The Belly That Built My Babies: A Love Letter to My Body at 40

 I used to look at my stomach and wonder if it had betrayed me.

It didn’t look like it used to — smooth, flat, conveniently hidden behind low-rise jeans and the kind of confidence only 25-year-olds would have. Now, it folds when I sit, jiggles when I laugh, and has a soft curve that wasn’t part of the original packaging. 

But here’s the thing I’ve come to realize at 41: this belly, this body — it didn’t betray me. It carried me.

It carried me through heartbreaks and breakdowns, pregnancies and panic attacks. Through toddler tantrums, late-night drives to soothe a screaming baby, and the kind of exhaustion that makes your bones feel soft. And still, it shows up for me every single day.

This stomach? It’s not a failure. It’s a map of my life.

It stretched — literally — to make space for  entire humans. It withstood labor, healing, and the violent, slow-motion acrobatics of postpartum recovery. It gave me my babies, then stayed soft enough to cradle them against me while they slept.

Sure, now it jiggles when I run. (Okay, when I speed walk with enthusiasm.) But if I really think about it, this extra softness isn’t a flaw. It’s the evidence of life lived — of love given, meals shared, belly laughs had, and one too many late-night tortilla chips.

And you know what? I’m tired of apologizing for it.

I’m done with sucking it in for photos, wearing the “flattering” tops, and treating my body like a before-and-after project. I’m not a “before.” I’m not an “after.” I’m a right now. A woman in her 40s who is still evolving — and who deserves to feel good in the skin she’s in, even if that skin has some stretch marks and a slightly confusing relationship with gravity.

Do I still have moments where I look down and wish things were a little… tighter? Of course. I’m not a saint, I’m a woman with access to a mirror. But now, I try to meet those moments with grace instead of critique. Because this body is still here. Still working. Still showing up, even when I haven’t always treated it kindly.

And frankly, if someone has a problem with my soft middle or my strong thighs or my laugh lines — they can kindly go take a long walk off a short pier. This body and I are finally on good terms, and that’s a relationship I’m not willing to sabotage for the sake of someone else’s idea of beauty.

So here’s to the belly that built my babies. The hips that carried the car seat. The arms that have held and comforted and carried more than they ever expected. Here’s to every inch of me that has fought, failed, healed, and thrived.

I may not be the same woman I was at 25 — but honestly, I’d rather not be.

She didn’t know how strong she was yet.

And now, at 41, I’m not just learning to love this body for myself — I’m doing it out loud, so I can show my daughters their worth was never measured by their waistline. If they see me walk proudly in the body that built their world, maybe they’ll never waste a single day wishing theirs were different.

Because this reboot isn’t just mine — it’s a legacy.