I’m getting dressed when my son barrels into the bathroom on his brand-new tricycle. We weaned six months ago, and yet it feels like forever and yesterday when we sat nursing, skin-to-skin on the couch. He gets a glimpse of my belly and buries his face in it.

“I love your squishy belly, Mama.”

I pull him into a hug and my shirt slides between him and my navel.

“I love it, your belly,” my son repeats. He tells me this often, his voice becoming a reminder of just how wonderful my body really is.

It wasn’t until I became a mother that I recognized fully the beauty of my body and my belly. It was always just a bit round beneath my clothes, even when I was a teenager. I used to think its roundness suggested pregnancy, even when I was a teenager. A thought I found ridiculous once I had a basketball-sized belly at my most pregnant. My body carried life and I struggle when I think about how much time I’ve wasted concerned with my size and shape, instead of enjoying the body God gave me. 

Moments before my son barreled into the bathroom, I stood in front of the mirror, half-clothed. My low-rise jeans rest comfortably on my hips; my bra is fastened around my rib cage. I’m almost done drying my hair when my gaze flashes to my stomach. It’s soft, where the rest of me is hard.

Ugly, my narrator whispers. I flinch. I know this isn’t true, yet I struggle against believing this lie I’ve carried since I was young.

My body is shaped from hours spent at the gym. I work out to keep up with my son and to lift him high above my head. I see my muscles every time I pick him up and feel their strength when I chase him across the playground, laughing until my sides hurt. My stomach’s softness barely reveals the firm abs lying beneath.

Too round. I turn to the side and look to evaluate the shape of my waistline. I know it’s not, and I firmly believe my belly is amazing. However, the narration I’ve been fighting for years has popped up today, and I’m struggling to ignore the voice telling me I’m too large.

I am perfect. I think, hesitating before I put the hair dryer away. I am made exactly as I am to be, and this belly is part of that.

As I twist and turn. I reach down to touch my stomach, thinking of how much I loved watching it grow round with life when I was pregnant. How, even though my mind is telling me my belly is too big now, I love it.

When I was a teenager, I hated my belly and sucked it in. I didn’t understand core work and did countless crunches in hopes of having the abs I coveted. I didn’t want just a six-pack, I wanted perfection. Since preschool, I’d internalized how small and thin was the ideal and longed to have that shape. Now, I find myself ashamed, recalling how much self-loathing once permeated my mind about something I had so little control over as a girl, and how much I love my body as it is now.

I sigh and remind myself the voice in my head is unreliable as I pull my shirt over my head.  

***

When I was eleven, I wanted nothing more than a ribbed-halter-topped-rainbow-bikini I found in a department store. The suit was perfect, offering enough coverage for my mom to say yes, but my grandmother got final say because she took us shopping for our summer clothes.

When I slipped on the halter-topped suit, I stood before the three-way-mirror in the dressing room, twisting, turning, and admiring my reflection from every angle. Somehow I knew it wasn’t the most flattering suit for my body, but I didn’t care. It fit and it fit in with the other kids -  a must when you’re homeschooled and learn about fashion from eighties TV show reruns.

My grandmother’s voice cut matter-of-factly across the changing room while I modeled for an audience of one. “That doesn’t make you look your best - it doesn’t compliment your figure very well. I think you should try on another.” I looked up, trying to avoid her gaze while a lump formed in my throat. I swallowed hard and tried to smile at my reflection, knowing I wouldn’t be taking the beloved swimsuit home as she continued, “Your stomach sticks out. Why not try a one-piece?”  My face fell as my shoulders pulled in and I slowly padded barefoot to my changing room.

There, I was slow to take off the rainbow bikini, staring at my round stomach in the mirror. My friends were allowed bikinis, but they were slender compared to me. None of them looked pregnant after a large meal or had love handles poking over the tops of their jeans. I stared at my feet and wondered if others saw me as fat. A pale blue one-piece suit sat at the bottom of the pile I’d carried into the dressing room as back-up in case the perfect bikini didn’t fit. Frowning, I pulled it on and pulled my stomach in, feeling disgusted with my size. I was ashamed instead of at home. In my body and self.

I went home with the one piece and a cracked sense of self.

I tucked the swimsuit into my drawer and heard a voice whisper Ugly.

(That summer while on vacation, we found out that the rainbow bikini would have been a better choice: while swimming with a boy I had a hopeless crush on, the suit became completely see-through.)

The roundness of my stomach and size of my body became a contentious part of my adolescence each time my grandmother and I shopped together. I’d put on a form-fitting shirt and step out of the dressing room, eager to show off how I looked.

“That clings to your belly, why not try on something else?” she’d say with eyebrows raised, her gaze scanning me up and down.

I’d sigh and go back into the changing room to try on something else.

By the end of our shopping trip, I’d come home with bags laden with clothes I liked but felt lost in. I carried the messages I heard but I didn’t know what to do with like heavy baggage in my mind.

I’m too big, I’d think, pulling on loose jeans and oversized shirts when I dressed each day.

My grandmother wanted her version of what it looked like for me to put my best foot forward.  She loved me and still does, but wanted to mold me into what she thought was best for me—not the person I am, but who she felt I should be.

My mom combatted this narration with her own voice:

“You are perfect.” She’d remind me.

“You are a child of God, created in His image.”

“Your legs are strong, and your imagination is perfect for an author.”

My sense of self had already taken shape within. I hid my body and buried my confidence while longing for a flatter stomach, smaller bottom, and slimmer face.

I look at photos from then and see a girl who was lost, trapped by a message from an adult who didn’t know better. I want to reach back in time to tell her: you are not too much. You are loved and strong. Your body will one day grow and carry a life. Listen to your mom: you are so much more than your figure. You are beautiful because God made you in His image, as He creates us all. There are no wrong bodies, and the inner voice you’re constructing is wrong. Lean into your beauty and who you are, and stop trying to be what others want to you to be. 

***

At bedtime, I sit with my son’s head in my lap as we finish a movie. He’s pushed my shirt up and has his cheek pressed against my bare skin. My belly held him safe until his birth and then provided comfort as he nursed next to it for another two and a half years. It’s his favorite place to snuggle in at the end of a long day.

I rub his back and look at his babyish face and spidery limbs. His last chubby roll disappeared right before his third birthday, and I can’t believe how much he looks like a little boy. I tell him often how I love him completely, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, and how happy I am he is here.

His face lights up at the end of a preschool day and when I pick him up from nursery at church, filling me with warmth and joy as I lift him up with my strong arms.

The movie ends and he looks up at me, reaches his hand for my face.

“I love you, Mama. I love your squishy belly.” His is my favorite voice to listen to.

I smile and press my lips into his thick sand-colored hair.

“I love it too, little man.”

The author of this piece has chosen to remain anonymous to protect her and her family's identities. She loves apple cider donuts, writing, and swimming as often as she can. She loves her body, her belly, and absolutely believes every body is a bikini body.

Photo by Lottie Caiella