These are my stretch marks. I created them.
I penned those words in my journal last summer, right next to the notes I was keeping about my mother’s health.
When you find yourself in a hospital room day after day, certain routines develop: the cheerful nods from nurses, the familiar status updates. You grow accustomed to seeing a loved one in a fragile and unfamiliar state. Yet, amidst this routine, extraordinary moments can arise, shifting your perspective.
As I entered my mother’s hospital room that day, I was overwhelmed by the sight of her body, the vessel that had nurtured her for 60 years. It had endured so much: breast cancer, kidney cancer, liver failure, and finally, a metastatic brain tumor. She hadn’t always treated it kindly, either—years of smoking, a decade of drinking, a love for desserts, and a lifelong aversion to exercise. But she never complained or showed any signs of self-pity, at least not in front of me.
It had been a few days since we last shared a meaningful conversation. Her eyes had closed, and she had stopped eating, but her hands were restless. She must have been scratching her abdomen because her bright green shirt had slid up, revealing her swollen belly.
For a brief moment, I thought I should look away and cover her up. My mother had always been self-conscious about her appearance. The only proof I had seen of her in a two-piece bathing suit was a faded red photograph from her teenage years—a snapshot of her 5-foot-10-inch frame with stunning legs taken long before I was born. Throughout my life, she had grumbled about the extra skin stretched around her three pregnancies, opting for one-piece swimsuits and beach cover-ups, always tugging at shirts that felt a little too revealing.
But in that quiet room, with just the two of us and some unplugged machinery, my gaze was drawn to the thick, white, jagged lines that extended from both sides of her body like the claw marks of a bear on a tree. An indescribable intensity washed over me, pulling me into a surreal moment where the emotional weight of our 40 years together seemed to be etched onto her skin.
What I saw in those marks on her belly was profound: I was her baby. I represented her sleepless nights and the heartburn that accompanied my growth. I embodied her breathlessness and the discomfort she felt trying to find a comfortable position. I was the wish she had during the last month of her life for time to speed up. There we were—a tapestry of joy, struggle, connection, laughter, and tears, and soon, she would be taking my marks with her.
Stretch marks are often seen as undesirable, and I understand that. Scars from pregnancy, C-section marks, sagging skin, and all the physical reminders of motherhood can weigh heavily on a woman’s self-image. I know that mothers who lament their stretch marks do not love their children any less. In modern society, it’s common to feel the urge to hide, alter, or conceal our bodies. We are individuals separate from our roles as mothers, and it’s natural to desire a sense of confidence about our appearances.
However, what if, just for a moment, when we run our fingers over those marks peeking out from swimsuits or jeans, we consider what our children might see? One day, our little ones may look at our scars and perceive not flaws or imperfections, but rather a deep connection and a wellspring of love etched onto our skin.
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In conclusion, while stretch marks may carry a stigma, they are also a testament to the powerful experiences of motherhood. They tell stories of love, sacrifice, and connection that transcend appearance.