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What I Discovered in My Mother’s Stretch Marks
These are my stretch marks. I created them.
I jotted down those words in the notebook I kept last summer, right beside my notes on my mother’s health. When you find yourself in a hospital room day after day, certain things become a part of your routine: the nurses’ greetings, the updates on her condition. You grow accustomed to seeing a loved one in a surreal state. But then there are moments that transform the mundane into the extraordinary.
I walked into my mother’s hospital room one day and was suddenly struck by her body, this vessel that had carried her for 60 years. To say it had endured a tough journey would be an understatement: breast cancer, kidney cancer, liver failure, and finally, a brain tumor. And let’s not forget, she wasn’t exactly kind to it either—years of smoking, a decade of boozing, an undying love for pastries, and a complete aversion to exercise. Despite it all, she never complained, at least not in front of me.
It had been a few days since we’d had a real conversation. She had stopped opening her eyes or eating, but she was fidgeting. I noticed her kelly green shirt had ridden up, revealing her belly, swollen with fluid.
For a brief moment, I thought about turning away or covering her up. My mom was always self-conscious about her body. The only proof I had of her ever wearing a two-piece swimsuit was a faded red photo from her teenage years, showcasing her 5-foot-10-inch frame and fabulous legs, likely snapped just before I came along. Throughout my life, she’d expressed discontent with the extra skin that had once stretched to cradle tiny humans, favoring one-piece suits and beach cover-ups, always tugging at her tops if they were too short.
But in that quiet room, with just the two of us and a few unplugged machines, I couldn’t help but stare at the thick, white, jagged lines crisscrossing her torso like bear claw marks on a tree. A wave of emotion washed over me, pulling me into a surreal moment where I felt the weight of our 40 years together etched into her skin.
In those marks, I saw my existence. I was her sleepless nights, her heartburn, her struggles to find a comfy position in bed, her wish to fast-forward through the last few weeks. There we were—a lifetime of joy, support, struggles, laughter, and tears. And soon, she would take those memories with her.
Let’s be real—stretch marks aren’t exactly a badge of honor. I totally understand. Whether it’s stretch marks, C-section scars, or the inevitable sagging that comes with motherhood, these physical reminders can be hard on a woman’s self-image. Moms might grumble about their stretch marks, but that doesn’t diminish the love they have for their kids. In our society, we often feel the pressure to hide, trim, or fill ourselves to fit an ideal. We’re individuals outside of our roles as mothers, and we want to feel good in our skin.
But what if, just for a moment, we paused while running our fingers along those marks that peek out from swimsuits or spill over the tops of jeans? What if we considered what our children see? One day, our little ones might look at our scars and see not imperfections or flaws, but rather a deep connection, overflowing love, and gratitude written across our skin.
If you’re interested in exploring more about motherhood and fertility, check out this post on intracervical insemination, which delves into helpful resources. Also, for tips on boosting your fertility, Make a Mom has some great insights. And if you’re curious about IVF and fertility preservation, I highly recommend listening to this Cleveland Clinic podcast.
In summary, our bodies tell stories—stories of creation, struggle, and unconditional love. Embracing these marks can help us foster a deeper connection with our children and celebrate the journey of motherhood.