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I found a picture of myself the other day. I mean, like a real, hold in your hand, probably had to wait two days for it to get processed, accidentally spill water on it and it’s ruined, genuine printed on paper, photograph. It was of me, in a bikini taken down at the beach. I would have been no older than 18. I looked so carefree. I was pretty, wrinkle free and well, young. And yet, I distinctly remember at the time that I couldn’t have disliked my body more. I was obsessed with exercise, eating little and socially awkward due to my perceived “fat” body.
Fast forward 20 years and it’s the old adage, if only I knew then what I know now. I should have embraced my genetic luck because after three babies, my luck kind of ran out.
At almost 37 years of age and three babies, my body has been stretched, torn (don’t dwell on why) managed to grow some AMAZING boobs, (only to have them cruelly snatched away), developed an unreasonably large backside, shrunk and generally changed shape more times than I care to remember.
I struggle to talk about what I love about my body. How does one write something like that without sounding totally into themselves? I’ve never actually sat down to positively acknowledge any part of my body before. I mean, I know the bits I’m not particularly fond of. The mole on my chin that seems to grow a single, solitary gigantic black hair at an alarming rate, yeah that rates high on my list of ‘don’t like so much’. I once would have told you my belly button was a bit of a fave, but since it’s been inside out three times, it looks more like an upside down smiley face and is now rather unattractive.
So what then, do I love about my body? Well, I love that my body has afforded me the luxury to not only carry, but birth three children. That it has remained healthy thus far. Oh, and if I can be totally self- indulgent for a moment, I like my nose. I think it’s the one part of me that doesn’t quite fit right, yet it distinguishes me.