I'm sorry about the times I pulled at your extra skin and poked at where you gathered more.
I'm sorry about the unkind words I've whispered about you under my breath or the dissatisfied sighs when I look upon you.
I'm sorry that I compare you to what you were before, and compare you to a fictional ideal that doesn't make sense.
I'm sorry that I try to hide your lumps and bumps and folds.
I'm sorry that I've found it hard to love you.
I'm still learning.
And you are my teacher.
You've taught me that I am capable of more strength, resilience and power than I ever believed was possible.
You carried life within you, nurturing and protecting it with every breath.
You stretched and expanded; growing with the miracle within, a testament to your boundless capacity for love and sacrifice.
And when the time came, you labored and birthed, summoning reserves of strength I never knew existed.
But it is through the clay that I am coming to know you and see you differently. And also through my daughter's eyes.
I don't want her to know this experience as her own, and yet it's almost inevitably that she will at some point. I only hope that in all the small ways I am learning to love you, body, that she will grow up believing that everyday bodies hold so much beauty, strength and magic...and look upon her own body with the same adoration in her eyes as when she looks at mine now.
So, here I am postpartum body, open to your wisdom in the most human and imperfect way.
Forever learning,
Mel
18months Postpartum
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