I was standing by the window, the afternoon light flowing through, brushing soft gold across the room. My hair was freshly undone, the sun warm on my skin.
As I slipped my dress over my shoulders, my eyes paused at my waistline—fuller now than it used to be. I turned slightly, catching my husband’s reflection in the mirror. A familiar thought crept in, uninvited and unkind.
“I’ve gained fifty pounds since last year,” I said aloud, not bitterly, but feeling honest and ashamed. “You don’t want to see this.”
From across the bedroom, my husband looked back while tying his shoes and without hesitation—without even blinking—
“No, ma’am. That’s the only thing I want to see. For the rest of my life, you’re my person. The one who grew and birthed our children. Who holds my hand through our toughest nights, that welcomes me home with tired eyes and open arms. That’s the body of my wife who has raised our children, carried our dreams, and held all our moments in between. For almost 20 years, that body has been my home. That’s the only body I’ll want to see for the rest of my life.”
And my heart stood still- soaking in the depth of his words. Some part of me, buried beneath the noise and nonsense of feeling a need to measure up, wanted to believe him.
He didn’t hesitate and I wasn’t surprised. He’s always been my anchor reminding me of my worth and accomplishments when I forget.
And it’s not performative. He doesn’t say as a man seeking to earn something in exchange. His words came not from flattery, but from the quiet certainty of a man who has witnessed every season I’ve endured- body and soul— and chooses me through them all. Not for a version of me that once was or might be again,
But for who I am now.
Not despite the changes,
But because of the life those changes represent.
Though it was a long road to get here, here we are all the same. It’s a love that’s grown in imperfection, presence and perpetual renewal.
In the quiet, daily act of showing up.
A love renewed by both grand gestures,
and even more so by small, sacred choices—again and again.
He said it like a man who has watched our love grow through years, not filters—
In the chaos of family routines,
In the softness of nursing a newborn at midnight, the grief of holding teenagers with a broken heart,
In the sacred, ordinary beauty of dishes piled high and laundry waiting for folding.
I remembered, in that tender silence after his words,
He didn’t choose me eternally because my body was beautiful.
He sees a beautiful body because he sees me, as a woman and a wife and a mother- that makes our life beautiful.
That morning, something shifted in the way I perceive my body. I remembered I don’t need to chase a stranger’s standard—or the echo of a past self, who now feels like a stranger too. I am carrying the story of a life I’ve helped cultivate. The weight I bear is the weight of meals shared with those I love and children cared for and, mostly, seasons suffered yet survived.
This body has raised four children, planted gardens and risen early to knead bread. It has laughed at the table, knelt in prayer, and stretched to carry all the memories that matter most. It has been the cradle of connection, the shelter of love, the warm place our family calls home.
So— my body is not my idol. It’s not a problem to fix or a trophy to polish.
It is a vessel to honor.
A story to cherish.
A home to cultivate.
And every curve, every scar, every stretch of it is proof of the life I’ve lived.
To the one who truly sees you,
Your body needs not be measured by inches or pounds,
But by how faithfully it has been the vessel of a life well-lived.
