“Hot Mama!” a friend commented on a photo of me with my young son on Facebook. Instead of feeling flattered, I wanted to cry, convinced my friend was being sarcastic. Already a couple of years postpartum, I still carried most of the baby weight, and parenting had me in a perpetual state of red-faced fluster that had me feeling far more like a “hot mess.” Pregnancy and first-time motherhood really did a number on my body image and highlighted some deep-seated self-esteem issues—mainly, that I wasn’t giving my “self“ enough credit.
We live in a time when the body positivity movement is starting to chip away at toxic cultural messages about what beauty is and questions women’s “responsibility” to keep up appearances, no matter what is happening in our lives. And I admire celebrity moms like Amy Schumer, who aren’t afraid to document the decidedly unglamorous physical and emotional realities of postpartum life in their social media posts.
Pregnancy and first-time motherhood really did a number on my body image and highlighted some deep-seated self-esteem issues
So, why was I so ashamed of myself?
I was 38 when I had my son, so my formative years occurred before this enlightened thinking entered the mainstream. A lifetime of observing and absorbing negative comments about women who “let themselves go” or “weren’t putting in any effort” had really messed up my self-esteem compass. The body I now saw in the mirror looked nothing like what I’d come to expect, and I knew there would be no “bouncing back” to my former self—a lot of these changes (like my vast network of tiger stripes) were likely here to stay.
For decades, I’ve been fighting illogical voices on a daily basis that say if something isn’t perfect, everything is awful. It used to be so bad that if I was getting ready to go out and noticed a blemish, I would fixate on that for the entire night, convinced everyone was judging me for it. My self-criticism isn’t confined to appearance; I’ll also ruminate on minute details of social interactions, professional situations, or academic endeavors, convincing myself I’ve done and said ridiculous things.
For decades, I’ve been fighting illogical voices on a daily basis that say if something isn’t perfect, everything is awful.
This anxiety, in combination with the negative societal messages I grew up with, brewed the perfect storm of self-hatred. At my darkest points, my anxiety told me that if I was ugly on the outside, then of course I was ugly on the inside—not good enough, not worthy.
And so when I had my son and my body changed rapidly, even though I knew that I could (and should!) celebrate my wobbly bits, bloodshot eyes, and swiftly graying hair within an evolving definition of external beauty, I wasn’t ready to. I still felt like I was failing to live up to expectations.
The Facebook comment occurred during the height of my battle with anxiety. Any kind of anxiety sucks, but postpartum anxiety sent me spiraling. It wasn’t just about me anymore—I had a whole other person I needed to be “good enough” for, a whole other set of societal expectations I felt I had to live up to. I needed to be the perfect mama and ensure my son was not simply healthy, happy, and safe but (by my dogmatic adherence to the latest research and parenting advice) also thriving! This made the pressure I put on myself untenable.
