A few days ago, one of my twins got hold of my phone. She was in full-on picture-taking mode, which usually means my camera roll ends up with thousands of photos of her feet, the ceiling, or the wall. I braced myself for the chaos, but I didn’t realize just how real the moment she captured would feel.
I vaguely remember her wandering into the kitchen, saying, “Mama, can I take a picture of Bowie?” I remember shifting him on my hip so she could see him better. But what I didn’t remember was that I had my shirt off or that I was about to microwave my coffee for the third time that morning. And just like that… a picture was taken, freezing this ordinary, chaotic, beautiful moment in time.
When I scrolled through the fifty photos she had taken, I didn’t feel thrilled with what I saw. Why? Because of my stomach. The little house that had grown this baby just twelve weeks earlier was now the source of my insecurity. It took me three full days before I could even bring myself to look at those pictures again.
We all hear it: “Love your body!” Lately, it feels everywhere you turn. Women are campaigning for us to honor our bodies, to celebrate them for what they’ve done. And it’s a vital, powerful message. But today, I want to offer a slightly different one.
I wholeheartedly believe that women are warriors. Our bodies perform the ultimate physical miracle by growing a child. We do something incredible, something unmatched. We win. Period.
I respect my body so deeply for carrying five babies. I am endlessly grateful for the privilege of nurturing and bringing each of them into the world. I love my body for its strength, for its capacity, for the miracles it created. I love it for being so utterly amazing.
But right now? I’m in that awkward stage of asking myself, “Will I ever fit into my favorite jeans again?”
And you know what? I realized I’m not alone.
It’s completely normal to not fall back in love with your body immediately. It’s normal to glance in the mirror and feel like you’re staring at a stranger. It’s normal to wish your face weren’t so round, your stomach didn’t jiggle, or your muscles weren’t hidden beneath soft layers. It’s normal to poke at your post-baby belly and gasp at the absence of definition. It’s normal to cry over what you see.
It’s normal to angle the camera for the “good shot.” It’s normal to marvel at how a tiny, perfect little human can make you question your own reflection. It’s normal to feel a complicated mix of awe and frustration—the love for what your body accomplished and the discomfort with what remains. It’s normal to feel guilty for having these thoughts when you know some would give anything to experience motherhood. It’s normal to wonder if you’ll ever look even a fraction of the person you were before. It’s normal to mourn your body.
It’s so normal, in fact, that I wish we talked about it more openly.
Yes, you will get there. Eventually, you’ll love every stretch mark, every soft curve, every change your body has embraced for the sake of your children. You’ll treasure your tiger stripes. You’ll adore the soft tummy that held your baby. You’ll appreciate the wider hips that now give you more shape. You’ll even find beauty in the hair you lost and the saggy breasts that once fed your child. Every bit of it. You’ll love all of it, even what you despise today.
But it’s okay if you’re not there yet.
It’s okay to ask, “What just happened to my body?” It’s okay to wonder if you’ll ever feel “normal” again. It’s okay, Mama.
We spent nearly a full year growing a human inside us. Recovery—physically, emotionally, and mentally—takes time. Healing is made of small steps, not giant leaps. Loving your post-baby body is part of that journey. It’s part of postpartum, part of motherhood, and honestly, part of life.
Bodies change. We’re not meant to look sixteen forever. We’re not meant to look like magazine supermodels (and let’s be honest, even they don’t look like themselves). We are often our own harshest critics, too quick to judge and too slow to forgive. Give yourself grace. Take your time. Remember you are not alone. Every woman is walking this path, learning to embrace her changing vessel and to love herself for what she is, not just what she looks like. At the end of the day, our kids don’t care about inches or shape—they just want us.
This is a message I need to hear, too.
Now, when I look at that picture, I see it through my four-year-old’s eyes. I see her mom holding her baby brother while going about everyday life. I see a body that has nurtured her most precious miracles. I see a baby boy safe and loved in the arms of his favorite person. I see an ordinary, fleeting moment that is now extraordinary. I see a picture I will forever cherish.
