I stand in front of the mirror, trying to figure out who I’m looking at. It’s not me. She has some of my facial features and what sort of look like my hands, and that birth mark is mine…but that’s not the me I know. That’s not the me I recognize. It’s a body that I think was mine once upon a time.
The face is rounder, softer – in fact everything is. The body is marked and stretched and scarred and battered, not a hint of muscle anywhere. It’s hiding in a sack of vomit covered clothing, ashamed and scared to be exposed.
Despite being told it couldn’t and wouldn’t, this body grew a baby, this body didn’t die of morning sickness, this body went through 3 days of excruciating labour, this body was cut open on a table and sewn back up again, just to be walking and caring for another human a few hours later, this body feeds another human being, and survives on minimal sleep and no caffeine. This body of mine has done me so proud, and all I can do is hate it and shame it and tear it down.
That needs to stop.