Here I stand in the mirror looking at my naked body. I don't feel confident in the fact that I earned this shape. These marks. These hips.
In fact, looking in the mirror I see worn out and tired mom. The mom who was playing basketball in the driveway with my kids and couldn't go after a ball like I used to. Or chase after and field that ball coming my way. Hips loose. Popping. Creeking.
I'm only 33, this seems incredibly unacceptable. As I undress, I look at all the angles. I know every curve, mark, pinch. I analyze it with the most judging eyes. I treat it with the unkindness I would never treat someone else's.
How did I get here? I'm not quite sure where my obsession with me body evolved. I know, I've always been tall; Nearly 6'. I know my weight growing up was always a topic of conversation like it was a "thing", a problem to wear a size 12 girls when I was 8. Or to have developed full cup size C breasts at 12. It's been a long road of being made to obsess and analyze the discussions of others involving my weight.
It became my story. Still is. A story, I'm constantly trying to rewrite. As a Mom. Especially as a Mom of four, my body should hold so much pride. The life it's given and the life it's sustained should be enough to marvel.
Marveling is what my husband does best. Marveling over the same areas I'm critizing. The compliments flood at me in mass proportions and as someone as adoring as him, I should be elated, boastful, and want to share myself with him. The body he covets, cowers when he does this. Becomes small. Embarrassed. Shy.
I take pretty good care of my health and my body. Especially when I was pregnant. With Lucy I gained 9lbs in the 22 weeks of pregnancy and Linus I started at the same weight, only gaining 12. Since he was born, I'm 25 lbs smaller than before I was pregnant. This sounds like a great accomplishment. However, it was another obsession over my body. Being made to weight in each visit. Becoming the focus of my visit. It was torture until I switched providers to allow the tenderness I deserved.
I recognized this thought pattern is something that needs rewriting. These thoughts were manifesting in my life, my body, and my children. This story that had been created for me as a kid. Turned into a real life thing. An unfair evaluation of my self worth through my size. As that story continued, the more it manifested.
Now most who know me know... I can be very confident. I am very confident in lots of areas of my life. I'm confident in my marriage, friendships, my abilities, my parenting, and basically everything else. It makes zero sense to me to be so sheepish about my reflection.
A reflection that shows me how beautiful I am. Which I do ACTUALLY believe. I believe in my beauty. Reality and perception play an odd part where one day I'm overly confident and the next day, I'm broken.
After losing Lucy, nothing could seem more painful than coming to grips with my own reflection. A woman. Mother of a baby who died. Who's body seemingly failed the ability to keep her daughter safe until she could live outside of her.
In that reflection was guilt, was blame, and was more reasons to self deprecate a body that housed my broken soul.
Where's the triumph in all this? The Renee that is resilient in seeing everything through to make each day new and better.
Truth is, I'm finding her. I realized that in having children it becomes incredibly important for me to change my story, so that my story doesn't become theirs. For my daughter but, especially for my sons.
I'm challenging myself to do some rebirth about my body, the house for my soul. It needs to be treated with care. With kindness. It needs to be treated with respect and love.
My fourth trimester body, is the temple in which I have life, gave life, and live. I'm gonna start living like intended with a new awareness.