Beyond the Smile

Unmasking Fears of Motherhood and Body Image

Hello Out There,

Not knowing how to begin this essay feels symbolic because, in some ways, it is the same feeling or experience that arises in me when someone asks if I am going to have another baby. 

A response to "the question," is typically covered in a paralyzing hold of frantic energy for which I attempt to cover up with a molded smile. 

I am always shocked by my amazement that "the question" still somehow makes its way into conversations, as if it is just a casual curiosity.  Although connecting over such a profound, life-changing decision may be helpful, somehow, there never seems to be enough space to actually share my true feelings unless they are a simple yes, no, or I am not sure yet; the safe responses that are specifically curated and made up by the molded smile. 

My answers to "the question" typically are the same. "Maybe”, “We will see”, or “I am just so tired," as I display a collapsed posture while sometimes adding a good whine at the end for good measure. All an act, an act I have perfectly mastered because the idea of sharing the real answer to "the question," the real, ever-present thoughts that rattle my mind when thinking of becoming pregnant again, is somewhat startling and honestly cringy and embarrassing. 

The real answer to "the question" would be, 

"I want to. I have always wanted to have two children, but I feel too scared of growing bigger."

After speaking those guarded words out loud, I imagine feeling the need to run for the hills, to hide somewhere dark, shame-filled and isolated. 

For how could a feminist, a somatic psychotherapist, a trauma specialist, a body-positive and self-love advocate be battling those thoughts when it comes to thinking about bringing another child into this world?

The shame becomes louder because I tell myself, “I know better. I should know better. Haven't I already healed this? Been here, mended that. How did I get back here so quickly?” 

Yet, my truth, in the real thick of it, is that the fear of getting bigger and gaining weight feels as if, at times, overpowering over everything I know to be real, to be true. It even overpowers other worries that one might have when thinking about having another child. Worries like: 

How are we going to afford it?

What if it can’t happen?

How am I going to deal with and have time to grieve the changing relationship with my son?

How would adding another child impact my ability to stay close to myself, my career, my writing, the other pulls in my life?

How would my relationship to my partner survive? For in some moments it felt like we barely made it through.

How could I choose to bring another child into this collapsing world?

What if I die in childbirth or experience trauma — again?

What if something goes terribly wrong?

How in the world am I going to be able to hold it all together? 

In a mind-errupting realization, I come to see that somehow these worries feel somewhat manageable to me. But the fear of gaining weight does not. How truly ridiculous that is?

As soon as I let myself imagine moving towards trying for another baby, the unwanted thought about how it would change my shape rushes in so quickly that I often am unable to catch it in time.  It reminds me of the evil queen in Snow White; her desire for beauty and power, offering me her apple, the delicious and juicy nourishment that could ease me. And although I am fully aware of how the story plays out, the apple just looks so good. Even though I know that the thoughts around my body's shape are poisoned, I am still so tempted by them.  

So much so that, at times, it feels like life or no life.  

After trying my very hardest to ignore the witch and her apple, I realized that it wasn't helping to banish the thoughts or my body's response to the nagging, uncomfortable reaction to having another child.

A few weeks ago, I learned of a dear friend becoming pregnant for the second time. I sat with her in her fears, while holding the complexity of both/and in her life. They were fears that I felt comfortable sitting with and being with; unlike my fear, the fear of growing bigger.  As we continued to talk, I noticed a jealousy boiling in my belly.  A jealousy that told me I needed to take a deeper look into this fear. Very soon after, I found myself back at a familiar place, back at needing to actually sit with the witch and her apple, invite her in for tea to ask her very nicely, 

"What the hell are you doing here?"

I was not surprised that her answer did not come with ease. She did not loosen her grip willingly. 

She has been trained — well.  

Trained by our society, by the pervasive cultural messages she has been eating up most of her life. Trained by the patriarchy, telling her she must be small to be desirable. Trained by the violations and trauma she endured, telling her that it is not always safe to be in body. Trained by her mother. who makes a joke out of showering in the dark. Trained by the small seats of capitalism that fill the restaurants and dig into her sides. Trained by her experience of not always feeling good enough in her bones. 

Then it hit me.

She, the fear of my body getting bigger, has a purpose to keep me from feeling the pain I experience when I lose myself, when I become disembodied, when I am the one to, in fact, become banished. I came to realize her purpose was to keep me from not losing myself — again. 

When the experience of loathing my body's size is at its highest volume, all that can be heard is the pain of what it feels like to be so uncomfortable in yourself, in your shape, in your home. It is like wearing an itchy sweater that just won't come off, no matter how hard you try. So the easiest option is to pull away from self, or as I’ve described as, "walking around with just a head."

Throughout my human journey, I have experienced a lot of my life disembodied. My favorite wisdom holder,

Hilary McBride

, writes in her book, The Wisdom of Your Body, about the experience of feeling disconnected from self. She says, "When this happens, our body is the place where we feel disempowered and constricted as well as lacking in competence, safety, and presence."  

When my body first went through becoming a mother, it inevitably changed shape. It grew bigger, and I gained weight the way one does when one becomes pregnant. I tried to reassure myself that growing in size is a good thing, that changing shape means you are getting closer to meeting your baby, and that your body is doing what it needs to. To my surprise, it somehow worked. It wasn't until months into postpartum that I felt the first feeling of needing to pull away from myself again because of its shape, the shape of my body that I no longer recognized in the mirror, the same shape that went along with my changing identity.   

Quickly, I found myself back to relearning how to reconnect and return to my body. How to remember its aliveness, its goodness, its worthiness, its softness, its warmth. 

It has been four years since I gave birth, and although I do not feel fully embodied every day, I feel it most days. My confidence and acceptance in my body have somewhat grown. Somedays, I even find it easeful, playful, pleasurable to be in there.  

The journey back was not simple, and the thought of having another baby brings up the fear of the possibility of losing myself again; of living in disdain for self, pain, and disconnection. A way that now would also take me away from mothering my son, my husband, and being able to feel the joy that surrounds me.  

Yet, I know I also want to try to have another child. Which means, I must practice letting go and surrendering to the shape that my body will take on as I try to grow another life. It might feel out of control at times; it might feel scary and familiar.  

At least now I know that the thought of not having a baby due to the fear of gaining weight is not just cringy and embarrassing; it is actually painful and scary — emotions and feelings that seem a little bit more manageable to be with. I also know now that even when we lose ourselves, we can always find our way home, as long as we don't eat the apple.