the grief of a changed body

wearing the marks of motherhood

Dear new mum,

A breast is a pillow, a belly is a bed.

I am tiger-striped and dimpled. Perhaps you are, too?

It’s fascinating how the body makes space, isn’t it. Expansion before the contraction. Organs moving out of the way to create room for new life.

And then, the deflation and leaking. The strange new shape, the looser skin, growth and surrender etched for all time. And the utterly ridiculous expectation to bounce back.

Do you know what the definition of ‘bounce back’ is? To recover from a small setback quickly.

Let’s stop right there. Pregnancy cannot be minimised. It isn’t neat or predictable. It isn’t polite or subtle. It’s primal and raw and beautiful and expansive. Sometimes it’s really hard. It ends with blood, sweat and tears, visceral doubt and an even deeper, unwavering sense of faith.

You’ve been cracked wide open.

And then, you recover and heal and slowly close again. And you still look pregnant because your womb will take time to return to near its original size, your organs must shuffle their way back, your muscles and bones that moved out of the way for your baby will gradually ease back to centre. But everything doesn’t fit back exactly as it once did because these changes, while biologically normal, are so momentous, that you’re forever changed.

Pregnancy and birth, growing and letting go. It’s irreversible.

Perhaps you feel in awe of your body one minute and sad at how it looks and functions the next. Despite what you know about giving your body time, it’s really hard not to compare yourself to your own expectations, to everyone around you, and to the ideal image of the new mother that has been established as the social norm.

I remember looking down in the shower post-birth, the blood marbled with the water, telling myself to love this body, despite how it looked, because…what a feat. How easily we dismiss the utter miracle of this. How quickly we forget the sacrifice, the unrelenting force of blood and breath, the simple undeniable fact: you grew a whole new human while you slept and swam and worked and watched reality tv.

And yet, what I remember most vividly in the months that followed is the grief of everything that had changed and looked so very different. It was all-powerful.

If I could, I would reach back to my early mother self and sit beside her as she cried because nothing fit and she felt so foreign in her own body. I can’t do that for myself, but I can do it for you.

If you know this grief, you’re not alone in it. I don’t think you need to dismiss it or be ashamed of it, either. Sometimes we do just have to sit with the change and wait for a clearer perspective to float in. This requires a bit of patience; these things can’t be rushed.

A body that expands slowly over nine months, will take just as long, if not longer, to recover and heal and look like some semblance of its former self. In a forward-facing, selfie-taking world that’s largely focussed on ignoring the work mothers do, you can choose to wear your marks of motherhood as symbols of your very own becoming.

You may also just want to curse them - the stretch marks and scars and dimples and bumps. And that’s okay, too. Postpartum is a continual contradiction.

In the meantime, while you care for your baby, you may also choose to care for your body. It is your home, after-all. And it will always be your baby’s first house. That is why they feel safest on you; because you are all they’ve ever known.

Do you think you can give your body tender loving care? Those three words feel warm, and cosy, don’t they. Did you know that warmth is love? I wrote about it on Practising Simplicity. Warmth is love because it helps oxytocin flow. Oxytocin helps you heal. It also helps you bond with your baby. And it may assist with the slow learning to respect your body, regardless of how it looks.

Care for your body looks like:

Rest

It’s an innate human need so let’s not even question whether you ‘deserve’ it. Rest can be either ‘active’ or ‘passive’.

Active rest looks like a gentle walk, time in the sun, side-lying feeding, gentle stretches, conscious time away from screens.

Passive rest is sleep but also yoga nidra which is a deep guided relaxation. Half an hour is equivalent to 3-4 hours of sleep. When I taught prenatal yoga it was the absolute highlight of every class for my students. There’s quite a few options available on spotify but I’ll also aim to record one for you and share it here in the coming weeks.

Nurture

Nourishing food, plenty of water and herbal teas, a coffee (if you drink it) to savour. Your body needs food to recover and heal and fuel itself because you’re working so hard in this season. It’s so physical, isn’t it - the lifting and crouching, in and out of car seats, out to the washing line and back again. The swaying and patting and immense responsibility of juggling - physically and mentally.

Move

If your body is always a bit achy, try to stretch and release it, if you can. Start by lying on your back, bend your knees and put your feet flat on the floor hip-width apart. And then slowly move your knees left to right. If it feels good, lift your arms above your head and stretch, always being mindful of your lower back. Move your body in a way that feels good for you.

Move your body gently at first because you want to listen to it. One day you may have the energy to go for a long, fast walk and the next day you may be exhausted - no matter how old your baby is - and so a slow walk and some gentle stretches feel best. I call this moving intuitively; I find it’s best for my mental health to move in a way that feels good on the day, not with the aim to change how my body looks, but to change how it feels.

Till next time, take care x