Social Media vs. Reality

Managing Body Expectations During Pregnancy

I know the precise moment the Instagram illusion shattered: I was seven months pregnant, sweaty and swollen and doing my best to squeeze into a pair of hard-knock maternity jeans that were advertised as "ultra stretchy." Spoiler alert—they lied.

I saw my reflection in the glass and had to blink. My belly was massive (all right, adorable), my ankles had gone missing, and a patch of backne had appeared that I swear hadn't been there the day before. I was like, Wait … it's not supposed to look like this, right?

See, I'd spent months scrolling through bump shots that resembled advertisements for flower crowns and belly oil. They all had the bodies of fertility goddesses — perfect skin, tiny bumps, perfectly tousled hair. I fully expected that once I got pregnant, I'd wake up with a glow, lovingly stroke the bump cradled in the silk robe I'd wear while lounging in the morning sun, relishing the delightful divine womanhood of it all.

What I did wake up to, however, were leg cramps, heartburn, and the surprising ability to find the urge to cry while watching a commercial for paper towels. Social media had peddled me a highlight reel of pregnancy, and I was stuck in the director's cut: bloopers, bloat and all.

The Filtered Fantasy vs. the Fluid Retention Reality

Let's confront that dangerous little lie we're spoon-fed: that pregnancy is meant to look a certain way. Online, we have the maternity shoots with wind machines and perfect light; the "bumpdates" in which the only thing that grows is the adorable little round belly; and the postpartum reveals in which, mysteriously, everyone is wearing the same pre-baby jeans six weeks postpartum. But let's be real, those images are the highlight reel, not the documentary.

In reality? Some of us carry wide. A few of us bloat in locations we never knew could bloat. Some of us develop odd pigmentation changes, let go of our waistlines or learn what it means to leak from virtually every orifice. (And as magical as pregnancy is — and it is magical — it's also physically intense, hormonally wild and emotionally confusing.) If you're comparing your raw, vulnerable, raw experience (and every mom has one) to someone else's well-curated content, you're guaranteed a shame party — and mama, you don't need any more shame.

When the Comparison Game Takes Over

I found myself at one point in the second trimester truly disappointed in my body. Each bump pic I posted I felt needed editing, a better angle, a filter — anything to mask the truth: my thighs had UNited and were discussing world domination. I couldn't stop asking that: Why don't I look like them? Am I doing something wrong?

The truth? There's nothing wrong with me. There's nothing wrong with you. What's wrong is the absolutely nonsensical pressure we are putting on ourselves to live up to a visual ideal that isn't real. It doesn't help to simply compare notes — and that just erodes your faith even more, especially if you're a first-time mom who's struggling to find your footing in a world that already seems very much to be upside down.

What Broke Me Out of the Social Vortex

I didn't throw my phone out the window, O.K. (I was very close). But I did do some things that have helped me to rebuild a healthier relationship with my body and my online world:

I own-curated my feed like it was the only thing keeping me sane
I began with unfollowing anyone who made me feel like crap. If a post made me feel "less than" rather than inspired, sayonara. I curated my feed with real moms, diversity of bodies, no filter moments. People like @thebirdspapaya, @beyondthebump and @honestlymommy reminded me of what real motherhood looked like — and it was everything.

I started allowing myself to take "ugly" bump pics (raising my shirt, letting everything hang out).
You know what? Some of my favorite pregnancy pictures are when I look tired but happy, messy but in love with the little human growing inside of me. Those images were not for the feed — they were for me. Evidence I was doing something hard and beautiful.

"I said thank you to my body, even when I didn't believe it."
I'm proud of you for carrying this baby. "Thank you for showing up." "It's okay that you're tired." I began talking to my body as if she were my friend — because she was. Even days when my belly button resembled one of those confused little outies that don't know whether they want to be an innie or an outie, and my hips hurt like they'd run a marathon.

(for all the mirror-mourning mamas) And I am not better then you.
There's sadness in change — especially in body change. It's cool to mourn the old you. It's fine to look at those old photos and feel a pang of loss. But don't let that mourning drown the smaller miracle that's happening now.

Your body isn't betraying you. It's rewarding to be working towards the most important job of your life?

You're building a whole person. A whole heart. A whole new world. So if you have to go have a good ugly cry in your car because your ankles have disappeared from existence and your nipples are sore like two lava rocks? Right on, sister, sniffle, and I'll ugly-cry right along with you and pass you a snack.

We got this.

This body — this amazing, difficult, ever-changing body — is doing what it's supposed to do. And if it never resembles Instagram, that's O.K. It's real, it's fierce, and it's yours.

Laugh at the weirdness. Cry when you need to. Show up as you are. And don't forget — your value is not determined by likes, angles or bump aesthetics. It's in love.