Thoughts on the Stretch Marks on My Belly

The incomplete road toward self-acceptance.

I was at a clothing store, a place where they sold clothes way more expensive than I typically buy. However, I had been saving money: I needed this moment to be exceptional.

I don’t care much about my wardrobe, but this felt like some sort of rite of passage — a transition into a whole new me.

For the past couple of years, I had bought very cheap clothes. The reason? I had immersed myself in a structured eating and exercise program that had me dropping sizes at hyper-speed, so there was no point in investing too much money in my wardrobe. The best part was that, finally, I was doing it in a healthy fashion: not starving myself and not using so-called hacks.

I could feel it in my body and mind: this was it. The energy and focus that coursed through me were like nothing I had ever experienced before. My years of struggling with binge eating disorder and poor self-image seemed behind me.

I went into the store wearing an old pair of jeans. Since they were way too big for me now, I had to tighten a belt around my waist to make sure they wouldn’t fall. Still, I was very excited. This was my big reward: I had finally reached my ideal weight and was going to get a few pairs of jeans in my new size.

I wanted them to be expensive…okay, not that expensive, but I was going to spend way more money than I typically do. You see, these jeans were meant to last me several years because my body was going to stay healthy and in good physical shape.

I looked at the available assortment, and I quickly saw what I wanted: bootcut, black, and blue denim. I wasn’t sure what my size would be, so I grabbed as much variety as I could.

To my astonishment, pair after pair, all of the jeans were too big for me. I gave my selection back and grabbed smaller sizes.

I’m not going to lie to you: I was elated. Happy. Fulfilled.

Fucking proud.

Eventually, I found my size. I looked at myself in the full-body mirror inside the store’s fitting room. I don’t have that kind of mirror at home, so I wanted to take the opportunity to take a good look at myself as I undressed.

However, all of this time, as I went through all of the pairs of jeans, there had been a particular spot in my body I had been avoiding. Just before I ended my shopping spree, I decided enough was enough and took a hard, long look.

Sure enough, there, on full display in the mirror, my sagging belly said hello, stretch marks and all.

Fuck…

A Road Map

That’s what my belly looks like: a map of all the roads in California…or Texas…maybe Florida or Guadalajara. Take any state you prefer; it doesn’t make much of a difference.

The skin on my belly is utterly broken.

And, as I walked out of that store, in what should have been a moment of triumph, all I could think about was that a woman shouldn’t look like that.

You know, like me.

Which, of course, is ridiculous because most women have stretch marks. For example, it is estimated that 8 of 10 pregnant women will develop them. Oh, and let’s not forget, they can also happen due to rapid weight shifts.

I was guilty of those two crimes.

Through years of uncontrolled food consumption, I kept on adding pounds to my body. That’s how I got my first stripes. Later on, when I got pregnant, many more decided to join the party.

At the time, believe it or not, I didn’t think much of them. Being fat was already enough of a burden.

Muscle, Baby, Muscle

But that was all behind me now, right? I had accomplished my goal! A healthy body, stronger than ever.

Why couldn’t I be satisfied?

How come, instead of focusing on the discrete yet powerful muscles on my arms, I kept staring at my belly? Why did I disregard the incredible numbers on my lab results? Gone were the days of worrying about becoming a diabetic or having a heart attack.

But I wasn’t happy. My damn belly was getting in the way of my bliss.

The Reason

I went through several stock photography sites to find an image for this article. It was hard work. It seems that nobody wants to take pictures of people with stretch marks.

Once I found an image, I hesitated. Maybe I should use a photo of a sad-looking woman…It worried me readers might be thrown away by the sight of that. Of this.

Of it.

That’s when I figured out why my stretch marks disgust me so much.

They are a sign of all of my flaws. First, I failed at being skinny. Later on, I failed at being a cute pregnant lady. And last but not least, I didn’t get my body to bounce back a week after delivering my baby.

I failed at having an Instagram-ready body.

When we look at pictures of women all over mass media, the standard is a smooth, flawless belly. I know that, in most cases, there is body makeup and filters involved, as well as some clever camera positioning.

You see, all of those tricks are “necessary” because to show a flawed female body would be unacceptable. We demand women to be a certain way, to look perfect, ageless…unspoiled.

What to do?

This is not a petition to make the perfect bellies disappear. Hey, I like them too! Still, could we make an effort to have more diversity in the kind of bellies that get to be shown around?

So far, all we get are PR stunts. Look at how this one brand showed one woman with one stretch mark on the back of this one ad.

It’s not enough.

We need an orgy of bellies: bellies of all colors, shapes, ages, and sizes.

It took decades of brainwashing to convince us that stretch marks were this disgusting, unusual thing.

How long will it take for us to internalize a new sense of self-love?

May I share a fantasy?

As I said, I struggled to find a picture for this article. At some point, I even toyed with the idea of taking a picture of my belly.

I couldn’t get myself to do it…not yet.

I dream of a day when I dare hire an upscale photographer, select a gorgeous location, and have him take nude pictures of me.

And, in all of those pictures, my belly would occupy center stage. There, for the world to see, all of my stripes. My scars. My stretch marks.

I have just one favor to ask. When I do this — because I will do it — don’t you dare call this a brave, empowering act.

Instead, please, call it normal.

Because it is, and it should always have been.

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