Confidence, Not Complacency.

Some thoughts on leaning into my postpartum figure (but not too far)

Content warning: Body image and everything that goes along with it.

I want to caveat this letter with a few things.

(1) I’m a woman, which unfortunately means I automatically have a never-ending tumultuous relationship with my body and body image. I’m allowed to change my mind about it constantly.

(2) I only share numbers and the like to draw a more accurate picture of my experience. Height, weight, pant size — it’s all relative. What’s “big” FOR ME is normal for others. What’s “small” FOR ME is normal for others. When I write these body-centric pieces, I’m basing it off my body’s experience, therefore I know what’s below and above average FOR ME. In other words, don’t take it so literally if you can help it.

Are we on the same page? Fabulous. Let’s dive in.

Talk to any woman, and she’ll probably claim that she has yo-yo’ed most of her life. She’s had thin years, fit years, “fat” years, healthy years, boring years, etc. Talk to any woman, and she’s more than likely fucked in the head when it comes to body image, weight, size, etc. Talk to any woman on any day, and her feelings about all of the above will differ.

Some days, she’ll take her life over it.

Other days, she won’t give it a second thought.

On the very rare days, she’ll exude confidence no matter what kind of body year it is for her.

My body has fluctuated across the “thin” to “heavy” spectrum since forever. I was skinny as a minute without realizing it most of my teen years into my early 20s, then when the natural thinness started to slow down in my mid-20s, I got all hopped on workout routines and “spiralizing” every vegetable known to man (the fact that I ate sweet potato NOODLES so enthusiastically makes me want to gag).

I’m not gonna sit here and break down my entire body image history because I’m willing to bet it’s not so different from every other woman’s in some form or fashion. The point is, it’s always been a journey and I’ve always gone through phases.

Postpartum is the latest phase and many aspects of it have got me thinking.

Here’s the rub: I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been. I dress it well (for the most part… I think?), but it’s all in my midsection (and my boobs, as we know). Sure, I dropped 25 of the 35 pounds I gained while pregnant, but I was already “heavy” for me when I got pregnant, so technically in my mind, I don’t just have 10 more pounds to lose to “get to where I was” — I have 20. Five months postpartum, none of my pre-pregnancy sizes fit, so any time I open my closet to ponder an outfit, I’m standing there being stared down by too-small clothes that I just know are talking shit about me.

“Oh look who it is,” says my form-fitting tank tops. “Big Back McGee, thinking today may be the day she can squeeze into us.”

“She is so pathetic,” my favorite pair of jeans whispers to last year’s barrel leg Old Navy pants. “The delusion that we’d zip shut for her is so sad.”

So day after day, I shut the closet door on my cunty clothes and end up turning to my old faithful flame — sweatpants. Or leggings.

But no more. Because this week, I decided something pretty profound for myself.

I decided that instead of shitting on and obsessing over my PP body every day, I’m going to allow myself to own it and be confident in it.

Confident, but not complacent.

Allow me to elaborate.