The Slow Divorce From My Body
***Trigger warning: self-harm, eating disorders, physical and psychological abuse, religious trauma***
It wasn’t always a war.
Memories of warm baths scented with lavender, the taste of cinnamon rolls, the softness of white cotton against sunburned skin. I was once at home here.
Maybe it was the steadfast religion — a Sunday ritual that drilled into me the idea of the feminine form as temptress, something to be covered and shunned and shamed. Vanity is a sin, makeup and hair dye and anything that I do for me is the gateway to evil.
It could have been the physical abuse. Punishment that seemed to be necessary anytime my father was angry or drunk.
I began to live my life as a passenger and not a participant.
A Way Out
I remember the first time I got a tattoo, a sprawling piece of artwork across my back. The sessions were long but I loved them — the pain gave me a new place to hide out, separate from my body. I would revisit often, not just when I had new pieces painted across my skin, but in other, more direct ways. Pain was an exit, a doorway to another part of me where living was simple — mute the pain, and you get to keep existing.
And my body…well, it fought back. Determined to keep me anchored, it developed pain I could not ignore. Frequent anemia, excruciating menses, eating disorders. It was screaming NOTICE ME while I scrambled to find ways to keep dulling the pain.
Intimacy can feed the ego if you’re not connected with the body. If I could just keep pushing myself to work out longer and eat less and fall on the underweight side of my BMI, maybe then it would be safe to return. Maybe I could allow my true self to be seen, held, acknowledged, loved.
Vulnerability was terrifying because if I allowed someone else in, and they didn’t like what they saw, there would be nothing left. The facade is safer, though it’s exhausting to maintain.
I cobbled together a roadmap to the perfect me. Restrictive eating and movement and strict routines. It was perfect. I was set. And then I got pregnant, and my body fought back.
Growth, In Reverse
There is no running from morning sickness, a constant sheen of nausea and dizziness that warned me away from every food I had considered safe. There was no refuge from the fear of weight loss in the first two trimesters, the one time I could allow my body to safely grow and it was flat-out refusing.
I drank Ensure and ate Ramen and sprawled out on my bed, willing my body to just please, please, please give my baby whatever he needed.
I began to gain weight late in my second trimester. People finally noticed I was pregnant in my third. And when my son was induced, and my body again screamed in protest, I passed out in pain from the strain of it all.
Breastfeeding was the next hurdle, this new enlightened version of being a mother HAD TO include breastfeeding. Even if I didn’t understand how to break my son’s latch and deeply bruised my breasts. Even when my milk refused to flow, sending us back into the hospital. All I could see was that my body, again, was inadequate, this time at a task that is so biologically imperative. The self-hatred ran deep.
That was the final straw. I was done. And as I tried to pick up the disordered eating and the obsessive workouts, my body stopped responding. Weight began to pile on. And the hatred kept flowing.
One of my friends gifted me a course that required tapping into my sacred femininity. And I just cried. Full-on sobbed during a Zoom call. Because my body wasn’t worthy. It was broken, inadequate, too large, too soft. It resembled my mother, who chose her own numbness over caring for her children. It wasn’t the symbol of discipline and self-restraint I wanted to celebrate. It was the portrait of a fertility goddess, round and full.
Why Do We Hate The Mother?
On the other side of this, it’s easy to see why I find my current body abhorrent by society’s standards. Because those beautiful women on Instagram and all the other channels are still embodying the maiden, the waifish beauty of childhood.
We have a sick obsession with the adolescent female form. From teenage porn to cosmetic surgery, we seek the rosy, plump in just the right places, fresh-faced look of a woman in the throes of youth.
Outside of fetishes, I rarely see the curves of postpartum motherhood celebrated. And that’s not to say that we don’t recognize the woman in pregnancy, oh no — she receives the reverence of Mother Mary, capable of birthing the next great masculine energy, ugh.
But, make sure you suck in and tuck away and hide all of those stretch marks and curves the second that baby arrives. Your tender breasts can be celebrated for awhile, as long as they aren’t sagging or bruised. Make sure you tone your pelvic floor so sex is still enjoyable for your husband because god forbid our bodies actually know what they need and what they’re doing without being vessels of pleasure for others.
Motherhood, one of the most sacred and beautiful rites, has been boiled down to the end of a woman’s sexuality. And I’m determined to break this stigma.
Maybe I am no longer considered beautiful, but motherhood has given me a new appreciation for my sensuality. A love for the way my body flows through a yoga routine. An acceptance of my new, larger breasts. A bit of joy for the stretchmarks that decorate my body, proof that I was a vessel for the life of my beautiful son.
Can This Relationship Be Mended?
I’ve finally landed in a place where I want to get to know my body and give it the attention it’s been so persistently seeking. And it’s hard.
Sometimes, I look in the mirror and want to hide.
But, maybe I don’t have to think I’m beautiful to feel worthy of my own attention. Maybe these soft places are the ones that need to be seen, felt, nurtured by me. Maybe food doesn’t need to be restricted or regimented, maybe movement doesn’t have to be punishment.
I can feel okay about myself for awhile, and for today, that’s enough. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll get a little closer to loving myself. For now, I’m exploring what it feels like to be at home here again, to feel it all, the sharp stings of sensitive skin and the ache of a too-deep yoga pose. This is the most sacred path, the one back to myself. And I am committed to the journey.
