Meeting Myself in the Mirror

Grappling with my ever-changing body as it morphs into shapes and colors I have never seen before.

I’m almost nine weeks postpartum and I’m only now meeting myself in the mirror.

I previously wrote about how I felt in my body during pregnancy, when it was a home for my baby. A cozy, warm home with built-in bookshelves and crackling fireplaces and the smell of freshly baked snickerdoodle cookies wafting from room to room.

I didn’t enjoy being pregnant, but I loved watching my body transform. I loved being able to occupy more space in the world. I loved that I was able to carry a life and give birth to it, too.

I loved that I looked like I was pregnant — it was proof that it was all really happening.

I hated the symptoms, but I celebrated the outcome. The miraculousness of the womb and the placenta and everything that had to come together perfectly for a baby to grow and breathe and thrive still strikes me.

Now that I’ve given birth, my home is empty. Where is my bump? Where is the proof on my physical body, the one that bore a child, that I have indeed been the bearer of a child?

My baby is now in my arms where she belongs, but this means she is no longer a physical part of me — on a cellular and metaphoric and spiritual level, yes, she will always be a part of me, but she is no longer attached to my body. It’s magic to hold her. To kiss her little cheeks and eat her little toes. It was also a type of magic to carry her within.

I deflated after delivery like a balloon. I watched with awe as the swelling in my limbs and torso shrunk week by week and as my c-section incision healed and as my body activated its recovery mode and sent me down a snowy mountainside on an unstoppable sled of surging hormones and bliss alike.

But nothing in my body went back to where it used to be after those first few days of healing.

After spending nine months acquainting myself with a new reflection every month, honoring my body as a life-force despite all the pain and discomfort, I seem to have swapped realities: I don’t recognize myself, even though I feel freed. Even though I am enjoying these blurry weeks in the newborn vortex far more than I enjoyed the pained weeks in which I carried.

Nothing looks the same as it did in any of The Before times. There is no going backwards. There is no “old me” to return to or “bounce back” to. There is just the now. This new reflection of me I’ve never met before.

Photo by Alexandrae Photo

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It’s not necessarily the shape of my body itself that is making me uncomfortable and exhausted during this postpartum period. Rather, it’s that the shape is one I’ve never been in before, even after transforming every day for nine months. The constant changes are jarring and exhausting and really, really weird.

Not only does my shape look different now, but it moves differently, too.

A few days ago, I went on my first run walk since September 2023. I made it .65 miles in 13:06, and everything felt out of place. I used to run 3 miles in under 20 minutes. I certainly do not have any expectations of matching that now, but the contrast is staggering to me as a lover of movement.

On this run walk, my legs didn’t stride in the same smooth motions as Before. My ankles felt different propelling me forward. My arms swung more wildly. My back arched in a crooked direction and I leaned forward on a sharper angle. My clothes didn’t compress me to comfort and my hips hurt when I pivoted. I counted 10 sidewalk cracks before I felt out of breath. My lungs felt heavy. My feet felt heavy.

ARGH!!!! I KNOW I JUST GAVE BIRTH BUT IT STILL FEELS ARGH LET ME SCREAM ARGH!!!!

I feel grateful that I’m able to be out of my house and walking through my neighborhood right now. I’m not trying to “find my old self” or “get fit.” I’m just trying to move a little bit to feel a little bit better — but now I’m crying on the pavement with the salty Seattle banana slugs because I don’t feel a little bit better...yet.

It’s not just that I’ve only had nine weeks since birthing my daughter. It’s that I’ve been on hiatus for over a year. Postpartum encompasses recovery from the entire transformative process that is pregnancy, childbirth, and new motherhood.

I wear the same set of pajamas and lounge-wear every week because I’m far beyond fitting into any of my Before clothes. Which means every day I look in the mirror and see the Pregnant Me but without the pregnant belly. I don’t want to spend a surplus of money on a new wardrobe that I might not need if I change sizes again, forward or backward. Getting dressed simply kicks off the chronic displacement of the day.

I’ve always felt very confident in myself, but now I’m being forced to meet myself in the mirror again after already knowing who I was for 31 years.

I love who I am. I am obsessed with my baby girl. I have never felt more alive and pure and weightless — I just don’t know who I see, and these dualities are allowed to coexist.

I write about the body all the time. I’m in awe of what it can do and become. I like to honor all that it contains. I like to actively appreciate the physical embodiment that makes me, me. Remind myself that there’s no such thing as a flaw and to be kind to myself during this short time I have on Earth.

But my new postpartum reflection in the mirror is confrontational. I feel like I am Theseus’ Ship and I’ve been replaced board by board and now I’m having an ongoing debate on whether I’m the same person even though all my parts are new. I love writing light little poems to my acne or to my freckles or to my pointy nose. But right now, I have to dig deeper and uncover who I’ve truly become from the inside out.

I think it’s okay to admit that we don’t always feel that body positivity. I would also rather not swing to the opposite end of that pendulum and feel chronically negative about myself — I don’t feel hatred or disgust toward my body. I’m simply somewhere in between, appreciating everything that my body has done but also wondering when I’ll see myself in my reflection again (cue Mulan).

I gained 75 pounds during pregnancy, which was not very pleasant on the joints. My face looks plumper. My shoulders are more rounded. My hips have widened. My butt has flattened (seriously, wtf). My stomach is soft and plush. My abdomen, hips, and thighs are covered in hundreds of purple stretch marks. My calves have disappeared.

I don’t necessarily need my old face or my old lips or my old hips or my old stomach. I feel gratitude for how my old face stretched and my old hips expanded and how my old stomach made a home for my daughter. But that does not change the fact that the mirror is showing me someone else that isn’t who I know to be me.

I don’t know if I’m necessarily struggling with my body image right now as much as I am simply grappling with it. I am aware of why I have changed and I expected to be transformed, physically and otherwise. I don’t want the stretch-mark creams or the scar ointments. And don’t you dare call this a Mom Body. I don’t look at myself and feel ugly.

I just look at myself through new eyes and wonder if I’m simply becoming who I always needed to be.

Xo,

Violet Carol

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More words from Violet Carol can be found on Instagram.

Other Mother Love Letters posts can be read here.

Mother Love Letters is a newsletter for intimate words on the messy and magical shared experiences of pregnancy and motherhood. If this post resonated with you, please feel free to “like” it, share it with a friend, or leave a comment to connect.