Illustration by Alex Siklos
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I keep looking at my big belly every time I check the mirror, take a bath or change my clothes. More than my face, it’s always my belly that draws my attention. It’s funny how its size changes throughout the day; quite nice in the morning, just okay by the afternoon and a bit scary by the evening. It amazes me how, on some days, it gains complete power to dictate my mood. And yet, it’s just my belly.
How many times have I had to change outfits because my belly was showing a little more than I would have liked? Countless times, I have compared my belly with the flatter stomachs of women around me. Some days, the belly insanity hits a peak, and I catch myself comparing it even with a pregnant woman’s bump. “You look more pregnant than her, and you are not,” my inner voice scolds me.
I can count on my fingertips the number of times I have been asked by other women, pointing toward my belly, if I’m pregnant.
Sometimes you find joy in the strangest places, like the grocery checkout line
I suck it up just as I suck my breath in to pull my stomach in.
Someone asked me the other day a little after lunch if I had good news on the way, gesturing at my belly. I smiled and sheepishly replied, “No, just a food baby.” It was an extremely uncomfortable moment.
Wearing loose clothes should help, I remind myself.
But do I really need that help?
No. In my saner moments, I know the answer is no.
This belly did not become this way overnight. It grew with me. It toiled hard and survived through some of life’s most testing times. It bears numerous stories etched onto it in the form of stretch marks and surgical scars. Stories that stay hidden beneath my clothes but were once powerful enough to influence the course of my life.
This belly became a safe haven for my baby. It housed and nurtured him for nine long months. And when the day finally came to let him out, it fought fiercely to deliver him safely into my arms.
My belly comforted my newborn when his crib or the comfiest mattress could not. Some of his most peaceful naps were taken right there. And now that his embrace reaches my belly, it receives the most hugs and kisses.
Not too long ago, my belly turned into a battlefield. It was pierced with stinging needles, cut open and sutured back together. This belly wasn’t thinking about looking flatter back then. It was trying to survive, working patiently to recover. And it did.
I watched as my daughter found a grad dress that blew away her childhood
I often wonder what our bellies would say if they could talk. They would have a hundred stories to tell. Of how it hurts on the first day of periods, how cramps twist and tear, how the baby’s first kick feels, how uncomfortably elastic it has to become to make room for a new life. Our bellies would tell numerous stories of the heartache of loss. But also of the joys of nurturing, of our brave walks through life’s fires and the quiet healings that come afterward.
If our bellies could speak, no woman would ever obsess over a flatter, thinner one. With time, I have realized it is almost cruel and demeaning to hold that obsession. Our bellies perform miracles. They house, nurture and protect life. They survive. Nature picked our bellies to perform magic on its behalf. And this magical stuff needs to be embraced, celebrated and appreciated. Performing this magic is no mean feat.
So, I will no longer suck my belly in, for it is not a flaw. I will wear my belly with pride. It is the story of my endurance, my faith, my joy, my pain, my creation. My belly is my storybook, and I am proud of every word etched on its pages.
Prabhjot Kaur lives in New Westminster, B.C.