marks and broken veins, as if my “real” body had been draped in a layer of loose flesh.
I mourn for the body I used to know, the firmer version I once took for granted. That confidence vanished long ago, and I never truly appreciated it while I had it. Years later, I still find myself grieving, which explains why I’m sitting here drenched in sweat, dressed in a tank top and workout pants at a water park.
As I look around, I see a wide array of bodies: some toned and sculpted, others with surgical enhancements, and many that are beautifully curvy. There are also those with wrinkles and rolls and extra skin. I’m torn between envying the women with perfect bodies and admiring those who embrace their imperfections and enjoy themselves anyway. Meanwhile, I feel stuck in a body-image limbo.
Part of me wants to shake some sense into myself. I’m healthy. I work out regularly, and beneath this skin I despise lie strong, capable muscles. I have a mind that constantly reminds me: “You didn’t appreciate your body before, so love it now before it changes again. You’ll miss this.” I try to reinforce this with body-positive articles and inspiring speeches from confident women who don’t conform to unrealistic beauty standards.
I tell myself, “Your stretch marks are badges of honor! Your body is incredible—it has given life!” But if I had a dollar for each time I repeated these affirmations, I know exactly what I’d do: I’d likely opt for plastic surgery to fix what I loathe. I can spout self-love platitudes all day, but when it comes to slipping into a swimsuit and reveling in family time at the water park, my confidence crumbles.
It baffles me how I can feel completely at ease in my clothes yet be utterly self-conscious about something as simple as swimming with my family. How many body-image revelations do I need to read? How many motivational talks must I hear? How many therapists do I need to consult before I can genuinely accept myself as I am?
I know these moments with my kids are precious and fleeting—trust me, I’m painfully aware of that. So, as I sit here, cloaked in my clothes under the blazing sun, watching them play, I realize how much I truly yearn to join them.