During my pregnancy, I gained precisely one hundred pounds, an amount that, in retrospect, feels both astounding and inevitable. Between surrendering to every craving that arose, coping with anxiety through emotional eating, and being confined to bed rest toward the final weeks, I scarcely stood a chance at maintaining my previous habits. After giving birth, I was genuinely shocked to discover how much of that excess weight remained. Although I had been conscious throughout the pregnancy that my body was expanding rapidly, I had assumed most of it was what everyone reassuringly referred to as mere “baby weight.” Well-meaning friends and family encouraged me to indulge, asserting that pregnancy was a time to eat freely, and, quite frankly, I did just that.
The reality set in quickly after childbirth: I was left with approximately eighty pounds still clinging to my body, a number that completely overwhelmed me. Before pregnancy, my weight had been remarkably stable for years, rarely fluctuating more than ten pounds in either direction. I had always been able to counteract small gains with a bit of mindful eating and an increase in exercise until my clothes fit comfortably again. The notion of losing ten pounds felt familiar and manageable, but facing the daunting prospect of shedding eighty felt insurmountable. That realization sparked a kind of panicked desperation, transforming what could have been a gradual, healthy journey into an obsessive fixation on reclaiming my earlier body as quickly as possible.
In the beginning, I made what seemed like sensible adjustments—walking regularly and adopting a cleaner diet. However, what began as a balanced plan soon spiraled into something excessive. Because I had delivered via C-section, my body was still in significant pain, yet the nurses had emphasized that movement, particularly walking, would help my recovery. I threw myself into that guidance with relentless commitment. Each day, I would take my newborn in his stroller, accompanied by our dog, on two or even three long walks, each stretching about two miles. It was a considerable distance for someone still healing from major surgery, but I pushed forward regardless, driven by determination rather than self-compassion.
At home, my effort intensified into an almost compulsive pattern. If I needed something upstairs, I would intentionally walk the flight of stairs several extra times just to burn a few additional calories. The more I grew frustrated with my reflection and the scale, the more I sought out creative—and sometimes punishing—ways to move my body. Simultaneously, my relationship with food grew rigid and restrictive. I became preoccupied with consuming as few calories as possible, subsisting largely on vegetables and lean protein sources. My lunches regularly featured tuna on crackers or a simple black bean soup, while dinners were often reduced to minimalist dishes such as baked cabbage “steaks” drizzled with spicy Sriracha. It all spoke to the intensity of my mindset—one focused so narrowly on control that it eclipsed care.
With the clarity that distance provides, I now understand how much unnecessary pressure I placed upon myself. My urgency to return to my pre-baby form was not born from vanity alone—it stemmed from a desire to reconnect with a version of myself I recognized. Still, I see clearly now that my approach was both emotionally and physically detrimental. In that frenzied need to reclaim my identity, I lost sight of the gentleness and patience that the postpartum period truly demands.
When I look back on those early months, the regret I feel runs deeper than simply disliking my methods. The relentless pressure I created distracted me profoundly from my son. Instead of fully immersing myself in the fleeting, precious moments of his infancy—the small coos, the warmth of his weight in my arms, the wonder that filled our everyday routines—I was consumed by calorie counting, exercise schedules, and self-criticism. I can now see how a more loving, compassionate version of myself would have responded differently. She would have viewed the added weight not as failure, but as an unavoidable byproduct of one of life’s most extraordinary transformations. She would have trusted time and gentle movement to restore balance naturally, rather than forcing herself to meet impossible expectations.
I sometimes imagine an alternate version of those months—one where I allowed myself to simply play freely with my baby, to carry him, rock him, and laugh throughout the day, letting the joy of motherhood replace the mental checklist of workout goals. The physical activity embedded in ordinary caregiving likely would have been enough to foster gradual improvement, and in doing so, I would have spared myself from the immense mental weight of self-criticism. Perhaps, with less stress, I might even have recovered faster and embraced motherhood more fully.
In hindsight, I realize that many of my struggles might have been mitigated had I taken better care of my body during pregnancy itself. For years afterward, I entertained thoughts of doing it differently a second time around—imagining another pregnancy where I could apply what I’d learned: maintaining my typical healthy routines, continuing gentle exercise, and nourishing myself with balanced, thoughtful meals instead of indulgence driven by stress. If given the chance to revisit that chapter, I would prioritize self-awareness and steadiness rather than extremes.
That experience profoundly shaped the early days of my motherhood. While adjusting to the sleepless nights and emotional demands that naturally accompany caring for a newborn, I further burdened myself with guilt and relentless self-judgment. Instead of celebrating my body for its remarkable achievement—creating and sustaining life—I punished it, determined to correct what I saw as a loss of control. What I should have done was pause to honor my body for its resilience and for the extraordinary gift it had given me: my son.
By the time my son reached the age of two, I had finally managed to lose nearly all the weight. I could look in the mirror with a sense of satisfaction and acknowledge the effort it took to reach that point. Yet that triumph was bittersweet. With the urgency gone and a sense of calm replacing it, I began to notice all the moments I had rushed through or missed entirely because my attention had been elsewhere. By the time I felt comfortable again in my own skin, my little boy was no longer a baby. That realization hit me deeply and permanently—it became the lesson I carry forward.
From then on, I chose a different approach. I began to engage with my son more fully: running alongside him at the park, baking cupcakes together on quiet weekends, and finding joy in shared experiences rather than in numbers on a scale. Over time, my relationship with food and exercise returned to its natural, moderated rhythm—one motivated by well-being rather than self-punishment. With that balance restored, I discovered a renewed energy and presence, emotions that allowed me to wholeheartedly appreciate the child who had grown before my eyes. He truly did grow up so fast, and I now realize, with both regret and gratitude, that the most important transformation after motherhood was never physical—it was learning to cherish the moments that cannot be measured or regained.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/pregnancy-weight-gain-loss-regret-focus-after-birth-2025-10
