If you’re a woman in 2025, I’d find it hard to believe you haven’t, at any given point, struggled with positive body image. For the millennials amongst us, if you managed to make it out of the early 00s without an eating disorder or a highly warped view of what healthy looks like -congratulations, you’re one of the minority. We grew up in a time when magazines and tabloids were king, and front pages reading ‘How to lose a stone in just 14 days!’ were the norm. Special K diets in which you ate just three bowls of cereal daily were televised, and no one thought that to be outrageous. TV characters like Bridget Jones, who was a whopping nine and a half stone, were viewed as overweight and in desperate need of a makeover. Victoria Beckham was forced to get on the scales live on air, two months postpartum, to check if her weight was ‘back to normal’ – unfortunately, these are just a few examples among many that could fill this entire page. It’s impossible to make it out of the other side of that narrative unscathed, and growing up as a teenager during these times was highly problematic for vulnerable young girls – including me. 

I have always loved food. I was never a fussy child; I would try anything and regularly finish my plate. I’ve never had a sweet tooth, and my preferences naturally lean towards the healthy side. I’d pick a bowl of olives over a bowl of pick ‘n’ mix, even at the age of 5. And honestly, until the age of 14, what I was eating and how I looked never even crossed my mind. Maybe I was lucky that the diet and ‘skinny’ culture all over every media outlet never reached me until then, or I had the innocence to ignore it. Or perhaps, as I was always naturally a very petite child and teenager, I fit the description of what was deemed ‘acceptable’ at that time without trying too hard, so I never felt it applied to me. Until one summer, everything changed.

I remember going on summer holidays in year 8 with a child’s body and returning to school in September with a young woman’s. I had started my period, gone from flat-chested to a 32D cup, I’d shot up in height, and my hips had widened. I was probably a small size 8, and I hadn’t given my new body much thought at all, other than the addition of some stretch marks across my hips and bum. I continued to enjoy food the way I always had until I started to put on some weight, and a family member made a throwaway comment that would completely change how I viewed my body for the rest of my life. I have to caveat by saying I know this person loves me dearly and would never want to hurt me. Still, they grew up in a time when commenting on women’s bodies wasn’t frowned upon, and so when they flippantly said ‘Corr Shan, you’re getting a bit of a belly there!’ they didn’t know that this would change my life as I knew it. 

I distinctly remember feeling so confused at that moment. I didn’t even know what I weighed – I had never weighed myself before. I hadn’t ever thought about how other people’s bodies or my own looked before that conversation, but I knew that if someone commented on it, it must look bad, and as I’ve said in my previous story, I never wanted to be anything less than perfect. At that point, I was a very healthy, fit, and happy size 8-10, and I couldn’t have weighed more than nine stone. I remember that my parents took me shopping because many of my old clothes hadn’t fit, and I absolutely loved going into Topshop on Oxford Street and trying on women’s clothes for the first time. I didn’t think going up a size was bad; if anything, I was thrilled it meant a whole new wardrobe. God, what would I give to view my weight like that now? 

From then on, my weight was no longer something I had never thought about but something I hadn’t stopped thinking about, and it continued that way for the next 10+ years. During that period of my life, I went through some very dark times in which I starved and abused my body. I don’t want to go into the details of what I did or what weight I was because I don’t want to put ideas into the heads of anyone vulnerable who may be reading this. But, it got far worse and out of my control than I ever intended. I eventually spent time under the supervision of an eating disorder clinic and in therapy, but my recovery didn’t really begin until I was ready for that part of my life to be over and until I felt strong enough to start beating the addiction I had to losing weight. It wasn’t linear, and I’d still find myself having a disordered relationship with food and displaying unhealthy thought patterns way into my recovery. In truth, I never felt at peace with my appearance during my twenties. 

Then I got pregnant.

From the moment you find out you’re pregnant, your body starts to change. Deep blue, throbbing veins resembling a tube map of multiple Piccadilly lines are now visible on your chest. Your hips widen seemingly overnight, and cellulite appears in places that never were before. Your back broadens, and your ribcage expands as your organs move upward, making way for the baby to grow. Your nipples get bigger – like wayyyyyy bigger – and darker, so the baby, when born with limited vision, can easily find them to hopefully have their first feed at the breast, if that’s what you choose to do. And, of course, your stomach grows wider, larger, and rounder than ever to accommodate an entire human. It is nothing short of a miracle. Now, to someone who has lived with disordered eating for the majority of their adult life, these changes could come with a whole host of problematic thoughts, but strangely, I had never loved my body more than when I was growing my son. 

I had never been one for bodycon dresses or bikinis. I lived in oversized t-shirts or voluminous dresses that swamped my petite frame, and I would always choose a swimsuit to cover my stomach, which I would consider my ‘problem area’. But when I became pregnant, and my bump really started to show, I couldn’t get enough of tight-fitting dresses and outfits that made it glaringly obvious I was carrying a baby. I proudly held my huge belly in every photo; I paraded it around in a tiny two-piece on holiday, and I didn’t even care that along with my new belly came back fat, with bigger arms and expanding thighs. I felt immensely proud of what my body was doing and that it was even able to do it after everything I’d put it through in earlier years. I remember taking photos of myself in the hotel mirror on our babymoon, 32 weeks pregnant, heavier than I had ever been and thinking, ‘How could I have ever hated my body?’ The fact that it was now home to my unborn baby, who I already adored, gave me a whole new perspective.

With each week that went by, I would stare at my growing belly in the mirror. I’d rub oil over my skin, which was now strewn with stretch marks, and not even care. It was remarkable that I had reached this headspace. I had no idea what I had weighed pre-pregnancy until I had to step on the scales at my booking appointment. This was triggering for me as I had stopped weighing myself many years before, as that was the healthiest approach to recovery for me. I didn’t enjoy this moment, but I knew getting a picture of my health was necessary. I never weighed myself again during my pregnancy. I didn’t care if I’d gained 1 or 4 stone because I’d gained so much appreciation and respect for my body. I wish I were able to get to that place pre-pregnancy, but it took my body becoming more than just a vessel that served me, but now kept my baby alive, for me to realise how incredible the female anatomy really is.

I have never had more respect or pride in myself than I did after childbirth – I couldn’t believe that I was capable of enduring 42 hours of pain and pushing out a human on just gas and air. As I held my son, it didn’t matter that I was battered, bruised and hadn’t slept for the best part of 4 days – the surge of Oxytocin was indescribable, and I felt like Superwoman. But, as I got in the shower post-birth and looked down at my body, I no longer loved every inch of its new form. My stomach had shrunk considerably but was now slack, spongy, and felt like raw focaccia dough. My boobs were heavy and bulging, sitting far lower than they ever had, now they didn’t have my bump to rest on. My arms and legs felt strong and weak simultaneously. It’s a strange thing to see your body like that for the very first time. Just moments before, it held your most precious possession, and it was no longer about you, and maybe, like me, you loved it. But now, standing there, bleeding, sore and exhausted, this new body feels completely alien to you. 

Although I started my pregnancy as a fairly petite person and had lived that way for most of my life, I certainly did not bounce back postpartum in any way, shape, or form. I didn’t look like the girls on Instagram that were effortlessly slipping into their old jeans, or cuddling their babies on beaches with a taut tummy just 3 months after giving birth. I absolutely loved what my body had done for us both, but I hated looking in the mirror. My appearance felt unrecognisable. Whenever I caught sight of myself in those first few months, I would think, ‘Who even is that?!’ I looked tired, overweight and dishevelled. Weeks and months passed, and still, my old clothes were nowhere near fitting me. I hated wearing all the clothes I had previously loved during my pregnancy because, without a bump, they just looked ridiculous, but they were the only things that fit me for a long time. I didn’t want to spend money on clothes in a bigger size because I didn’t plan on staying that size for much longer, but I also didn’t have anything else to wear that wasn’t maternity leggings. I bought myself a few new things and lived in those for the best part of 8 months. 

I made a promise to be kind to myself during this time and to give myself grace, without diets, without restrictions, without my weight and body taking up too much headspace. And I am proud to say that I think I achieved that. I never weighed myself post birth, I never went on any fad diets or forced myself to exercise because I wanted to get my ‘old body’ back. I gave myself time to focus on my new role, to learn who this new version of me was and to acclimatise to all the new thoughts, worries and responsibilities that were taking up so much space for me mentally, without berating myself for the space I was taking up physically. I spent all the energy and effort I could muster looking after my new baby, and I’d grab a piece of toast, a biscuit or a slab of cheese on the way to the prep machine.

As time passed, probably over a year, I naturally lost the majority of my baby weight. However, even when the scales read the same number as they did at that booking appointment, many of my old clothes still didn’t fit me, and likely never would again. I want to sit here and say that it doesn’t bother me, but that would be a lie. Sometimes, I look at some of the beautiful clothes I spent a lot of money on hanging in my wardrobe (I’m yet to part with some of my special pieces) and wish I could wear them again, but my entire makeup is now different. My ribcage is wider, I’m 3 cup sizes larger, and I have diastasis recti, which is the separation of the abdominal muscles due to pregnancy. It’s pretty laughable that I thought my stomach was a ‘problem area’ pre-babies when now, after 2, I can fit three fingers into my belly button. 

After my second child, I struggled more with how my body looked postpartum. As I write this, she’s still only 6 months old, which feels strange to say, as it feels like she’s been here forever, but I’ve also been in much more of a rush to get back to feeling like ‘me’. This may be because, after having my first, I had reached a point where I recognised myself physically and mentally again. Although I wasn’t entirely happy with my new body, I accepted it because having my son was worth every stretch mark and inch of muscle separation. I had gotten my ‘pink back’. For those who aren’t familiar with this term, it was coined by Lindsey Gurk, a lifestyle influencer, who aptly named this feeling post-babies after she discovered that flamingoes temporarily lose their vibrant pink hue while raising their young, as they take all of their food and energy sources. This term couldn’t be more fitting for how I felt after having my son. 

After getting my pink back the first time, I’ve felt more impatient to get it back this time because I know it’s coming. I distinctly remember a shift happening for me when my son was around the same age as my daughter is now. The dust had begun to settle. He was sleeping through, I had grown accustomed to my new routine, the shock factor was wearing off, and I started to see some parts of the ‘old me’ slowly returning. I don’t think you’re ever the same person after having children (that’s a topic for another day), but some aspects do return, and it’s nice to reach a point where you remember you’re not just a mum.

This time, I’ve felt differently, and I think a lot of this is down to experience, as having a second, for me, has felt far less of a shock and an undertaking than my first did. I’ve felt capable of taking things on (like this page for example) that I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing when my son was this small. It has all felt much easier, which is partly down to her temperament, and partly down to me having more confidence because I’m already doing all the ‘mum stuff’. My life hasn’t drastically changed in any way, I’ve just added another string to the bow I was already busy weaving – and so for me, I’ve felt ready to start thinking about myself again, far earlier than I did the first time around.

I’ve slowly eased myself into exercise and focused on eating three balanced meals a day – something quite new for me. Previously, I have been guilty of going all day without eating because I’m ‘too busy’ or ‘haven’t had time’, and I was feeling awful for it. Now, I make sure to feed myself every time I feed my children a meal, and for the first time ever, I’m prioritising my health and strength by taking some ‘me time’ and going to the gym. I’m not a gym bunny by any means, and I never have been, but I’m enjoying the hour of uninterrupted time to do something just for me. This feels more important to me than the number on the scale.

Most importantly, I have had to change my stance on eating and my body image, because I’m determined not to raise children who have poor body image or low self-esteem—especially now that I have a daughter. I don’t want food to ever be an important topic or labelled ‘good’ or ‘bad’ in my house, and I want to lead by example. I’ve started to tell them that I will be going out to the gym, and Ren says, ‘So you can be strong to pick me up,’ and I love that. I’m careful about how I talk about my body and how they see me looking at myself in the mirror, and I now make a conscious effort to share mealtimes with them – something I know Ren loves to do.

I’d love to say that I don’t care how my new body looks or that I wouldn’t like to be my pre-baby weight, but that isn’t true. But right now, that isn’t the goal for me. I am proud that I have managed to get through two pregnancies and two postpartum periods as someone who has recovered from an eating disorder without slipping back into old habits and unhealthy mindsets. The truth is, I love what my body has done, but I struggle with how it looks. Some days, I feel great, and others, usually when my period is due, it gets me down.

Today, my son turned to me as I dressed, threw his arms around me, and said, ‘Mummy, I love your squishy belly so much; it’s so cosy.’ He then turned to his baby sister and said, ‘Sissy, mummy gives the best hugs because she’s squishy’. Instead of beating myself up over his comment, I told him I am squishy because both he and his sister used to live inside my belly, and it stretched so they could grow. He looked at me wide-eyed and said, “I love it.” 

So now, I try to love it, too.