Dear Body, I'm Trying

Making Peace With Postpartum Changes Even When Self-Love Feels Impossible

There's a moment many of us don't talk about—when the baby is here, the visitors slow down, and the mirror becomes something you hesitate to face. You look at your body, the one that grew and delivered life, and you whisper to yourself, "Is this really me?" It's not about vanity. It's about identity. It's about looking for familiarity in a reflection that feels like it belongs to someone else.

For some, this disconnection comes like a wave. For others, it's a slow unraveling. You might feel caught between honoring the miracle of what your body has done and quietly grieving the parts of you that feel lost. And the truth? Both can be true. You can feel grateful and disconnected. You can hold your baby in joy and still mourn the ease, shape, or sense of ownership you once had over your own body. This is not selfish. It's human.

The Grief That Hides Behind Gratitude

There's a quiet ache that lingers in postpartum—the ache of missing who you were before your body became a vessel. While everyone celebrates the baby, few pause to honor the mother's transformation. Your body may feel foreign, even while doing extraordinary things like nourishing your newborn or healing from labor.

Maybe your stomach feels soft and stretched in ways it never has. Maybe your breasts ache unpredictably or no longer belong solely to you. Maybe you feel invisible in a room full of people congratulating you for your glow—when inside, you're grieving jeans that no longer fit and wondering if your skin will ever feel like yours again.

This is the emotional complexity so many of us carry quietly. A body that's done the most sacred thing can still feel like a stranger. This doesn't make you ungrateful. It makes you real.

Body Positivity Isn't Always Accessible—But Compassion Can Be

The phrase "love your postpartum body" floats around like a soft directive. But for many, especially in the thick of exhaustion and hormonal surges, that kind of love can feel out of reach. And that's okay. You're not doing it wrong because you're not swooning over your stretch marks or your widened hips.

Instead of love, what if we aimed for compassion? Compassion asks for gentleness instead of judgment. It doesn't require you to light candles and recite affirmations (though you can). It simply invites you to stop punishing yourself—for the extra weight, the emotional fog, or the days you skip moisturizer because the baby screamed through nap time.

You can honor your body without loving how it looks every moment. You can show care even when you feel disconnected. Sometimes, respect is the first bridge back to peace.

What Respect Looks Like on the Hard Days

Here's what I tell my doula clients and what I remind myself, too:

• Dress for now. Not for "when I lose the baby weight." Your current body deserves to feel comfortable and seen.
• Unfollow what hurts. Social media accounts that make you feel behind or "less than"? You don't owe them your mental energy.
• Accept the photo. Be in it. Even if you don't feel ready. Your child will want proof that you were there—holding, loving, surviving.
• Speak kindly—even in your head. If you wouldn't say it to a friend, don't say it to yourself.

The way back to connection with your body isn't linear. It's more like a winding footpath that requires rest stops, soft words, and time. And you don't have to walk it alone.

What If the Goal Isn't "Love," But "Wholeness"?

We are sold a narrative that bounce-backs and body love are milestones we should achieve quickly. But postpartum isn't a recovery project. It's a profound becoming.

What if the goal wasn't to "get your body back" but to get yourself back—piece by piece, with grace? Instead of rushing toward self-love, what if you practiced wholeness? Wholeness allows for sadness, beauty, frustration, and awe to sit at the same table. It doesn't demand perfection. It invites presence.

Wholeness means saying, "I'm still figuring it out, but I'm here. I'm worthy. I'm healing."

Gentle Mantras for the Mirror Moments

When the voice in your head gets loud, let this one be louder:

Say them aloud. Write them on your mirror. Whisper them when your baby finally naps. They matter because you matter.

To the Mama Still Trying: You Are Not Alone

If you are sitting in the dim light of your bathroom, wondering when you'll feel beautiful again—or if you ever will—I see you. I see your effort. I see the quiet courage it takes to nourish, care, and show up in a body that doesn't feel like home yet.

You don't need to love your body today. You only need to keep trying. To speak gently. To rest when you can. To notice the small ways you're healing. That trying? It's sacred.

Dear body, we're trying. And some days, that's more than enough.

💛 You're not alone.