As many of you know, I welcomed my third baby into the world this March. And though this isn’t my first dance with motherhood, I remain awestruck and humbled by the quiet, sacred magic of the human body. My body. How it knows, without being told. How it creates, nourishes, transforms. I grew an entire human inside me, without even thinking about it. Not by force or will, but by simply allowing life to happen. My body whispered yes, and the miracle began. And now, this same body feeds my baby from milk spun from my own blood—liquid love, poured from my body into another. If that’s not a superpower, what is?
This pregnancy gave me more than a child; it gave me reverence. Reverence for the flesh and bones that carried me through months of change—dramatic, wild change. But I’ll be honest: there were days, swollen and slow, when I’d scroll through photos of my pre-pregnancy self and ache for the body that once was. I’d look at photos and wish I could have that body back again. I wondered “would I ever be that fit again? But also I know that when I looked strong, I didn’t feel it.
I criticized.
I compared.
I tore myself apart.
So, I made a quiet vow during this final journey—yes, this is my last baby. I promised that I would no longer be the one to dishonor the temple I live in. This body, which built life from love, is no longer open to judgment. From this day forward, she will be met only with compassion, gratitude, and grace.
To mark this sacred shift, I had photos taken—bare, bold, pregnant. I hung a few in my bathroom, where I see them each morning. They remind me: speak only in love to this temple. Worship with words of kindness.
And yet…
Almost two months postpartum, the old voice creeps back in.
It notices the softness around my belly, the curve of my shoulders bent over a nursing baby, the sleep-heavy eyes staring back in the mirror. It whispers, “You look tired.” But this time, I answer back: Yes, I am tired. And I am strong.
If you’ve ever unrolled a yoga mat with me, you know that this story isn’t new. I’ve spoken at length—and from the heart—about the complicated, often painful relationship many women have with their bodies. Especially in a world that tells us we should be a size 2 at 42, and that skin should never dare to wrinkle or sag. It’s a cruel illusion. And I’m done chasing it.
I’m done shrinking myself for an ideal that was never mine to begin with. I’m done criticizing the very body that gave me the three souls I’d lay down my life for. From this day forward, I choose radical self love.
So, let’s practice together, shall we?
My body is my temple.
My body is my home.
My body is amazing.
I love you, sweet body.
Thank you for all you do, every single day.
Here are a few simple ways I’m honouring this promise:
- Standing tall. It’s hard with a baby in arms and a body still healing—but I lift my chest, I lengthen my spine. I remember that I am worthy of taking up space.
- Smiling at my reflection. Even on the days I don’t feel radiant, I search for beauty—and I find it.
- Catching the critic. When she whispers, I answer: “We don’t speak that way to her anymore.”
- Daily acts of care. Sometimes it’s a long, uninterrupted yoga practice. Sometimes it’s two extra minutes to gently rub lotion into my skin after a shower.
By Prestonne Sehn