A Love Letter to My Body After Baby
Dear body,
I haven’t always been kind to you.
Before the baby, I poked and pulled at you in mirrors.
I compared you to filtered photos.
I called you names when jeans felt too tight or thighs touched or arms weren’t “toned enough.”
But now — after all we’ve been through — I see you with new eyes.
Worn, yes. Stretched, yes. But oh my god… you’re sacred.
You grew life.
You made space.
Expanded, stretched, shifted — every organ, every cell.
You held a heart inside your own chest. You protected him when I couldn’t.
I remember touching my belly at night and whispering “we’re okay” — and you carried that quiet promise for us both.
You went through the storm.
Labor was nothing like the books.
It was blood and sweat and fear and power and surrender.
You did not break. You opened.
You brought my son into this world. You brought me into this new version of myself.
You didn’t bounce back. You rebuilt.
And thank God for that.
You changed shape. You softened in places I used to fight.
Your skin tells stories now — and I’m learning to trace them like a map.
My stomach is squishier. My hips are wider. My chest is different.
But you are still mine. You are still me.
I forgive myself for the criticism.
For every side-eye in the mirror.
For every wish to look “like I used to.”
For not seeing how miraculous you were — even in healing, even in leaking, even in exhaustion.
You deserved a celebration, not a critique.
I’m learning to thank you.
Not for how you look.
But for how you held me when I was falling apart.
For how you woke up at 3 a.m.
For how you rocked and bounced and soothed when my mind was unraveling.
You never gave up on me — not once.
A new kind of beauty.
I used to think beauty was something we earn — with effort, with products, with control.
But now, I think beauty might be something we already are, when we stop punishing ourselves.
You are not ruined.
You are revealed.
And I love you. Even when I forget to say it — even when I’m still learning to mean it every day.
Forever in awe,
Me
