I never cared for my body. 

As a girl, I scrutinized every imperfection. My body was an annoyance, a source of deep insecurity. As an adolescent, my body became a burden. It was something to be gawked at. A performance. A size. A problem to fix. It wasn’t until I became a mother in my 30s that I finally renewed my relationship with my body, and even came to revere it. 

I have never been softer, squishier, stretchier, fuller, and more fragile—and yet, after going through labor, I’ve never felt more powerful and physically limitless. My body is capable of wondrous miracles. My body can create and sustain life. That bears repeating—again, and again. My body can tear, heal, and renew. My body can generate a new organ and expand to extraordinary lengths and shrink back. My body wisely guided me through labor, and it can withstand incomprehensible pain. I’m forever grateful to my body because it’s the home that gave safe passage to the miraculous child I cherish. 

My body birthed the purest, most organic love—I didn’t know it was possible to love this hard. 

My child knows my heartbeat’s signature, my warmth, and my smell. She studies every facial microexpression of mine to confirm whether she’s safe. In her most vulnerable moments, my body is capable of comforting my daughter with a smile or warm embrace. I love my body’s inherent wisdom that guides me to read her every mood, cry, or gesture so I can fulfill her every need. 

I am her comfort. I am her shelter. I am her sustenance. I am her home. I am her safety. It’s with this body that we’ve built a forever bond of love and trust. In my daughter’s blue-hazel eyes, I’m her superhero. Donning my baby carrier—which I lovingly refer to as my superhero cape—I’m covered in baby spit stains, tousled dirty hair, unbrushed teeth, sunken eyes from sleep deprivation, but I’m absolutely overflowing with love for her. 

While there are days I don’t recognize my body after having given birth, I have a deep acceptance for the trials and tribulations it’s undergone to reward me with the greatest gift of my life. I didn’t know that in my hardest, most vulnerable moments—milk supply issues, painful latching, slow weight gain, combo feeding, illnesses, not knowing what the hell I was doing—that I’d feel so held by a loving and supportive sisterhood of mamas who get it and pay it forward because they, too, received the same grace.

There are also the doctors and nurses who’ve given me extra time in a room, or privacy to feed or change my daughter. Parking attendants who’ve heard my daughter crying in the car and taken the time to generously smile and say, “She’ll calm once you start driving.” Women in online motherhood communities reassuring me to trust my intuition. Mama friends I’ve made across the country who I’ve never met who remind me I’m doing a great job and that I’m the perfect mother for my little one. Friends who rally around me to sing nursery rhymes in the middle of a 5K walk to soothe my child. They all get it. They understand that mothers need tending to, and also the endurance, exhaustion, and physical and mental fortitude that comes with being initiated into motherhood.

So the next time I come across a mama who’s struggling with body issues or a screaming child, I, too, will pay it forward and remind her of the miracle she is—in case she’s forgotten.

Originally appeared in Golden Gate Mothers Group Magazine.