I don’t remember a time when I loved my body. There’s been seldom time I have seen my reflection and not one negative thought crossed my mind. I remember being in eighth grade and finally hitting 100 pounds and feeling so fat. I remember stepping on the scale and gasping when I saw 113. I felt sick to my stomach. How could I have let myself get so fat, I thought. I wanted to weigh 87 pounds. Why? Because I thought the boy that I liked at the time would like me back if I were skinnier. It made no sense then and makes even less now.

My struggle with my weight continued. I was obsessed with the scale. By sixteen, I had only gained five pounds, despite gaining nearly six inches. Any time I creeped past the 120 mark, I would purge. It helped that my family hardly had any food at the time. I could skip meals easily without anyone questioning me. “It’s a rough time,” I would say, “I didn’t have breakfast because there were only enough eggs to feed my little brothers and they need it more. ” I trained myself to ignore my hunger. My growling stomach was the enemy.

I became more accepting of the numbers on the scale in college. I traded my obsession with numbers for an obsession with fitness. I took solace in food because I could go for a run or a bike ride to burn it all off. I’ve always loved my bicycle (RIP), but between 19 and 22, you couldn’t get me to go anywhere any other way. I practiced yoga daily, I dragged anyone I could find to hike sand dunes with me or to climb a mountain. I was sure this was happiness. Don’t overeat, but have whatever you want and work it off later. I was at the peak of my fitness when I started to feel sick.

At ten weeks, I took a pregnancy test in our small apartment. I wasn’t surprised with the results, but I knew I would be kissing my flat stomach and 134 pounds goodbye forever. I threw away all of my size four jeans. My boyfriend told me it was an overreaction. He was sure I would bounce right back. He said I was being ridiculous. I was barely even showing. I was still exercising. You’ll need those, he said. I knew he was wrong. I BLEW UP. I was 201 pounds the day I gave birth.

I banished mirrors in my third trimester. I couldn’t possibly look at another stretch mark. I got them behind my knees. Who even does that? I spent the first weeks postpartum discovering all the news ways my body had changed and goddamnit, am I depressed about it. I know I am supposed to embrace this figure that grew the thing I love the most. I should appreciate my newly pendulous breasts that provide the sole nourishment for my eleven pound baby. I should wear my stretch marks as a badge of honor. I have reached the pinnacle of my womanhood. I have done everything I was designed to do. Revel in the glory that is my child. I did this. Or maybe not.

The narrative in my head is harmful, I know. My face is fat. I only feel beautiful in makeup now. I hate the mirror. I hate my back fat. I hate my flabby arms. I look at old photos weekly. I’ll never have that jaw line again. I pretend it is for closure. I pretend it makes me love my body more. It sure as hell makes me look back fondly at that body. I wish I appreciated those legs when I had them.

I’ve heard there’s this magical three month mark where the baby weight melts off, so I’m holding out for that. I lost twenty pounds in the first two weeks after having a baby, but have yet to lose any more. I wish so greatly that I am one of the women who barely has to try to look and feel beautiful as a mother. The outlook is grim. I have no positive words to say about myself. I feel low and I wanted other women who feel like I do to know they are not alone in this. Together we stand.

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