I have a mom bod. And I will celebrate it.
It is my own. It is not like anyone else’s and I don’t want it to be.
All of my flaws, my imperfections, my scars...they have made me who I am today, a mother.
I celebrate what my body has become and I mourn what it used it to be.
My stretch marks, detailed swirls that my son considers a maze.
My belly that has grown almost as big as my heart and dwindled down to the size of my patience.
My straight-lined scar, a joyful reminder of how a baby can enter the world.
My scattered scars, a reminder of losing a baby, but living to remember that angel.
My hormonal skin whose lines tell stories with crinkles that catch tears when they have to.
My deflated breasts that have kept two children alive.
My weathered hands that have soothed, held, cleaned messes and prayed.
My body is blemished and each mark tells a story.
Because I have lived to celebrate my mom bod.
And reminded myself that I am a woman, a mother...a giver of life.
And that is a reason to celebrate.
Photo: Louisa Vilardi Photography/Ro Bedesem
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