‘Look how flat her tummy is,’ a family friend remarked to the room full of people.
I had justplayfullylifted my six-week old son above my head, causing my baggy T-shirt to rise up and flash a brief glimpse of my bare skin.
‘Seriously, how have you lost the weight so fast?’ she pressed. I could feel everyone’s eyes now firmly fixed on my body.
I paused. ‘Oh, these leggings hide a multitude of sins,’ I eventually replied, forcing a laugh before quickly changing the subject.
Making a joke felt like the polite thing to do and I knew her comments were well intentioned. I’d probably made the same mistake in the past myself. Praising a woman’s weight loss without knowing the real cause.
ButI didn’t want to burden people with the truth.
On the surface, I looked like the perfect mum. A smile plastered across my face and a body that had‘bounced back’in weeks. I’d had so many compliments over how good I looked.
Despite appearances,though, my post-natal experience had been filled with trauma and dark thoughts. As a result, my appetite had vanished andIfelt likeIwas teetering on the brink of collapse.
Like many women, I’ve suffered a complicated relationship with my body.
I’ve always been a size 8-10 but as a child of the 90s, I’d had discussions of heroin chic and quick-fix diets shoved down my throat before I’d even reached puberty.
Celebrity magazines were constantly plastered with images of the‘best’and‘worst’bikini bodies. Weight loss was a sign that someone had their life together but weight gain was presented like they were spiralling out of control. It’s a tough narrative to undo.
When my pregnancy body started to change, it felt hard to embrace it. I’d spent so much of my adult life trying to stay slim and now I was expected to let go without a care.
I’d stand in the shower and let the hot water wash over my expanding shape as my hands touched parts of my body that no longer felt familiar.
Towards my third trimester, I was told I had gestational diabetes and had to drastically overhaul my diet by cutting out anything high in sugar and carbs.
I followed the diet with military precision but my blood sugar levels would still spike too high. It made me overthink every bite and I’d often just snack on plain yoghurt, slices of chicken breasts and chunks of cheese throughout the day.
By the time I reached 9 months, I weighed only 6lbs more than my pre-pregnancy weight.
I naively saw the end of my pregnancy like reaching the final few miles of a marathon. I thought labour would be like the final push (pun intended) before I could embark on a new blissful life of motherhood.
But my birth was far from perfect.
I was hospitalised for two days due to my son’s reduced movements before being induced.
When the contractions kicked in, my partner and I were left alone for hours. I cried out in pain, only to be told by a male midwife that I wouldn’t make it to the end if I couldn’t handle things now.
The contractions hit me like forceful waves and I struggled to get back to my feet before the next one hit.
36 hours later, I was rushed into an emergency c-section. Exhausted after days of no sleep and traumatisedfromthe hours upon hours of agony, I lay staring into the cold white lights as they cut seven layers deep into my body.
I felt nothing but emptiness as they lifted my bloodied son out and held him up for me to see.
He was thrust into my arms but I could barely hold him due to the amount of cannulas hooked up to me and my swollen hands that had both suffered failed attempts to find a vein.
This wasn’t the instant love bubble I’d been promised. This felt like a nightmare.
I thought things would get better once I was discharged and surrounded by home comforts. But it felt like a bomb had just exploded and I’d walk from room to room, stunned by the wreckage with my ears still ringing from the impact.
Our son cried all the time and barely slept. It felt like a test of endurance I couldn’t possibly survive.
I’d have fantasies about a nice woman turning up to my door and taking my baby away to be cared for. I cried for my old life.
My stomach felt so full of sadness and anxiety that my appetite vanished.
My mum and my partner would try to encourage me to take small bites of cereal bars or fruit. Anything to keep my energy up. But swallowing made me feel sick and the weight fell off.
Within two weeks of giving birth, my bump was gone and I was a stone lighter than when I left hospital.
Only those close to me knew how much I was suffering, so everyone else assumed I was just one of those people who bounced back with ease.
And I’d be lying if I said there weren’t times when I felt a strange sense of pleasure from a mum telling me how jealous they were of my flat tummy. I was constantly comparing myself to the picture perfect images of motherhood on social media and wishing for a sense of that happiness.
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So for a brief moment, I could bask in the feeling that a mum envied something about my life.
After asking for help from my midwife team, they swooped into action and suggested I be placed on a strong dosage of antidepressants.
They also arranged for one-to-one consultations with a member of the health team that would focus on bonding activities with my son and give me the chance to discuss my fears or anxieties with someone professional.
The first time I felt like I had my head above water was when my son was around three months old. We werecuddling together in bed one morning and he giggled. I felt a rush of happiness like never before and finally felt an assurance that I was a good mum after all.
Slowly but surely, things started to improve and I managed to embrace my new normal.
Two and a half years on, I barely recognise the person I was in those newborn days. I’m happy, my bond with my son is stronger than ever and my appetite is back with a vengeance.
And as far as I’m concerned, that’s the only bounce back worth celebrating.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
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