By Jillian Hughes
@jillianstacia

I am 12, standing in the creek bed in my neighborhood. My strong legs jump from rock to rock. I climb up steep and rocky hills. I push away loose branches. My feet slide on the slippery stones, but my core is strong, and I regain my balance. I run and hike and swim and play, and never think about my body, not even for a second. I don’t think about my clothes or my hair or the way my arms look in my t-shirt. I don’t marvel at my ability to leap and jump and climb and run.

Because, for now, for this brief moment in the sun, my body is not something to be adored or admired or even appreciated. My body is not used as social currency. My body, to my knowledge at least, doesn’t yield any power or status. There are no implications here. The way my body looks is the furthest thing from my 12-year-old mind.

My body is simply a tool, the thing that gets me from Point A to Point B. At 12, my body is boring. My body gets the job done. My body is the least important thing about me. 

I stand up from the mossy log and smile as sunlight dapples through the trees and the wind blows through the ends of my tangled hair. I don’t remember telling my body to run, but it does all the same, splashing its way through the muddy water.

***

I am 16, watching a cute boy walk down the hallway. I would know the back of his head anywhere. The set of his shoulders, the way his hair curls over his ears in the back, the exact shade of blue in his eyes. 

While I am drawn to his body, I find myself unconsciously fixing my own. I smooth my hair, suck in my stomach, apply more lip gloss. I want his body to notice mine. My body isn’t just a tool anymore, it’s a first impression. I want it to be a good one.

I ask him to borrow a pencil. I ask him if he has Myspace. I ask him if he’ll help me with trigonometry. I ask and I ask and I ask because I want another excuse to look in his eyes again. I ask and I ask and I ask because my stomach has those butterfly feelings. I ask and I ask and I ask because my body seems to recognize his on a molecular level. I make it my mission to get his attention. I want to know if he feels it too. 

It's funny what the body remembers, the way history makes its way into our bones. A powerful memory evokes the senses. Holding hands in a crowded high school hallway. My head on his chest during the homecoming dance. Goosebumps rising on my arms the first time we kissed. The drop in my stomach when I realized this is what they meant by falling in love.

13 years and two babies later, my body still recognizes his. After all this time, it can be easy to forget, but my body never does. Even now, I still love the way my head fits in the crook of his neck. Even now, my body still reaches for his in my sleep.

***

I am 27 and my body is breaking apart during the birth of my son. I writhe in pain on the bed, my husband and mother holding my hands. My body is on fire. My body is exhausted. My body is taking over; it has a mind and a mission of its own. I push and push and push until my body bursts and the baby comes and the pain is miraculously replaced with wonder.

They lay my son on my chest, the cord still connecting us together, and I think: My body did this. Look at what she did. Look at what she made. I am in awe. My body grew another body. My body, without my knowledge or instruction or direction, created and sustained a life. My body, my body, my body.

But also, for this brief moment in time, my body is not something to be adored or admired. Even now, especially now, exposed and bleeding on the table, the way my body looks is the least important thing about me. 

I feel my son squirm against my chest. My lips press against his forehead. We lay there together, skin-to-skin, the most natural thing in the world. Just two bodies and two hearts that belong to one another.  

***

I am 30, getting dressed in the dark. 

I get dressed in the dark because I can’t handle seeing my naked body. 

The body that used to leap from slippery rock to slippery rock. The body that fell in love with a boy and kissed him in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean on a warm summer day. The body that created and sustained and birthed two children. The body that carried me through a global pandemic. 

This is the body I keep in the dark. This is the body I cover in layers and baggy clothes. The body I’m ashamed of. The body that’s just too upsetting to see. The body that’s undeserving of light. 

This is the stomach that grew your babies, I remind myself gently as I grab at my belly. What you are holding in your hands is sacred. Your children’s very first home. This is where they began. 

And then I remember: this is where I began as well. This is my forever home. What I am holding in my hands is sacred. It’s not just my children’s history, it’s my own.

I feel and prod and mold the skin, pulling it back, making it flat. I think of all the things my body has done. All the things my body will do. All the things it's currently doing. 

These are the arms that rock my children to sleep each night. These are the lips that kiss my husband. The legs that climb mountains. The lungs that breathe in and out every day without request or acknowledgment. This is my terrible, fragile heart. 

 I think of my mother, my grandmother. Of their beautiful bodies, marked by age and time, transformed by a life well-lived. Every wrinkle on their face is a story. Every gray hair is a lesson. I love their bodies. The way they smell and feel and sound. The softness of their skin makes me feel safe. The sturdiness of their bones reminds me of home.

I think of my daughter. The way she likes to nestle into my chest, always snuggling closer and closer, working as hard as she can to remove any layer of separation. Her body is a canvas. Her body is a story waiting to unfold. I love her body. I always will. Her body makes me feel awe. Her body reminds me of possibility.

*** 

When they tell the story of my life, I hope they will say: she loved deeply. She served her people well. She tried and she failed and she tried again. She wanted to make the world a better place, and in some ways, she did.

I doubt they’ll mention my body at all. The way it looked, the number on the scale, the color of my hair. I don’t know if it’ll come up. Maybe some people will say it doesn’t matter, that it’s irrelevant. And maybe they’re right. But that’s not the whole picture. 

Know this: my body was there all along. My body was written on every single page. My body wasn’t merely in the story, it was the story itself, like the setting of a great novel you don’t want to stop reading. You can’t pick it out and set it apart. It’s always there, the thread that holds everything together. The constant through-line.

My body, this body, this flawed and fleshy and fearless body, is the great love story of my life. 

Guest essay written by Jillian Hughes. Jillian wants to live in a world where coffee is bottomless and sweatpants are mandatory. As a part-time writer and full-time mama, she spends her days corralling words on the page and toddlers in the house. When she's not writing, reading, or snuggling her babies, Jillian loves spending time outside and cheering on the Baltimore Ravens.

This essay was the third-place winner in the Love After Babies essay contest for Exhale, our creative community. To learn more about Exhale, visit www.exhalecreativity.com.

Photo by N’tima Preusser.