Sometimes I look at my body and see all the marks left behind—stretch marks, softness, changes in shape—and for a moment, I forget the story they tell. But then I remember: this body didn’t just change for no reason. It grew. It endured. It survived things I didn’t think I’d make it through.
This body has carried heartbreak, stress, joy, exhaustion, illness, and healing. It has held me through sleepless nights, kept going through grief, and found energy on days when my spirit was drained. It has adapted to every storm life threw at me. That’s not something to feel ashamed of. That’s a kind of quiet, grounded strength.
It’s easy to think beauty is about perfection or control. But nature doesn’t work like that. Nature is change. It’s growth, resilience, and adaptation. A tree isn’t less beautiful because it bends in the wind. A mountain isn’t flawed because it’s scarred by time. And your body—my body—isn’t ugly because it’s changed.
It’s proof that I’ve lived. That I’ve faced hard things and kept going. That I kept showing up when I didn’t feel like I could. That I nourished others, rebuilt myself, and made space for love again. That’s not a flaw. That’s extraordinary.
So I’m learning to meet my reflection with gratitude, not criticism. To honour what my body has done instead of wishing it looked like it never lived. Because survival isn’t something to hide. It’s something to celebrate.