I never thought that seven years later, laying in a hospital bed on a trademark blue absorbent pad and holding my newborn son would be the moment I truly fell in love with my body and what it was capable of.
A significant turning point for me came during pregnancy when I seemed to face every side effect imaginable: nine months of nausea, three months of carpal tunnel, an oversupply of the hormone relaxin that caused my hips to slip out of place and back pain so severe I became immobile.
During all of this, I remember cheering myself along, pleading that if my body could get through this indescribable pain, it could do anything.
This mentality carried me into motherhood, finding myself withdrawn from the “bounce back” culture I once believed I would fall victim to. Instead, I relaxed when possible, I sat covered in baby vomit, holding my son while he slept and soaking in the fleeting moments instead of obsessing over getting back to my pre-baby body.
The truth was my priorities had changed and motherhood forced me to focus on mental and emotional health over my changed physical body. Nurturing my son took the energy that was once put into nurturing my physique.
I was proud of my strong arms that rocked that 10-pound baby to sleep for those sleep-deprived hours. I was comfortable with the little extra baggage that sat where the ultra-flat stomach once had, after all, that was a safe home for my son for nine months. And I was at peace with the clothes that no longer fit - skinny jeans were on the way out anyway and bedazzled club dresses were hardly breastfeeding-friendly.
Fast-forward three and a half years and my beautiful son is thriving, he’s happy, healthy and obsessed with his mother.
All those years ago, I never would have thought that the validation I craved would come from a 3-year-old. A little boy who inherited my legs, lips and hair – how could I adore those things on another person but not appreciate them about myself?
He proudly declares how those legs make him the fastest boy, how that hair is “lovely and soft”, “like mamas” and I sneak into his room to kiss those Cupid’s bow lips every night before bed.
My mindset towards working out has also changed. I now do Pilates at home three to four times a week and go for walks when I can, yet I feel stronger than ever. Strong enough to still hold him and comfort him when he cries after falling over. Strong enough to carry his bike all the way home after he decides he wants to walk, and strong enough to know that my worth as a human isn’t directly linked to a dress size.
Instead of eating healthy because I want to earn others’ approval, I eat healthy because I want to be around for my son and to hold my own grandchildren one day the way my energetic mother holds hers.
And if some rogue chicken nuggets slip on to my plate, it doesn’t fill me with the same guilt it once would have.
Now at 7.30pm I’m putting my son to bed - not my hungry self - then sitting down on my couch, content and with a cup of tea and a few squares of dark chocolate. And I’ve never been happier.
This body gave me my son, the thing I yearned for, I cried for and that I was finally blessed with. That for me is more precious than any crown.
