The “Mom Bod” Diaries: A Love Letter to the Body I’m Still Learning to Love
Let’s just get one thing out in the open: the mom bod is real. And she’s not always that cute. I mean, we love her. We have to love her. She gave us our babies, she kept them safe, she nourished them, she stretched and carried and sacrificed in ways no one warned us about (seriously, where was that fine print?!). But still… it’s complicated.
As a mom of three (yes—three tiny humans came out of this body, what in the actual miracle?), I’ve been through every phase of body weirdness, insecurity, and straight-up disbelief. There have been days I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror, and other days I just stared at the softness and sagging and was like… “oh, so this is permanent, huh?”
And the worst part? No one tells you just how hard it is to exist in a body that you’re supposed to be so proud of—yet you feel totally disconnected from.
Let’s Talk About the Woes
First of all: can we talk about the belly? That soft, squishy, “congrats, you grew a whole human” zone that just doesn’t care how many crunches you do. I lovingly refer to mine as “the pouch,” like it’s a trendy bag I didn’t ask for. The skin is stretched, the muscles are shot, and no high-waisted anything is going to change that weird numb spot under my belly button. If you know, you know.
Then there’s the boobs. Ohhh the boobs. One minute they’re like “HEY GIRL, we’re back and we are ready to nourish!” and the next they’re basically two deflated balloons that don’t understand gravity. I’ve gone from perky to painfully engorged to lopsided to what even ARE these?! And don’t get me started on bras. Underwire is a war crime post-baby.
And let’s not forget the hair loss (why does it fall out in clumps like we’re shedding our identity?), the hormonal skin, the back pain, the permanent dark circles, the night sweats, the way nothing fits quite the same again. I once cried because a pair of pre-baby jeans made it halfway up my thighs and I had to shimmy them off like I was escaping from a fabric trap. Cute.
But Here’s the Thing…
I wouldn’t trade this body for my pre-baby one.
Okay, wait—let me rephrase. I miss my pre-baby body. Like, yeah, I’d love to wear a romper without wondering if it’s going to emphasize my postpartum bladder situation. I dream of the days when my stomach didn’t resemble a wrinkled balloon animal. But I also know this body has done things that body never could.
This body has rocked colicky babies at 2am, and chased toddlers around parks, and lifted car seats like a CrossFit champion. It has endured surgeries, stretch marks, and sleepless nights. It has been used—and not in a bad way. In a sacred way. This body is my kids’ first home. It’s their safe space. It’s the soft lap they fall asleep on, the arms that wrap them up when they’re melting down, the hands that hold theirs when the world feels too big.
And I’m still working on seeing her—this new, changed, tired, sometimes puffy body—with the love and reverence she deserves.
The “After” Nobody Talks About
One thing that gets me is how little we prepare moms for the after. There’s so much build-up during pregnancy. So many books and apps and milestones. But once the baby is out, it’s like, “Okay cool, here’s your diaper, both for you and the baby. Good luck.”
Meanwhile, your body is like, “HELLO? I just did something extraordinary and now I leak from literally every hole and my hips are a foot wider, and nobody warned me about this line down my belly or the fact that peeing myself when I sneeze would become a thing.”
Why are we expected to bounce back when we’re still bleeding, healing, feeding, functioning on no sleep, and figuring out how to even be a mom?
Honestly, we need more space to just sit in the middle. The space between what was and what will be. To say “I don’t love this, but I’m grateful.” To say “I miss my old body, but I respect this one.” To say “I feel both proud and insecure—and that’s okay.”
Let’s Normalize the Journey
So here I am. In a mom bod. Sometimes I rock it. Sometimes I hide it in oversized tees. Sometimes I cry in the Target dressing room (why is their lighting SO RUDE?). But I show up. I show up in this body for my kids, for myself, and slowly—truly—for the woman I’m becoming.
Because honestly? There’s power in soft. There’s beauty in the real. There’s strength in stretch marks and loose skin and battle-worn bodies.
And if you’re in that space too—feeling all kinds of weird about your body—I just want you to know: same, mama. Same.
You’re not alone in your discomfort. And you’re also not alone in your healing. You’re in the club now—the one where we don’t judge each other for our postpartum pooches or our saggy bits or our emotional rollercoasters. The one where we celebrate the fact that we’re still showing up, still loving hard, still doing the dang thing.
To the Mom Looking in the Mirror Today:
It’s okay to grieve the old body.
It’s okay to wish things looked different.
But also—give her a little credit. She’s doing the best she can. And maybe one day, you’ll see her with soft eyes and say, “Thank you. You’ve carried me this far.”
I’m still working on that part. Maybe you are too. We can do it together.
Because at the end of the day, the “mom bod” isn’t a downgrade—it’s a new version of strength. A layered, seasoned, beautifully imperfect strength that tells the story of how we became who we are.
And honestly? That’s kind of hot.