On postpartum body image
Here in my little corner of the internet, I’ve tried to be as transparent and forthcoming about my whole journey through pregnancy and into motherhood as I can be. Between simply living and trying not to get caught up in the pathos of my own bullshit, though, I think I’ve unintentionally left out some important aspects of the whole thing. And heaven forbid I be misconstrued as the sort of person who lies on social media, whether by omission or through being creative-with-the-highlights.
So here it is.
There has been a part of postpartum which, for me, has been heavy. Like custard or congealed gravy. And it’s been hard to feel that way. Because on one hand, THE MIRACLE OF LIFE! and, IT’S NOT FOREVER, IT’S JUST RIGHT NOW, and FUCK BOUNCEBACK CULTURE! Forget clothing sizes, embrace comfort! Etc etc
But on the other hand, diet culture is insidious, even considering the miracle of life. ‘You don’t want to gain too much weight during pregnancy’. ‘I stopped breastfeeding and the weight just fell off!’ Advertising for weight loss supplements and training programs pops up along with sleep training programs and bath filters. Maternity wear and nursing bras are modelled by fit, unpregnant women.
And here I am back on my bike, breathing out on every drop or compression lest my pelvic organs fall out, flesh jiggling where once it didn’t, still in the pants I wore while pregnant (which still fit quite snugly). And … sometimes, it is not comfortable.
Because for all the well-meaning advice I got during pregnancy, all the targeted advertising, all the diet culture missives that still live rent free in my head, none of it prepared for me for how I would feel in a body that’s served an eviction notice not just to a baby but to the woman who used to inhabit it. Because, did you know, the brain actually changes shape during and after pregnancy so, actually, one cannot ‘bounce back’. There is no ‘back’ to go to. Just a new life, new brain, new body, new tiny human depending on 99% of all that newness.
Still, I did the Pilates and pelvic floor physio and strength training and baby carrier walks and pram walks and I started breastfeeding and I stopped breastfeeding and I drank water and prioritised protein and fibre and I allowed myself treats and I fuelled my ride and I pedalled and puffed and I said fuck the number on the size tag and I ignored the body in the change room mirror and I stared down the body in the change room mirror and I felt my feelings.
And that’s a lot. And the being I meet when I do those things sometimes has a hard time. The still-too-snug pants, the legs and lungs that don’t do what my brain wants them to do, the risk appetite that’s seems to be stuck in recalibration mode - they’re parts of the new that is hard and sometimes noisy.
Most of the time I’m too busy appreciating my beautiful, cheeky, growing-too-fast baby to notice the noise. But the noise is there and parts of the journey are allowed to suck and be hard and feel ugly. No platitudes or toxic positivity. Just being. Even as congealed gravy or custard stuffed into bib knicks and knee pads.
