One of my biggest insecurities is my stretch marks. After I had my son I was covered in them. It’s been over two years and the deep gashes have made no progress on disappearing.
So in an attempt to try to not hate them (and myself) as much, here they are.
I used trace my mother’s stretch marks with my finger as a child—the ones along her stomach and the ones under her arms. We’d be napping or watching television and I’d just quietly run across them and find the patterns in the patches of sunlight, much like in the photos above. She always would say, “You gave me these,” but she said it proudly and directly every time.
I certainly dislike my own stretch marks, but I’ve come to peace with them. They’re just a sign of where I’ve been—both heavy and thin—and all the accomplishments and failures by body has gone through.