They call it a mommy makeover like it’s just a package deal at a spa. Like I didn’t break my body twice, tear myself open to bring life into this world. Like my skin didn’t sag, my waist didn’t vanish, my hips didn’t betray me.
Sometimes I catch myself holding my stomach like I’m still pregnant. Not with a baby. With the ghost of the girl I used to be.
I used to have a waist that pulled eyes across the room. Now I have two children who pull me out of bed at 6 a.m. I love them. I’d die for them. I still also miss me.
No one talks about how motherhood makes you disappear. Your body, your identity, your hours. Gone. And the world does not clap for your sacrifice.
I don’t want to be congratulated for martyrdom. I want more for myself so I can be better for those around me. To feel like I’m even worthy of being desired or obsessed over. Or even just worthy of worshiping myself again.
So no, I didn’t lose myself. I’m fighting to get her back.
It isn’t a makeover. It’s a resurrection
A hand pulling me out of the grave.
© ASH ANDREA read me