Learning to love your body? It’s a marathon, not a sprint.
I took off my shirt and my confidence plummeted.
I was at home, staring at my naked stomach in the mirror, but I felt like I’d just been punched in the gut. On either side of my belly, 3 inches (give or take) of new stretch marks sat like heavy quotation marks. My stomach itself sat between them, a synonym for “fat.”
I scrambled to my bedside table, grabbed the lotion I keep for scars, and started rubbing it into the stretch marks. I didn’t know if it would help, but anything I could do to banish the livid, bright welts from my stomach seemed like the only way to get my confidence back.