Like most girls who turn into women, I spent the greater part of my life listening and learning how to hate my body. Not how to respect it. Not how to be comfortable in it. I learned to Hate it. I learned to look in the mirror and be ashamed. I learned how to silently compare myself to others and pick out the ways I was lacking. So much so that compliments my husband so kindly gave me fell on deaf ears.
Then, one day, I found myself pregnant, and oh, what the surprise that was… :-) I was amazed, every day, by the miracle of what God made my body capable of. I began to love the parts of myself I used to loathe. I began to see beauty where none had existed. And then, we lost our baby and all those hopes and dreams with him, and my confidence — what little of it I had managed to gather — suffered the biggest blow it ever had.
I am still recovering. I am still terribly vulnerable. I’m still self-conscious and prone to moments of insecurity and anxiety. But I had an epiphany this week, and that was how I am often more critical of myself than anyone else. I realized today it all started with that first moment I was taught to despise myself.
So today? Today I did something I NEVER thought I’d ever do.
I bought a bikini.
Yeah, I’m 8 months pregnant. And, I’m pretty positive my mother will roll in her grave when she gets there (she’s probably gasping in apoplexy right now at the scandalousness of this!).
But walking out of the store with that swimsuit in my possession? Driving home and thinking of the look on my husband’s face when I told him (and showed him!) what I did for myself? Putting it on in front of the mirror, pregnant belly and ALL, and feeling satisfied. Being able to smile at myself and see that I’m okay! I’m worth it! That my body — and indeed, the all rest of me — is deserving of my appreciation, naysayers be damned.
I felt so GOOD.