In a few hours my house would fill with the light of candles, the warmth of women’s bodies, the bells of ritual and the voices of deep connection. Some of my closest friends would gather in sacred feminine circle for my blessingway, or mother blessing, a ritual rooted in Navajo tradition to honor the rite of passage of a woman into motherhood.
I stood in front of my full-length mirror wearing a long skirt and tying a butterly-printed wrap at the top of my nine-months pregnant belly. I turned to the side and pulled at the fabric, giving it more flounce here, a deeper drape there. I adjusted and readjusted.
I loved the idea of showing my belly. It represented fertility, growth, and strength–not just of my body but of my spirit. It represented the journey I had undertaken in this pregnancy, through unexpected places, depression and anxiety, and some of the deepest moments of spiritual growth I’d ever experienced. Showing my belly would be an expression of pride in my movement into motherhood, where I had the freedom to still be myself and to develop increasing comfort in my own skin.
Exposing my belly could play a vital role in creating the space for our gathering, a sacred space of vulnerability and courage, where true belonging thrives. “Strong back, soft front, wild heart,” I can hear Brene Brown saying. Showing my belly would be showing myself. I wanted to step into courage and intuition, the same courage and intuition I would summon in giving birth. Something was inviting me into deeper communion with myself by baring my belly.
Showing my pregnant body felt like a radical statement, a feminist reclamation of strength and beauty. My pregnant body was untamed, persistent and assertive in its animal changes. I couldn’t tell it to be something else, to look a different way. It would grow into the shape that it needed to be. I couldn’t control it. There was something undeniably sexy about its steady and confident growth, how certain it was of its purpose and what it wanted and needed.
And, this, too: it was an outward and visible sign of my active sexuality. This big belly out in the open said, “Sexual woman coming through!” I could feel myself moving away from shame around sexuality when I imagined proudly showing my bare belly.
Being aware of all these layers, I walked towards the mirror, and I still couldn’t help but notice that there was a little jiggle at the bottom of my belly.
And on the side, I spotted what was not quite a roll but some softness in shadow that had the suggestion of a roll. I didn’t see the tight, compact pregnant belly I usually see proudly profiled in photos. I saw the naked belly of someone who has some body fat and gravity and extra skin from another pregnancy.
Plus, I am a dark-haired woman, and pregnancy amplifies all hair production. My belly was looking pretty fuzzy. Too fuzzy?
Maybe this wasn’t the kind of pregnant belly that women flaunted. It looked fine under clothing and sometimes even beautiful but it looked different exposed—a whole world of skin, its own biome. It had its own stratosphere. Was my belly too big too soon? Or not the right kind of big? Or maybe not the most attractive shape?
Would it make people uncomfortable? Would they feel embarrassed for me? Would they find me less beautiful? Would they see what my body REALLY looks like and find it gross? Would they not want to hug me or touch me because it felt too intimate?
Maybe a bare pregnant belly was for celebrities on the cover of Vogue but not for me. Maybe not for someone in Jackson, Mississippi. Maybe if I lived in a freewheeling spiritual vortex like Santa Fe or in the tie-dyed woods of crunchy Vermont. Yes, then.
Always then, not now. Always somewhere else, not here. Always someone else, not me.
I stopped. I re-centered myself in truth.
There is nothing wrong with this belly. I am healthy. I am taking care of myself and my baby. My belly’s purpose is not to look a certain way. Right now its purpose is to do the intricate work of creation. My organs are pushed out of place to make way for growing life. My areolas darken, becoming target disks that are easy for newborn mouths to find, chocolate biscuits promising sustenance and survival outside the womb. My body is rearranging itself in glorious change.
I looked again and saw a body that is still doing the same wondrous work of building bones, brain, and nervous system no matter how it looks.
I write all this knowing that somewhere out there is a woman with a baby belly squishier than mine thinking, “She looks perfect. What’s she have to fret over? I wish I looked like her.” And somewhere out there is a woman with a belly smaller than mine thinking, “She looks so healthy and round. I wish I had that.” And somewhere out there is a woman who is longing for a baby in her belly, and maybe she’s thinking, “I won’t care what my belly looks like as long as it holds a baby. I wish I had what she has.”
Let’s let this shared body pain connect us rather than divide us. Let’s let it connect us as we realize that we were incubated under the same fluorescent-light culture of body flaws and dressing room mirrors, being shown that our bodies are incomplete or broken. We were sold lies about our worth and the source of our power. They sold it to us in glittered packages, promising fuller this and slimmer that. They thought they could buy us. We grew up and found our own currency, and the only way it’s passed through our hands will be through loving action and safe touch. We are not for sale.
One thing that keeps me grounded is remembering that even when I was literally 100 pounds lighter than I am at this nine-months pregnant moment, I wasn’t happy with my body. I still thought it had rolls and mounds and places where skin met skin in ugly, unacceptable ways. And every pound between 13 years and today, I have had issues with the way my body looks. So it has nothing to do with the way my body looks. It has everything to do with the lie. The sneaky, too-easy lie that keeps me focused on getting smaller and prettier, conforming to fit into pre-fabbed packages rather than opening my eyes to my own expansiveness and agency.
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That day in front of the mirror, I said, “This stops here. This stops now. This is the pivot point.”
If there were any time when body acceptance deserved to rule, this was it. I was preparing for my blessingway. Blessings. Life upon life, love upon love, blessing upon blessing.
This was a gathering of my inner circle and dear women who brought nothing but love and support, nothing but awe at the wonders of the creation of my body and the creation of all else I bring to the world.
We gathered to celebrate feminine strength and to honor the different stages of a woman’s life.
We celebrated the many ways we choose to live in and experience our bodies, whether mother or not.
We lifted up all that the hands and voices of women build in this world, all that our backs carry.
This was not a time to let a little jiggle and roll hold me back from my dreams of showing myself fully and authentically. This was a time to let real-life womanhood, in all its shapes and beauty, say NO to the lies of one-size, one-shape beauty and strength. This was a time to embody whatever kind of womanhood I wanted to embody.
I don’t want anyone else to be ashamed of the shape of their pregnant belly. My whole-hearted desires for others often inspires me to give myself the same kindness and to act bravely. It helps to practice courage in safe spaces first. Aside from the mother-goddess vision I imagined embodying, I wanted to step forward and confidently show my own body to help normalize the many shapes and sizes our bellies grow into when they make new life. If I wanted to be an earth mama with a bare belly and a flower crown, then I would be it. I would goddess on.
I’m so glad I did. I invited my friends to touch my belly, and as they said their hellos to baby and waited to feel kicks, I felt a barrier had been crossed, a new connection linked between us and within me. Feeling the skin of their palms against my bare skin felt so intimate and sacred. In a few weeks my baby would rest on my chest, too, skin to skin. This skin holds life. This skin holds comfort. This skin holds strength.
My dear friends dipped their fingers in a bowl of water as they anointed me, offering blessings like “Bless Catherine’s heart, that she may be open to the wisdom of all women… Bless Catherine’s core, that she may live in a way that is true to her deepest self.” I was touched from crown to toes with healing water.
The touch I received from friends that night on my head, my belly, my hands, my feet was the safe touch from healing hands that I crave but am often hesitant to invite or request. Non-romantic physical affection has a special healing power for me, as someone whose body has been violated sexually. Relating to each other as people with bodies—sacred, strong, and beautiful bodies—and sharing gentle touch is a territory of growth for me that touches every layer of my identity.
I think baring my belly at my blessingway was one more step on my birth journey, one more courage practice in actualizing the vision that I want to embody. Showing my belly was part of reclaiming my freedom, having the courage to try something different in order to move closer to my authentic self. Nothing holds me back except my fear of being truly seen, of being too much, of doing the thing I dreamed of doing and still falling short, still feeling like I’m not enough.
I have everything I need within me.
My birth journey is not just about the birth of my child; it is about my birth as a mother and as a woman.
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