Welcome to part four of our Body Image series. Bonus links are at the bottom!
Heads up: this essay talks about pregnancy as well as the physical and mental aspects of postpartum recovery.
Last week, I saw an Instagram photo of Karlie Kloss1 pumping backstage, and it pissed me off.
In the photo, she’s smiling broadly. Full face of makeup. Drinking a green smoothie. Aside from the pump flanges that hang from a hands-free nursing bra, you’d never know that she had a baby in July. She looks gorgeous — with flawless, glowing skin — and I know there’s a team of assistants ready to disassemble and clean her pump parts (of which there are many!) when she’s done… but they’re not in the frame.
The caption reads, “multitasking at its finest.”
There was a time I would have looked at that photo of Karlie and thought, What a badass. The epitome of progressive feminism, of “having it all.”
Today, I wish she’d be honest with us. It took a village — quite literally — of paid staff for her to multitask with such ease, to embody the ideal working mother. That’s not attainable for the typical woman. The first time I tried to pump from my car, I spilled half the milk on the floor, stained my shirt, and dumped the rest before I got home because I was scared it had sat out too long. Pretty sure I got a parking ticket, too.
There was a time I would have looked at that photo of Karlie and thought, What a badass. The epitome of progressive feminism, of “having it all.”
When I was breastfeeding, if I left the house without Jude I’d stay out just long enough that my boobs didn’t get engorged — then quickly return home to pump or nurse. My experience pumping while flying was, similarly, imperfect and embarrassing (and one genesis of this newsletter).
None of this, of course, is Karlie’s fault.
Maybe one of the reasons I’m angry at Karlie’s picture is that it reminds me of the unattainable beauty and motherhood standards I’m still trying to let go of.
I hadn’t thought too much about what my body would feel like after having a baby. I envisioned myself nursing for a few months and steadily easing back into exercise. Social media and celebrities had me believing I’d bounce right back.
What I didn’t expect is how foreign I felt in my own body.2 During the earliest days of nursing, my boobs became engorged as my milk flooded in — leaving me in incredible pain. I was ashamed to look at my body in the mirror. Discomfort ran up through my shoulders and back for months as a result of hunching over Jude five, eight, ten, or more times per day to nurse.
I rushed to get back to what felt familiar.
My first run, on a sunny 70-degree day in early November, felt like trudging through mud. I tried giving myself an internal pep talk. You’re doing it! That’s all that matters! I breathed. Pain shot through my hips, as if they might collapse inwards, and my core ached. I looked at the time on my phone: not quite 10 minutes had passed.
After five more, I turned around and walked home. “How did it go?” Sam asked as I walked in the door.
“Awful,” I said. “I felt like shouting, ‘I had a baby eight weeks ago!’ to anyone who passed me.”
It would be months before I attempted another run.
As I realized that my expectations were unrealistic — delusional, really — I reversed course. I bought new jeans in a larger size, avoided stepping on a scale,3 and rather than fixating on my appearance, tried to focus my attention inward, on what might really help me feel “like myself” again.
I still felt the urge to explain myself to strangers. I felt it walking down the street, getting into an Uber, or stretching out in a yoga class.
As author Emma Jane Unsworth writes in After the Storm, “now when I look back I see how there was a front-facing part of pregnancy — the shopfront, if you will — where it was important to seem in control and appreciative of feminism’s benefits; I took pride in this. And then there was a back room, a storeroom of feelings, where worries and inadequacies swirled.”
I didn’t want attention on my body — the constant deluge of stares (and awkward comments) while pregnant is weird enough — but I’d just gone through this hugely transformative, radicalizing experience, and as I moved through society, it was disorienting to think I could fit in. That I could pass as someone who wasn’t walking around in a new body, with a hypertrophic scar across my lower abdomen to prove it.
As I realized that my expectations were unrealistic — delusional, really — I reversed course.
Part of the way I dealt with the frustration and disillusionment was to open up to other moms: I’m worried about how my c-section scar is healing, or, Running sucks, right?
Sometimes we’d find a connection — an emphatic “me too!” — other times, it fell flat.
I’ve gotten so in my head. I tell myself that if other women aren’t talking about it, then I must be the only one who still compares photos of myself today to 30 weeks pregnant, or who actually felt empowered— not sad — when I quit nursing (and more importantly, pumping!) at six months postpartum.
As feminist writer
says, “I found in the early years of motherhood that it was incredibly hard to distinguish what I was doing… because of some cultural compulsion, some external pressure to meet a maternal standard that I had internalized, and what I was choosing to do in my parenting because I valued it, or found pleasure in it.”4Several weeks ago, I called and made an appointment to go back to the OBGYN. My scar had grown stiff and raised, and I worried what it might do to my fertility.
“You have a hypertrophic scar,” the doctor told me. “We don’t deal with those, but if you want to go to a dermatologist or plastic surgeon, there are ways to address it cosmetically.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said, mildly confused — I hadn’t said anything about my concern with the scar’s appearance. When I sat down in the exam room, I told her only that it felt increasingly stiff, and that it was itching. Twelve months postpartum, it was still uncomfortable.
“Do you have any more questions?” she asked, making her way to the door. I repeated the word, “Hypertrophic, right?” making a mental note so I could do further research when I got back to my car.
Then I asked, “Will this have any impact on my fertility?”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” she said. “This type of scarring doesn’t touch your uterus.”
“Okay, great.” I felt a sense of relief. “Is there anything I could have done differently to avoid it?”
I’d been told by my primary care physician — as well as Instagram ads — that I should be giving myself “scar tissue massages.” I spent $30 on “Organic C-Section Scar Balm,” but felt like a failure for not prioritizing five minutes of my day, every day, to the routine.
“No, it’s just how some bodies heal,” she said.
As I walked out of the office, I called Sam to share the good news. “And it’s not even my fault!” I said.
But I heard the doctor’s message loud and clear: the goal is for your body to bounce back — and you’re not there… yet.
I’m extremely aware of how my body has changed since childbirth. I’m not immune from trying on my pre-pregnancy jeans just to see if they fit.5 And I spent the summer in pursuit of a bathing suit that would cover my c-section “shelf,” the term that I’ve come to learn identifies the pooch that hangs over my abdomen as a result of scar tissue build up.
But I’ve also worked hard to focus my attention on activities like strength training and getting outdoors, ones that benefit my mental and physical health. The doctor’s unprompted suggestion that I explore future cosmetic procedures, like steroids or surgery? That stung.
When I called my mom to tell her about the OBGYN, she lamented a similar experience. “I went into the dermatologist for a routine mole check a few weeks ago,” she said, “and I left feeling as if there was all this work that I should be getting done. I was pissed.”
We still can’t win.
The doctor’s unprompted suggestion that I explore future cosmetic procedures, like steroids or surgery? That stung.
Earlier this month, Jude turned one. On Sunday, I’ll run in my first race since he was born, a ten-mile road race in the Twin Cities.
“My body took more like nine months than nine weeks to readjust,” I told Aja when she asked me recently how training was going. “But it’s starting to feel good again.”
I won’t be chasing a specific mile time this weekend. I might have to walk. And I still haven’t charged the Garmin watch that rests in a drawer. (Honestly, I’m not sure if I ever want to.) But I’ll be there.
Bonus Reading:
As part of this series, we’re sharing some of the body image content that’s positively influenced us:
📖 I quoted Emma Jane Unsworth above, but it’s so very worth downloading or picking up a copy of her book, After the Storm: Postnatal Depression and the Utter Weirdness of New Motherhood.6 I couldn’t put it down!
👖 Jane on Jeans7 gives us a celebration of moms’ jeans. I love the question, “What do you need from jeans right now?” because it acknowledges the endless change and transformation we go through with clothes and with our bodies.
💄Finally,
and ’s conversation about the intersection of momfluencer culture and beauty culture is fascinating. They discuss motherhood as an identity eraser, the dopamine rush of buying new products, and the intoxicating impact of influencer skincare routines.
ICYMI: The most-clicked links from Monday’s roundup were the percentage calculator (turns out we could all use a little help!) and this New York Times article on 13-year-old girls in the age of social media.
Platonic Love is an entirely affiliate-free publication. Thanks so much for reading and supporting this endeavor! We’d love to hear from you in the comments: reactions, feedback, or questions? See you next week! Love, Aliza
The supermodel, former Victoria’s Secret Angel, and founder of Kode with Klossy
And why did nobody ever tell me about night sweats?! Or the postpartum diapers?!
For years, I’ve refused to own a scale for the same reason. My best friend, Margie, had an even better strategy. She told me that when she steps on a scale at the doctor’s office, she turns away and asks the nurse not to read the number out loud.
From
’s recent interview with about her new memoir, Touched Out: Motherhood, Misogyny, Consent, and Control.Spoiler alert: They still don’t.
I really loved reading this 💚
Thanks for sharing your postpartum experience. Early motherhood is exhilarating but so exhausting. We all need that one friend (atleast!) who we can commiserate with. I have been there myself where I had similar sentiments if 'I was in my head' because everyone had the time and energy not only for birth plans but also bouncing back plans :)