“You need to keep your body covered up. No one needs to see that until you’re married, and even then, only your husband.”
Those words are among the very first I can actually remember hearing about my body, about my physical appearance. From that moment, I learned that my body wasn’t something to celebrate—it was something to hide, something shameful, something wrong. Growing up, I was made to dress extremely ‘conservative.’ Dresses couldn’t come above my knees when I sat down. Shorts were forbidden, tank tops were out, V-neck shirts were off-limits. And it wasn’t ever framed as, “Your body is precious; save it for the right people.” Instead, the message was constant and clear: my body was negative, something to feel ashamed of.
Looking back now, I realize a lot of this came from my mother. She was overweight throughout my childhood and seemed deeply unhappy with herself, and her own discomfort bled into how she raised me and my sisters. I don’t remember seeing her truly happy. She was always miserable whenever she had to leave the house. I watched the way she treated women she deemed ‘too pretty,’ ‘too skinny,’ or ‘too put together.’ Yet from where I stood as a child, those women seemed… happy. I began to equate being ‘pretty and thin’ with being happy and being overweight with misery.
My childhood was even more sheltered than most. I was homeschooled, never navigated the pressures of peer groups, and had little exposure to the world outside—no TV, no movies, no co-ed birthday parties. My tiny, controlled world reinforced my mother’s ideas, and I carried them with me, unquestioned, into adulthood.
I married right after high school and gained a few pounds. Being very short, even a little weight felt enormous. At the same time, I was attending cosmetology school, where the beauty industry bombarded me daily with images of models, flawless hair, makeup, and diet culture. My sheltered world had shattered, and suddenly I felt exposed, vulnerable, and completely inadequate.
Not long after, I became pregnant with my daughter. The first trimester was brutal—I could barely keep anything down, vomiting relentlessly, confined to my bed for most of those three months. When I finally emerged from that haze, I was shockingly 25 pounds lighter than I had been before pregnancy. For the first time, I could wear clothes I hadn’t fit into before, and I received constant remarks about how ‘thin’ I looked. I won’t lie—I liked it. I liked the way smaller clothes felt, the invisibility of my growing bump, the attention, and the compliments.
My daughter was breech and had to be delivered by C-section. In a short period, I had gone from teen bride to enduring a difficult pregnancy, major surgery, and motherhood. To say I was spiraling would be an understatement. Breastfeeding was nearly impossible—my body, weak and malnourished, simply couldn’t keep up. I felt my first “mom failure” settle heavy on my chest. Then came the excruciating chest and stomach pain that I tried to ignore, until one night, curled up on the bathroom floor, crying and vomiting, I finally went to the ER. Gallstones—one lodged in my bile duct. Just four weeks postpartum, I was back in the hospital for gallbladder surgery. A couple of weeks later, I started birth control pills for the first time, all while battling postpartum depression.
Within months, I had gained over 30 pounds on my five-foot frame. My clothes didn’t fit. I felt sluggish, bloated, and trapped in a body that no longer felt like mine. Being home with an infant, my life revolved around snacks—boredom snacking, emotional snacking, hungry snacking. Family dinners became my only weekly outing, and they revolved around food too. I blamed my weight for my unhappiness, unaware that countless other factors contributed to how I felt.
By the time my daughter was three, my weight had plateaued. I was still tired, still sluggish, still unhappy—but I chalked it all up to being a mom. One day, I caught an infomercial for an at-home workout program. The trainer’s words caught me: “This is hard. You’re going to want to quit, but if you push through, you’ll see results!” Something inside me stirred. A tiny voice whispered, “You CAN do hard things.”
I scraped together what little money I had and bought the program. It came with a nutrition guide, meal ideas, calorie equations, and food lists. I was captivated. I followed it, ate according to the plan, worked out consistently, and after 90 days, I had lost 15 pounds. More than that, I had knowledge, confidence, energy, and a sense of control over my body and mind.
I kept going. Another program, more commitment, more results. I gained muscle, learned to fuel my body properly, and felt healthier than ever before. But emotionally, I was still struggling. Stretch marks, scars, extra skin, a sagging belly button, less-than-perky breasts—I wasn’t even 25, and I felt like I had already lost my ‘good body days.’
One day, venting to my husband, I said, “I still feel fat. I still don’t like my body.” He stopped me. “Don’t say that. Would you want our daughter to talk about herself that way?” His words hit me like a lightning bolt. The thought of my daughter internalizing my self-hate gutted me. From that moment, I tried hard not only to change my words but to change my thoughts. And that journey—oh, that journey—has been something.
I started to see how ingrained negative self-talk had been in me. Food had become my drug, my reward, my punishment. Sad, angry, or anxious? I ate. Good day? Good food. Bad day? Bad food. Strict dieting, binge eating, guilt cycles—it consumed me for years. But exercise became my therapy, my way to reclaim control.
Healing truly began when I addressed my mind. Therapy, books, blogs, learning about nutrition, understanding triggers, and giving myself grace helped me confront deep-rooted patterns. I learned to be kind to myself. I learned that my body wasn’t an enemy but a vessel of resilience and strength.
Today, I see my body differently. I see a body that created and nurtured life, survived illness, healed from surgery, and grew stronger. Stretch marks? Warrior stripes. Muscles? Proof of effort. I feed myself well because I love my body, not because I hate it.
To every woman, especially new mothers: be kind to yourself. Give yourself grace. Progress doesn’t happen overnight. Look back and see the mountains you’ve climbed, and know you can face even higher ones. Forget society’s idea of ‘perfect.’ Celebrate the moments you feel confident—notice where you are, who you’re with, and what you’re doing. That’s what matters.
Growth is never done. Some mornings, I still catch myself criticizing in the mirror. But I am learning to shut that voice down, to counter the lies with the truth. I am still a work in progress, but now I walk this journey with love, grace, and appreciation for the woman I’ve become.
