I’m talking about my postpartum body, before everybody else does

For three years, I would eagerly take a pregnancy test at the slightest delay in my period. I was thrilled when I finally got that positive result. But then the reality dawned on me – waiting to get pregnant wasn’t the only hard part. I’d been so focused on that aspect, I’d pushed the reality of enduring childbirth to the back of my mind. The poking, prodding, needles, and labour pain… how was I going to do this?

Women typically share a sanitised version of their experience. “You’ll forget all about the pain right after it’s happened,” they say, to alleviate your horror. I had no idea I would experience contractions for a few days after delivery so my uterus could shrink to its original size.

Given my anxieties, getting through labour felt like I had crossed the finish line. I should have been jumping for joy. And though I was truly ecstatic, jumping was a farfetched dream. I could barely walk due to excruciating pelvic girdle pain. With anal tears and constipation, pooping was a task. Call me naive, but I didn’t know about this degree of post-labour pains. I thought my only worry would be sleep, but everything was challenging – walking, getting out of bed, taking a bath, and sitting up to feed. My psoriasis was the worst it had ever been, with angry red patches screaming at me from head to toe. Not to mention the excessive hair fall (and some balding), irregular milk supply, and mastitis.

Let me clear the air — having a baby was worth all this. I would do it again for the euphoria I feel when I hear my daughter’s faintest babble.

But women are hardwired or conditioned to care for everyone else, so asking for help or saying you need to be taken care of makes you feel guilty.

You don’t want to be misunderstood or feel like you’re failing at motherhood. People will give you this look that casts doubts on whether you’re cut out to be a mother. You can be filled with gratitude, and also be in so much physical pain.

Most postpartum conversations focus on how the baby is doing. You don’t want to steer the conversation towards yourself and seem selfish, ungrateful or just a ‘complainer.’ The postpartum woman should be able to celebrate her body’s achievements while also acknowledging the labyrinth of challenges it endures.

I was embarrassed about not being able to do simple tasks. To fully be present and enjoy these moments with the baby I had waited so long for. You want to be the kind of mother who can do everything: cooking, working, bathing, and feeding. And boy, does a lot of unsolicited advice come your way. About pumping, when I should start working out to lose weight, how often (and at what time) I should take the baby out for walks in the sun, and what I should eat to increase my milk supply or grow my hair back.

I tried practising self-love, but the truth stared back at me in the mirror. I was in awe of what my body had done, yet I didn’t feel at home in it. It wasn’t the weight, what upset me was that that’s all people saw. They didn’t see me limping to the bathroom, but they asked why I hadn’t begun to exercise yet. They didn’t see the nights I couldn’t sleep because I was tossing and turning from pelvic pain, but they told me I needed a facial for my dark circles.

I felt as though there were mothers who were ‘snapping back’, who ‘had it all together’, while I could barely make a cup of coffee without wincing. Most days, I lay in bed like a princess from a historical drama. Except I was devoid of grace or composure, dressed in my husband’s T-shirts and shorts while I tried to scarf down dinner before another round of pumping and breastfeeding commenced (pregnancy and postpartum fashion are a whole other challenge).

Even on a good day, a mother feels a ragdoll that’s being pulled in different directions. Even in a moment of rest, you cannot help but wobble uncontrollably.

A year later, I now celebrate the (extra) ordinary things my body can do. I can jump on a trampoline without fearing that my uterus will fall out. I can lift my baby without feeling like a thousand needles poking into my spine. My psoriasis has calmed down. And I’ve learned that, like every home, this body of mine needed a little work to feel comfortable. That it would be messy and lived-in. That’s what makes it real. These ridges and grooves aren’t just markers of age or pain or growth. They are roadmaps to what was once my baby’s first home before she inhabited every inch of time and space like it always belonged to her. I remind myself that the body that was home to my daughter is home to me too.