Kayla B(e) Writing

“You’re going to get stretch marks. Buy some cream.”

“Your titties will never be the same.”

“You’re going to miss your old body so much.”

As I was growing my baby girl inside me, I heard many comments like this. I knew it came from a good place. But I remember thinking, on top of everything that comes with pregnancy: Will my body change so much that I start hating it?

Body image has always been a struggle for me. I can remember my body being the fittest it’s ever been and the heaviest. I’ve cried over her because of how much she changed. I also smiled at her when I noticed something tone or looking “right.” It’s always been a mixed bag and it’s always been in the front of my mind.

Are my hips the right size? Did my stomach poke out too much in that photo? Are my arms toned enough? Is that a back roll? Can I eat this and not regret it in the morning?

Even at my healthiest—when I was a junior and senior in high school and working out constantly—I thought I wasn’t good enough. Funny enough I sometimes wish I could go back to that body. Instead, once I went to college, I started my yo-yo journey:

-Depressed and anxious about college: weight gain and not working out

-Started therapy on campus and making new friends: weight loss and hitting the gym

-Grandfather passed away: weight gain and not working out

-Wedding coming up: weight loss and hitting the gym

No certain lifestyle ever felt steady or stuck. Depending on what life threw at me, I responded with either hurting or nurturing my body. When it came time for my husband and me to try for a baby, I learned that the healthier my weight was, the higher my chances of getting pregnant.

I got back to my pre-wedding routine—working out and watching what I ate. I naively thought I would need to lose 30-40 lbs in order to conceive. I only lost five before I found out I was pregnant.

Any thoughts about my body’s appearance left my mind the moment I began to feel first-trimester symptoms: aches, cramps, nausea, one big fibroid (a whole saga on its own). Very quickly I went from “What will my body look like as I grow?” to “Oh my God, everything hurts and I’m miserable.”

As the weeks dragged on, I slowly losing faith that I could do this—be a pregnant woman. The nausea was intense. The aches were unexpected. The cramping? Like the worse period of my life. All I wanted to do was lay in bed. I tried so hard to be excited about the baby growing inside me. But all I felt was discomfort and anxiety.

Then came the worst part: one of my fibroids, right above where my baby was growing, reached a size of 13cm. An agonizing pain from my stomach ripped through my body. It was worse than any other cramp or ache I ever felt. My husband and I had no idea what was happening, but with no other options, we went to the emergency room.

We waited for 12 hours or so for answers as I went through a series of tests, throwing up between each one. Eventually, I was told I had to stay overnight in the hospital. They didn’t know what was wrong, and I was terrified.

On my second night at the hospital, there was an intense thunderstorm. The power went out and my husband held me in my bed as we waited for the lights to come back on. In the dark, we barely said anything. The only thing hanging in the air was the uncertainty of our baby’s health. We made a promise to face whatever was coming—together.

That next day, the nurse encouraged me to get out of bed to show me something. My husband helped me up and led me to a screen where she stood waiting. My mom-in-law and father, who had come to support me, crowded behind us. In a blur of black and white, I could see a little bean with an even smaller flicker of light. The nurse explained I was looking at my ultrasound—that little bean was my baby and the flicker was her heartbeat.

I remember covering my mouth with my hand in surprise. Every pain I felt melted. Every knot of anxiety in my body unraveled. There was no room for anything else, but pure joy. Despite everything, my baby was still in there somewhere—alive and she was living inside of me.

Afterward, they confirmed the pain was coming from the large fibroid. It was growing because of my pregnancy and was making things tight inside my womb. I was labeled a high-risk pregnancy, and they told me I’d most likely need a C-section. Removing the fibroid would be too dangerous while the baby was still inside, so if the pain returned, I’d have to manage it until it was time to give birth. They reassured us that even though the fibroid was huge, the baby was still OK.

I left the hospital with painkillers— and a clearer understanding that this wasn’t going to be easy. But something changed after seeing the little bean growing inside me. I was still scared. I was still in pain. But as my body changed and grew, I felt an appreciation that I hadn’t ever felt before.

I remember the first time I saw my stretch marks come and the first time I felt my daughter kick, I felt a sense of pride. My body was doing what it was supposed to do. And I was grateful for it.

My daughter is 9 months now. Some pregnancy weight is still lingers. I have plenty of tiger stripes across my stomach and hips. But I don’t feel shame. I don’t feel sadness.

This body went through years of criticisms—years of me belittling it for never being the “right” size. Yet here she was, still working. She carried and grew my daughter for 37 long weeks. She survived being cut open and stitched back together. She healed while caring for a newborn.

She did so much—and deserves so much in return: rest, healthy habits, and grace.

A lot of grace.