There must have been an age at which I went from a child’s effortless acceptance of her body into an adolescent girl’s insecurity and awkwardness. There must have been an age at which I went from loving and accepting my female friends without a thought to comparing myself unfavorably to them, and in so doing, judging both myself and them. Was it 9? 13? I don’t remember.

As a teenager I had no positive feelings about my body. What feelings I did have were unpleasant: I felt ungainly, I felt in the way and unwanted. I felt unattractive and awkward. I didn’t cherish myself nor feel cherished by anyone.

My breasts were too big compared to everyone else’s, and so I slouched. My period came too late, my waist was too thick. A victim of sexual abuse in childhood, I actively tried not to be sexually attractive and tried to detach as much as possible from my body, much less the idea of celebrating or beautifying it. My sisters were beautiful and creative. I was the one who got good grades; the funny one, the helpful one. My friends pursued high school sports and dance and gymnastics; I lacked all confidence in my physical self and so I focused on the things of the mind. I don’t remember ever talking to anyone about how I felt about my body, nor being asked. It would have been vain and self-centered to praise yourself, and needy and desperate to ask for praise, or so it seemed growing up. I didn’t have close relationships with women – I felt intimidated by them or inferior to them. I thought if they got to know me well, they wouldn’t like me anymore. I kept people at arm’s length.

When I got pregnant with my first son, I developed a new respect for my body. I could grow a healthy baby, birth him naturally, nourish him. I tapped into a centuries-old tradition of amazing womanhood – look what these bodies can do! Look how strong, how resilient, how giving, our bodies and hearts can be. This was an appreciation not of myself as a woman, and not of my own body, but of women and women’s bodies in general. My second son was born, also naturally, also healthy and strong, and I nursed him and watched him grow with a sort of contact pride. Not pride in who I was myself, but pride that I had a hand in creating someone so beautiful, that I was capable of bringing these gorgeous sons into being. I got pregnant with my third son, and nursed my second son throughout that pregnancy. When my third son was born, naturally, healthy and strong, I tandem nursed. It felt like their birthright to have this kind of care and attention, and it also felt good to be the person who could provide it. On some level, caring for my sons healed my own sense of scarcity, of lack, from childhood. I could be abundant for them – and if I could do that, maybe I didn’t lack as much as I thought.

With the birth of my sons, I felt my body had a purpose, a job to do, and it was joyous work, if exhausting. Here was something (birthing, nursing, mothering) that I wasn’t worse at than other women. It didn’t occur to me to feel ‘less than’ as a mother, the way I felt as a woman. My sons were beautiful, joyful, generous, wonderful people, so I trusted that I was doing something right. My women friends were mostly moms, and their friendship was a source of strength to me. Here was a posse, a tribe who understood what I was going through, a group I could talk to openly about how long it had been after the birth since we’d had sex with our partners, about how high a fever had to be before you went to the doctor, how the first food your baby ate was accidentally ketchup after a tiny fist was plunged into an adult’s plate and then stuck in a tiny mouth before you had time to react. These women were people I could swap breastfeeding stories with and consult when I got a painful case of mastitis, and while we may not have had everything in common as women, we were united by the big M, motherhood. It was a cozy kind of friendship, unlike any I’d had before.

Becoming a mother opened the door of self-acceptance, for me. It made a dent in my shield that kept people out, that kept me feeling ugly and untalented and unsexy when compared to other women. It was the first blossom of self-love in my life. It was the first role I ever played that made me feel like I was totally okay at something. Watching my boys grow up with self-confidence and sure in the knowledge that they are amazing, and loved, and accepted, gave me the inspiration to try for that too, for myself. After 14 years of raising sons, I have come to see myself more in the light in which they see me, as worthy of love, as someone to seek out, as company worth keeping. I’ve used the courage they gave me to find true love and embrace it, to let people in, to get close to women and to aim to celebrate female beauty, my own and other women’s. It gave me the courage to crash my old life, with its old stories and limitations, into a brick wall and walk away clean, with only the things that matter. I don’t always love my stretch marks, my wrinkles, physical flaws (sometimes I do) – but I do always admire and love the woman who earned them. This body is where I live, and I choose now to live every inch of it.

-Nicole Meade

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