Mothers! Assemble: On Body Image in Pregnancy (feat. 6 Substack mothers)

A collective essay featuring diverse stories from women across Substack who have shared their experiences about body image in pregnancy.

Apr 02, 2025

We’re talking about body image in pregnancy.

My pregnant body was my favorite shape I’ve ever found myself in. Painful and uncomfortable and foreign? Yes. But watching my skin and skeleton shift and stretch and morph into a home for my daughter was nothing short of sublime.

I felt like a goddess — like being pregnant, despite the horrors of my debilitating symptoms, was an invitation across the threshold to Earth’s true magic core.

Surrendering the body to creation feels like swimming in a moonlit lake naked in the middle of the night. With such a transformation comes discomfort, naturally, with all the exposure and tides battering against every joint and still, I watched my hips widen with reverence toward a portal that would, by late June and by sheer need, birth my daughter out of my womb and into my arms.

Pregnant women fend off an onslaught of insensitive and unsolicited comments while growing tiny humans, and despite it all, we remember we are transcendent, unable to be truly afflicted by what others cannot feel about our own blood and bones despite the temporary daggers thrown at us. What they do not see is that new armor has grown where delicate abdominal fibers used to be — new impenetrable layers now protecting the baby inside the mother who refuses to let her feel any of it.

Reflecting on my body image in pregnancy has been met with reverie as I learn that other mothers have been swimming with me in these iridescent waters. While it is certainly not the expectation for every Mothers Assemble gathering, I think something special happened with this piece:

Every single contributor shared the same experience in different shapes.

Contributors:

, and

🩵

*All contributors’ stories are included as submitted to preserve each original voice. If any contributor requests an edit or redaction at any time, please feel free to send me a message.

On Pregnancy Healing an Eating Disorder

Kamryn Higgins, 27 — Breastreading

Read Kam’s full post here.

Something I never expected?
For pregnancy to heal my eating disorder.
Okay, maybe that’s not completely accurate…but man, I have never experienced freedom like I did in those 10 months. The moment I saw those two pink lines and knew my son was somewhere in it all, something just clicked.
Not in a blurry, oversimplified “I’m all better and will never think negatively about my body or overthink food again” way. But in a clear, proclamatory “I will do anything for this child” way.
I would still do anything for my child. What I must now consider is whether I would do anything for me.
Discovering my pregnancy remains one of the greater moments of my life, of course in part due to the time-stopping, breathtaking realization: There is life inside me.
But hasn’t there always been life inside me?
The realization of my pregnancy also signified, for me, an immediate and stark division from the body policing and food restriction that thus far defined my life.
In an instant, I knew I had to eat.
In an instant, I knew I had to release my body.
From that day of discovery until the day of my son’s delivery, I had so few thoughts about my body, how I was being perceived, the food that I was eating, and my weight that it was truly unbelievable.
Looking back now, I cannot believe it. Years and years I spent at absolute war with my body, confining it to regulations and quotas, never relinquishing control enough to let it be. Years and years I spent counting my calories, restricting my intake, or compensating for eating in some way or another, constructing a prison for myself that never really felt safe— it just felt comfortable.
All it took to resolve so much within me was to look towards my son. And maybe to look towards the sun, too.

On the Pregnant Body Being the Favorite Body

Julie Laufer, 33 — This Might Be Cringe

My pregnant body is, to this day, my absolute *favorite* version of my body. I’d spent my 20s and early 30s knowing one day I’d get pregnant and expecting to absolutely loathe my pregnant body. I expected to feel frustrated with each pair of pants that stopped fitting, each time my skin seemed to stretch to accommodate this growing human, etc. “I hope I don’t get that damn line,” I thought. I thought I’d never want to look at my boobs again.
Instead, I found joy every time I *got* to retire a new pair of pants. My favorite jeans stopped fitting at 11 weeks and I proudly added them to a bin, which would soon fill with more pants, with a personal goal to not open that bin for at least a year. I compared photos week over week to see how much my stomach had grown, beaming in happiness when I thought I popped at 13 weeks and then again when I actually popped at around 18 weeks.
I remember feeling immense pride when my linea nigra (or ‘that line’) appeared. I watched in wonder as, seemingly very immediately, my nipples went from a dusty pink to chocolate brown—apologies for the TMI, but I do not know how to talk about my pregnant body without talking about my boobs. “They'll go back to pink, right?” I said to a friend. “Oh yeah,” she said. “Your boobs will never look the same again, but your nipples will not be that dark forever.”
I’d bought a maternity swim suit at one point, and though I wore it, I found I still much preferred a bikini—even at nine months pregnant in July. I used Rent the Runway and Nuuly to rent some maternity clothes, and while at first I opted for more ‘flowy’ pieces, I found myself bravely trying tighter styles—and loving them. I haven't worn a ‘body con’ dress since I was 21—I've never really been a fan of form fitting clothes, but when I was pregnant I couldn't get enough of them. My biggest regret while pregnant is not discovering this sooner, and wishing I'd relinquished the flowy dresses much earlier.
A growing body made some things difficult—having to physically roll myself out of bed, realizing at around 36 weeks that I could no longer keep up with my husband's pace (and I am a really fast walker)—but I still approached those with gratitude. I have more full body selfies of myself from the 40 weeks I was pregnant than any other time period in my life—in part, to make sure I captured the growth but also to hold on to the feeling of being truly and fully comfortable in my own skin—a feeling I honestly had never had before (and don't think I've fully had since). Knowing my body was meant to do this, and watching it happen in wonder for the first time, was an incredible feeling.

On Pregnancy Unlocking Powerful Femininity

Sarah Dove, 30 — Sarah Dove

I’ve always had a boyish figure — slender, which is fine, but also no boobs or butt to speak of, which is less fine. It was always something I was self conscious of — I felt like I was less of a woman than those around me with full chests and curves.
So for me, the body changes that came with pregnancy were not unwelcome; where before I was all harsh lines and sharp angles, my growing breasts and belly made me feel soft and womanly — like one those old-timey paintings of women with heaving bosoms and lush curves draped gracefully on a fainting couch.
Besides the obvious life growing I was busy doing, the way my body looked while pregnant made me feel like a goddess — now, finally, I was a real woman. I feel my experience is not a typical one; while I saw other women bemoaning the weight gain and change to their bodies, I was sad to see it go once I gave birth and weaned from breastfeeding; for many reasons, but mostly because that feminine energy
I felt so embodied by while pregnant is dimmer now, not as obvious, when I am not.

Berlin Krebs, 31 — Half Baked

I have always been on the small side: short, muscular, and flat-chested. I have never felt particularly feminine in my body, but that changed during pregnancy.
I relished in my widening hips, my ripe, round belly and my fuller breasts. I gained 60 lb, but the extra weight and softness was a strange delight (I will say, my skin was an absolute wreck during pregnancy, though). I felt *sexy*.
It also had something to do with taking up space, I think, because I’m a chronic hider — it’s hard for me to allow myself to be seen, but when you are enormous and growing another person and re-learning how to orient your body in space, it is impossible to hide. Your body literally PUTS you out there, and while this was uncomfortable socially/emotionally at times, it was a blessing; I believe it was a sort of exposure therapy for me, leading me to feel brave enough to share myself creatively and be bolder in my social interactions as a new mom. I really missed that feeling of fullness after giving birth.

On Pregnancy as a Return to Self

Kylie Grace Davis, 36 — Dear Children

My body image has evolved significantly through my pregnancies. During my first, I gained more weight than I had anticipated, but my body still felt beautifully proportioned— mostly belly, and to my surprise, I felt truly radiant, even sexy. I embraced the changes wholeheartedly.
With my second pregnancy, I started showing much sooner, and I found myself appreciating that my growing bump seemed to replace the lingering “mom pooch” that had remained since my first birth.
For the first time in three years, I no longer felt the need to hide or cover my lower belly.
It was incredibly freeing to slip into my ultra-supportive, full-panel maternity leggings and show off my baby bump once again. Conceiving again took longer than we had hoped, and in between, we experienced a miscarriage that took a heavy toll on my hormones and emotions. Being pregnant again felt like a return to myself—like I fit into my body again. I loved the congratulations and embraced the attention that my baby bump brought in the early months. When we crossed into the second trimester, I was elated and relieved.
But by 20 weeks, the comments started. Strangers would exclaim that I looked like I was about to give birth any day. Some even insisted my due date must be wrong. Most of these remarks came from other women, which made them especially disheartening. Even friends who were pregnant at the same time commented on how much larger I was and how big my baby must be. Their words planted seeds of doubt — was I eating too much? Indulging too often? It was emotionally draining. I was already self-conscious about my weight, never having “bounced back” the way some do.
The gap between my pregnancies and persistent softness in my belly meant that I had, more than once, been mistaken for being pregnant again when I wasn’t. These assumptions were devastating, especially in the months following our loss. One particularly hurtful instance occurred at a women's gathering. Someone complimented how great I looked—I had been more active, and the words initially felt really nice—until she followed with, “When are you due?” I had miscarried just weeks before. I was unable to hold back tears, left the gathering, and bawled all the way home. So when I became pregnant again, I couldn’t deny there was some relief in knowing that now I didn’t just look pregnant—I truly was. This time, I gained nearly the same amount of weight, and both pregnancies were healthy. In many ways, I felt even stronger the second time—I knew my body better, felt more in tune with my baby. The truth is, we all carry differently, and a healthy pregnancy looks different on everyone.
As I neared my due date, admittedly—I felt huge. And tired. I was over the comments and assumptions. At 40 weeks and 5 days, I was 5’4”, over 190 lbs, walking long distances daily while caring for a three-year-old full-time. I felt like I had thighs of steel. I was a pregnant beast, doing my best to trust my baby's timing while inwardly desperate to welcome my little one earthside. Those final days being “post-due” were thick with tension.
After a traumatic hospital birth with my son, we planned a homebirth for our daughter, and as her birth approached, fear and anxiety from my first experience with birth resurfaced. But when the moment finally came, I felt strong and ready—deeply connected to my body and my baby. I felt very deeply that every “extra” day, every “extra” pound, had a purpose, making us stronger and preparing us for labor. My daughter was born, a perfectly healthy 7 lbs 5 oz, and I was overcome with gratitude and awe: my body carried, nourished, and birthed life—again, and in that moment, I knew with certainty: my body and my baby were designed and proportioned perfectly for her safe arrival into my arms.
And there is nothing more beautiful than that.

On Pregnancy Beckoning Peace in Surrender

Christy Moyer, 41 — Worth Mentioning

Read Christy’s full post here.

My body is not my own.
It hasn’t been since August of 2018. I guess it was technically July, but I didn’t know my body didn’t belong to me yet.
And then, the pregnancy test. Naively, I thought my body was still mine—that every square breakfast and multivitamin was a proclamation of autonomy.
But my body knew better.
It began swiftly, without trepidation: My hips expanded, bones I once thought unmalleable morphing into new shapes like potter’s clay, pockets around them bubbling beneath denim.
My airways constricted, organs that didn’t exist—his and mine—filling the cavities of my body, leaving little room for breath, for deep inhales, for monologues and dialogues.
My veins screamed their presence, inky blue just beneath the surface of my skin; I imagined the prick of a pin over any one of them, cobalt turning to plum turning to scarlet, the Bordeaux-colored blood spilling down my chest.
Stretch marks formed, but not in the places I expected; fleshy grooves traveling like a roadmap from my torso to my thighs to places unknown, unseen, even in the honest reflection of the mirror by which I inspect every pothole and lane change.
My breasts grew fuller, giving me a shape reserved for someone more sensual than I ever thought myself to be. Dense, life-giving.
Ankles swelled, joints tightened, hips opened.
Finally, I contracted, labored and birthed. These hours felt like the very least of my body’s transition, a footnote in the takeover.
I bleed a thousand deaths over, each as surprising as the last. Tissue repairs itself, mending the tears and incisions without instruction. My figure relearns how to sit and walk—meekly at first, then with conviction.
I nurse and pump, sometimes both at once. I eat only to produce, gorging on gifted lactation cookies while I endlessly scour the internet for the supplements that will help my body do its job, the one it was designed for but is failing at.
I exercise not to drip sweat or reimagine my shape or relieve postpartum anxiety, but for strength to carry my baby everywhere, to make it through the day without collapsing into a puddle.
I spend months performing these charades, then give up the ghost: I make the formula, pack away the nursing bras, buy a larger pair of pants to accommodate this new body.
And still, it’s not my own.
My ears search for his pleas; what was music anyways?
My eyes protect from danger; prose and poetry rarely cross their path.
My nose hunts for soiled diapers, burning chicken nuggets; my vetiver candle gathers dust.
My lips kiss scrapes better, my teeth clip tiny nails, my mouth scolds and praises; I’ve forgotten the lingering taste of chocolate mousse on my tongue, the slow divulging of truths from my throat over a bottle of bourbon.
I mostly float outside of my body during sex, looking down and wondering who that woman is, where that body came from. Laying in bed at night, my hand grazes my stomach, loose and doughy. I try to hold my palm there, make peace with it, thank it for what it’s done, only to quickly pull away, embarrassed and resentful.
In this second pregnancy, I feel the familiar giving over of my body to her, realizing it was never given back to me between birth and conception. My uterus grows twice as large in half the amount of time, embarking on the journey without formal invitation.
I perch my toddler on my hip while positioning his legs above my expanding belly, a three-person beast of a creature.
I gather scattered crayons from the floor on my hands and knees, unwittingly in practice for the fortitude of another delivery.
In fleeting moments I find rest, only to wake mercifully unrested; any tiny fragments of energy gained will be used to pour the goldfish crackers, retrieve the blankie, play with you, mama.
Maybe my body was never mine—always his, hers, theirs. Laying dormant in wait for their tenancy, unabashedly usurping the land that was made for them.
I recoil at this concept, that my body isn’t meant to be mine. That we are designed for the giving over, the loss, the selflessness, the martyrdom. We proclaim ourselves goddesses and miracle-makers when we are bearing life; where do those sentiments reside when I am only me and no one’s mother? We marvel at our changing form, our body’s intuition. Where was that praise on a Tuesday morning in January, lifetimes before motherhood began?
I dread nursing again. I don’t long to carry any more babies once I hold her in my arms. I fantasize about dressing myself for pleasure and not function. I yearn to hold myself without the encumberments of another’s needs.
And still, my hands cradle my belly to feel the frenetic pulse of her kicks, expected and unexpected at once. And still, I gather him in my arms as if I have never held anything so miraculous before.
I am here, I say. I am yours, I say.

To all of the stories about the shared experiences of pregnancy and motherhood that bring us all together.

💌

Xo,

Violet Carol and the contributing mothers

Thank You for Reading 🩵

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Mothers! Assemble: On Body Image in Pregnancy (feat. 6 Substack mothers)

A collective essay featuring diverse stories from women across Substack who have shared their experiences about body image in pregnancy.