Learning to Love a Postpartum Body After Loss

Nothing prepares you for the quiet after. The silence where cries should be, the ache in your arms where a baby should rest. I carried my daughter, Eden, full term. I felt every kick and dreamed every dream. Then she was gone before I even had the chance to watch her open her eyes.

What people don’t talk about enough is what happens after loss. Your body doesn’t know your baby passed. You still bleed, you still produce milk, and it still changes like any other postpartum body.

For a bit, I didn’t know how to look or feel about myself. My belly was soft and my hips were wide. Every stretch mark and curve feel like a cruel reminder of what I lost. I definitely didn’t bounce back. But how could I? My body had done something miraculous and yet, the miracle didn't stay.

But slowly, I began to see it differently. This body, my body, grew her. It was her first home. It kept her safe. It was the place she lived for the only time she had. That deserves love. Even if it hurts. Maybe especially because it hurts.

This journey hasn’t been linear. Some days I feel okay, grateful even. Other days, I stare in the mirror and wonder who I am now. The truth is, I’m someone who held life and lost it. Someone who mothered in the quiet. Someone who is learning to love a body that carries both scars and stories.

God didn’t make a mistake when He shaped a mother’s body. He designed it perfectly, with purpose and with precision. Even in the aftermath of loss, I can see His intentionality. I look at the faint linea nigra that still runs down my belly and smile. It hasn’t faded, and part of me hopes it never does. It’s a soft, sacred reminder that she was here. That my body made space for a miracle. That love once grew there.

So I speak kindly to my body now. I thank her for carrying Eden with so much love. I dress in clothes that fit today, not pre-pregnancy. I eat when I’m hungry, comfort myself when I’m aching, and rest when I’m tired. That’s what I would’ve done for Eden. And maybe, in some way, I still am.

This is what postpartum looks like for some of us, not diapers and lullabies, but tears and empty arms. But our bodies are still worthy. They still tell a beautiful story. They still deserve love, even when our hearts are broken.

So I’ll keep learning to love my body. Not in spite of what it’s been through, but because of it.

To every mama learning to love her postpartum body after loss: You are not alone. You are beautiful. And you are perfect.

Xoxo