At just 14, I found myself stepping onto a scale five, ten, or even fifteen times a day, clinging to the hope of finding a magical number that never existed. Each reading dictated my emotions—if it went up, my day was ruined; if it went down, I’d feel a fleeting sense of pride but quickly check again to ensure it hadn’t changed. My singular objective? To be smaller, no matter the price. The quest for thinness eclipsed everything—friends, sports, and even my health.
By age 19, I was sitting in yet another therapist’s office, my face a mask of defiance. “You’ll die, you know,” she warned me. “Not this week or next, but your body can’t endure this.” I stared blankly, crossing my legs repeatedly, completely disinterested in recovery. “Is there anything you value more than being thin? What about having a family one day?” she asked. “Would you prefer to be thin or have children?” Without hesitation, I replied, “Thin.” We exchanged a heavy silence.
At 22, I finally discarded the laxatives that had been my crutch for so long. Tired of feeling awful, I began to entertain the notion that there might be something more to life than meticulously counting almonds or measuring my thighs. “There has to be a higher apple,” I mused.
At 23, I started dating my now-husband, Mark, who offered me a comfort I never knew I needed. “You’re irreplaceable,” I told him. He watched me run on treadmills, silently worrying about my heart. “I won’t marry you until you get your act together,” he said one day. “I can’t spend my life with you and your eating disorder. When will we matter more than the number?”
By 24, I made a truce with my body. “Alright,” I thought, “I give in. Be what you need to be. I may not like you, but I refuse to keep punishing you.” The following year, Mark and I tied the knot, and I earned my doctorate in psychology. Life felt vibrant, and I discovered aspirations beyond thinness. Yet, a nagging fear lingered. “What if I ruined my chances of having children?” I whispered to Mark one night, filled with anxiety.
At 27, we decided to start a family, but the thought of nurturing a child within my body was terrifying. I pushed those fears aside, focusing on this new goal—a family of our own. “Yes, that’s right,” we would tell each other.
However, at 28, despair crept in with every negative pregnancy test. Each one felt like a confirmation that I wasn’t healed or worthy of motherhood. Watching my younger sister give birth only deepened my insecurities. “What if I’ve destroyed my chances?” I confided to Mark. “Shh,” he replied. “It will happen. It has to.”
By 30, I reached my breaking point after countless failed IUIs and IVFs. “You were never meant to be a mother,” I told myself, haunted by a doctor’s words about my history with an eating disorder possibly impacting my ability to sustain a pregnancy. Life felt unfair, and bitterness washed over me. “Get your pregnant belly out of my sight,” I thought angrily whenever I encountered an expectant mother. The apple I had long sought felt elusive, and my body became a source of resentment. “I stopped hurting you; now you need to work!” I demanded, as I injected hormones into my stomach, bruising my skin.
At 31, I decided, “One last time.” I couldn’t endure the emotional toll of the hormone roller coaster and invasive procedures anymore. “Just one last embryo,” I told Mark. “Then we’ll find another way to be happy.” With a gentle touch on my shoulder after the procedure, the doctor reassured me, “You have all the potential in the world.” A tear rolled down my cheek.
Two weeks later, I took a pregnancy test, expecting disappointment. “I’m sure it’s negative,” I thought while folding laundry. But when I glanced at the test, a positive result stared back at me. “Is this even real?” I wondered, unsure how to react after so many negative results.
“You’re pregnant!” the nurse confirmed over the phone, and Mark and I celebrated. My mother and sister, who had supported me through this journey, sobbed with joy. I looked down at my body and thought, “Now what?”
“I bloom,” my body replied.
At 18 weeks, I had lunch with a colleague who remarked, “Wow, I’d never guess you’re pregnant—you look fantastic!” I smiled, but internally cringed, worrying about how I’d feel when my body began to show. At 20 weeks, I stepped on the scale for a doctor’s appointment and saw a number I’d never encountered before. “Great job! Your weight gain looks good!” the nurse declared. I was puzzled; for years, I had aimed for lower numbers. Now, we celebrated the increase? I silently apologized to my body for the cruelty of my past. “Thank you for growing anyway,” I said.
At 21 weeks, I felt a flutter from within. “Is that you?” I asked, sitting still with my hands on my belly. “The baby’s moving!” I exclaimed to Mark, eager for him to experience it too. I cradled my full stomach—the very same one I had demanded to stay empty for so long—and inhaled gratitude. “I’ll take care of you,” I whispered to my baby as I prepared a meal I knew they’d enjoy: macaroni and cheese.
As I met friends for dinner at 25 weeks, one exclaimed, “You look adorable!” I found it strange how curves were suddenly celebrated during this socially-accepted phase of life. “Don’t overthink it. Breathe and thank your body for this growth,” I reminded myself. “Adorable? No way,” I told my body. “You are vast and brilliant, helping me heal.”
I realized that this journey wouldn’t be easy. “I chose difficult a long time ago,” I said to my body. Just then, I felt a kick from within, affirming our bond. My baby was moving inside me, and that elusive apple was finally within reach. Here’s to this next half of my pregnancy, where I will continue to flourish.
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Summary
This article chronicles a woman’s transformative journey from struggling with body image and an eating disorder to embracing pregnancy and self-acceptance. Through her experiences, she learns to appreciate her body’s capabilities and the importance of nurturing herself and her growing family.
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