The Weight of it

They told me breastfeeding would melt the weight away— like fat is obedient to love. But here I am, still wide in the mirror, still hungry in places no one sees. My body is a thrift store now— everything slightly used, a little stretched, not quite what it once was. I didn’t know that giving birth wasn’t the end of giving. I didn’t know my body would still be a home when I wanted it back. The world wants before-and-afters. Wants the snapback, the side-by-side proof that I survived with style. But I only have before-and-during. And a baby who holds on like I’m everything— not despite the softness, but maybe because of it. And maybe one day my body will be mine again. Or maybe this is what it means to be divine— to break, to hold, to remain.