By Mahalakshmi Shankar Narayan
@myindiancravings

On a blustery Saturday afternoon, the wind whipping through the trees, I decided to go through my closet to dig out some suspects. I placed my 10-month-old baby girl in her crib in my bedroom, and took my insecurity to task. No, this had nothing to do with a wardrobe malfunction. I was going to be brave and do the dreaded thing—try on my pre-baby clothes. (I can hear seasoned moms cringe and sigh. Rookie mom mistake, am I right?) 

I wanted to weed out the clothes that didn’t fit and find them a new home. I pulled out suitcases and boxes stuffed to the brim with a jumble of clothing. As the baby cooed and babbled in her crib, I put back the tops, pants, and dresses that I knew would likely still contain my baby mama bod. The other ones, like jeans, I pulled out with a grimace and braced myself. I was going to get naked, physically and mentally, to wear them and see if they still fit. As I tried on pair after pair, I felt insecurity blowing through me like the wind in the trees, rattling my branches and rustling my leaves. 

Some pairs that used to mold so beautifully to my pre-baby body hardly got past my thighs. Some jeans almost fit, buttoned up and all, but the zip wouldn’t go up all the way. And some jeans surprised me with the way they still fit comfortably. (All hail Levi’s!) I looked at my beloved vintage Laurel Ralph Lauren and a pair of Everlane jeans with wistfulness, the ones that might never fit the new me. 

I now have to go one or two sizes up in my jeans, because the old ones can’t contain me and who I’ve become as a mother. This tree trunk has grown a couple extra rings.

The idea of women “bouncing back” after one of the most intense, life-changing experiences upsets me. Most of us mothers aren’t spared from this patronizing pressure to magically make our bodies look like they never gave birth to a baby. I know I felt it acutely enough to diet and feel ravenous throughout the day, for many days, so I could weigh less. I had this need to somehow make myself look smaller, even while sleeplessly going through the daily and nightly rigor of keeping a helpless human alive. I thought that fitting into my pre-baby jeans would make me a better mother, because I would be that mother who exemplified willpower. 

It simply isn’t true. If mothers had to measure up to standards by their pre-baby clothing size, a lot of us would fall. I want to be known by my child not as a “thin” mom, but a mom who did her best. My weight can never be a measure of my willpower and determination in bringing up my daughter. The moment my baby came out of me, the life I knew before shifted out of focus.   

New me saw her belly and waist expand in nine months, felt the baby kick within her, ate till she felt happy and satisfied. New me didn’t think too much about her body size and was at peace during her pregnancy. New me tried to diet for a while to “bounce back” postpartum but ultimately gave into intuitive eating instead. New me wanted to heal the older version of me who was fixated on staying a small size and controlling what was on her plate. New me wanted to let go of the illusion of control because motherhood has no space for that. If I had seen this chapter of my life four years ago, I would have been shocked that I could get to a point of acceptance with my current body. I’m learning to appreciate my whole self in this current season of life. 

My body is a tree, standing sturdy and weathering so many seasons. New branches have grown with each change in my life, a testament to existing as a human. The move to a new country after marriage, the opportunity to work, experiencing loss-based grief twice, and now the exhaustion of motherhood—these branches have grown a lot over the past four years. Each one has borne fruits hanging heavy with experiences, and my body is the only constant through it all. 

I mothered through the loss of my own mother and the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, with only the support of my husband. I mothered through the ecstasy of birth, the many anxieties of caring for a baby, the countless sleep regressions, and the demands of the home and beyond. I’m weary like most mothers and still I plough through with all my strength, and you know what? My size is of no significance in any of these experiences. 

I’ve pondered many times if I’d ever find peace with my body. I never knew that I had to gain weight and gain a new identity as a mother to start that journey to body peace.

I don’t want my self-worth to be reduced to a tag in a pair of jeans or a three-digit number on a scale. I know being a mother is just one of the many labels I use to identify myself, but right now it is the most important one. I have yet to be tested by the toddler years and further, my life mooring in places I’ve never dreamt of. If I have to travel through life with my child and my husband, I have to choose which baggage to carry and which to leave behind. I choose to shed the heaviness of looking a certain way to please some part of a superficial society. 

So today, as I put away those old jeans that do not fit me anymore, I felt the sadness of not fitting into them vanish. I have grown not only in size, but in knowledge of myself. With each changing season of my life, I’m growing out of myself before I had a baby and growing up to be who I wanted to be when I was 18. My body is a tree, and the sky’s the limit.

Guest essay written by Mahalakshmi Shankar Narayan. Mahalakshmi is currently a stay-at-home mom of a one-year-old toddler girl. She made Washington state her home in 2017, after shifting from India post marriage. She writes about beauty, fashion, and her life on her website. Connect with her on Instagram.

Photo by Lottie Caiella.