Every time I glance at my reflection, I can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment at my stretch marks and extra weight. My hips have widened in ways I never imagined possible, and after two C-sections, that stubborn belly overhang seems like a permanent fixture. It’s a tough pill to swallow, and sometimes, I find myself grabbing handfuls of my stomach, tears streaming down my cheeks. It feels as if my emotions are tearing me apart from the inside out.
“Mama!” my youngest, Lily, yells from outside the bathroom, as if my absence for even a moment means I’ve been swallowed by some dark abyss. I quickly wipe my eyes, adjust my shirt, and open the door. The moment I do, she barrels in like a tiny tornado, grinning from ear to ear.
I made it back from the void.
As I step into the living room, I see my eldest, Ava, juggling my month-old twins, Max and Zoe. “They were crying, so I picked them up after finishing my homework,” she says, and I can’t help but feel a mix of pride and concern. She’s only eight, and those two little ones are quite the handful!
Then it hits me — I’m filled with joy. For the first time in ages, I recognize the strength within me. This body, which I often criticize, has carried and nurtured four incredible children. It housed twins for 37.5 weeks, ensuring they were snug and healthy long after the doctors thought it would be possible. It fought tooth and nail to keep them safe, resulting in an emergency C-section to bring them into the world. This same body shielded my daughter during a car accident, protecting her from harm while chaos erupted around us. My body did that.
How could I harbor hatred for something that has accomplished so much? How could I allow society’s unrealistic standards to distort my self-image? I’ve spent countless hours berating myself, convincing myself that I need to change to matter, that I must have a flatter stomach, tighter thighs, and arms free of imperfections. The marketing of stretch-mark creams often targets mothers like me, making us feel ashamed of the very marks that represent the incredible journey of motherhood. Enough is enough.
I refuse to think I’m not worthy of feeling sexy anymore. I’m done hiding behind layers of clothing and cropping photos to showcase only my face. I’m tired of feeling self-conscious the moment I step outside my home and every time I catch my reflection.
Sure, I’ve got a little extra fluff, my stomach isn’t as firm as it once was, and my stretch marks are a testament to my motherhood journey. But this isn’t about conforming to some arbitrary ideal; it’s about embracing who I am. Every stretch mark tells a story of the months spent nurturing life. The curves that my partner loves to hold tightly were once home to four little miracles. The extra weight on my body nourished my children during times when I struggled to eat. My body is a phenomenal force, deserving of celebration and recognition—not a closet relegated to shame.
Self-loathing is a waste of time. So, I choose to reclaim my worth and redefine what it means to be sexy. Sexy is every woman. Sexy is real. Sexy embodies the boundless love and commitment it takes to bring a child into this world.
I am sexy just as I am.
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