On My Body, Honestly

This one is harder to write.

I have always been aware of my body. Since high school, at least. Aware of how quickly it can shift, how easily it can soften, how one season of indulgence or neglect can change the way I see myself in the mirror. I grew up active, skiing, riding horses, hauling hay, working on a ranch where manual labor wasn’t optional. My body was something that worked. Something that carried me through cold mornings and long days. I knew what it felt like to be in top shape. I knew what it felt like to be strong.

And I also knew what it felt like not to be.

When I became pregnant, everything changed. Not gradually, but completely. My body did what it was designed to do, it expanded, it held, it nourished, it built life from nothing. I gained weight. A lot of it. My clothes stopped fitting. Even my biggest, softest sweatpants betrayed me. My shoes felt tight. My reflection felt unfamiliar.

After Clover was born, some of the weight came off, not because I worked for it, but because I was surviving. Breastfeeding. Not sleeping. Learning how to keep a tiny human alive. My body shrank, but it never fully returned before I was pregnant again. And this time, I grew even bigger. Heavier. Softer.

After Murphy was born, I found myself in the worst shape of my life. Not because I was lazy. Not because I was depressed or living on junk food. But because my body had completely dismantled and rebuilt itself twice in a short span of time. And it showed.

I remember seeing photos of myself and thinking, Who is that? My stomach was soft in a way it had never been. My hips wider. My legs thicker. My arms, my arms startled me. I didn’t recognize the proportions. I didn’t recognize the silhouette. It wasn’t hatred I felt. It was disorientation.

There is something deeply destabilizing about not feeling at home in your own body.

And postpartum, the part no one romanticizes properly, was its own obstacle. The exhaustion. The hormones. The invisible weight of carrying so much without always feeling fully supported in return. I learned quickly that “bouncing back” is a phrase invented by people who have never lived inside a postpartum body without help. It is sold as motivation, but it often lands as shame.

The truth? Bouncing back is rare. It belongs to the small percentage with extraordinary genetics, abundant resources, or a support system that holds them so completely they can focus on themselves. The rest of us are rebuilding while carrying babies on our hips and homes on our backs.

I started walking. That was all I could manage. I walked and walked and walked. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t fast. But it was something. Eventually, I returned to the gym. And this time, I wasn’t chasing thinness. I was chasing strength. Protection. Longevity.

Motherhood had already made me physically strong without me noticing, lifting toddlers, carrying car seats, bending, standing, holding. But now I am strengthening with intention. I am rebuilding muscle in ways that protect my joints, my spine, my future. I am creating resilience. And slowly, steadily, the weight is leaving, not dramatically, not overnight, but permanently.

What surprises me most is this: I do not regret the weight I gained. I do not hate the body that held it. That body carried two strong, healthy boys. It stretched and shifted and endured. It did something extraordinary. The softness was proof of creation, not failure.

And now, the rebuilding is proof of something else, that a woman’s body is not fragile. It is not finished at twenty-five. It is not ruined by childbirth. It is adaptable. It is regenerative. It is capable of becoming strong again, perhaps even stronger than before, because now it carries wisdom too.

Body image is still something I navigate carefully. I am honest about that. I still notice when my clothes fit differently. I still have days when I am more critical than I should be. But there is a deeper gratitude underneath it now. A steadiness.

I am not chasing the body I had before children.
I am building the body that will carry me forward.

Stronger. Wiser. Grounded.

And that feels better than any “bounce back” ever could.