This Body. What it Carried, What it Cost, What it Gave.

BEFORE

Holy moly, I had found my groove.

Intermittent fasting, consistent walks, an full summer's worth of tan — the whole world felt brighter and fuller. When I look back at photos from that time now, I think: wow, I looked great. Not because of an insane amount of working out or dieting. Just because I had finally, quietly, found my rhythm.

But here's the honest part. I couldn't see it then. I never fully can. There's an automatic recording that runs in the background of my mind — a low hum that says you could look better — and it's been there so long I sometimes forget it's not the truth. It's just noise.

Persistent, exhausting, lying noise.

I don't know that I'll ever be able to fully trust my own reflection. That's something I'm still working out. But I'm getting better at noticing when the noise is louder than the evidence.

And then... we were pregnant.

DURING

The day after I took the pregnancy test, I was on a road bike riding 25 miles to support The Soul Project at The Rodman Ride for Kids. Somewhere along that ride, pedaling with a secret tucked inside me that I hadn't even had a full day to absorb, I thought: kid, you've got a badass mama. And I meant it — for both of us.

When I found out I was pregnant, fasting stopped immediately. And something unexpected happened — I was fine with it. More than fine. I was proud of being fine with it. I was in charge of supporting a life, and that clarity cut right through the noise. For once, the reason to let go of control was bigger than the fear of letting go.

That said — the background recording didn't go quiet. We waited until 20 weeks to tell people, for our own reasons, which meant I couldn't be honest about what was happening to my body. I felt the old familiar judgment creeping in: oh, there goes Christine, fluctuating in weight again. Even knowing I was growing a person, even knowing what that required, the automatic mind did what it does. And the cruelest part? Not a single person who actually loves me would have ever thought that. The judgment was entirely mine — borrowed from old stories, pointed inward, serving no one.

What no one told me — or told me and I didn't believe — was that nausea doesn't always stop after the first trimester. Mine didn't. I was nauseous and vomiting through most of my pregnancy, right up until the operating table for my emergency C-section. The only way to manage it was to eat before the hunger fully set in, because hunger and nausea arrived together every single time. So I ate. Always aiming for the healthiest option — but also honoring the easiest, because I was exhausted.

Corey and I were coaching girls' travel basketball and running the town girls' rec program through all of this, which meant fast food more often than normal. And listen — I will die on this hill, flame-broiled and proud — Burger King hits different when you're pregnant in winter. I have zero regrets.

Winter. That part matters too. Short days, freezing temps, seasonal depression quietly doing its thing in the background. The months that are always hardest for me, layered on top of nausea and body changes I couldn't talk about yet. It was a lot to carry quietly.

And then — spring. And with spring came softball.

Somewhere along the way I cracked the code: eating consistently, gum or mints, and a bubbly drink kept the nausea at bay just enough. The world opened back up a little. I was outside, coaching my girls, fully in it — catcher's squats, sideline cheers, chanting at the top of my lungs. The day before I was induced, I did a cartwheel. I am not joking. A full cartwheel, belly and all. And I am genuinely proud of that. Because what this body could do even while stretched to its absolute limit, with a fully grown baby inside, was nothing short of remarkable.

AFTER

The moment River arrived, it was like someone lifted a weighted blanket I had been wearing

for nine months. The nausea — gone. The vomiting — gone. Every daily symptom that had been my constant companion, just: gone. I felt incredible. And as a bonus, I had this tiny, perfect nugget in my arms. The relief and the joy hit at the exact same moment, and I don't think I've ever felt anything quite like it.

I delivered at the end of May, which meant I had the whole summer in front of me. And if you know me at all, you know: summer is when I come alive. Long days, heat, friends, movement — it's where I am the most myself. True to form, I was on the softball field not long after, baby strapped into the Bjorn, cheering my Pink Pony Club team from behind the fence. I couldn't help myself. I wanted to be out there.

And in full Christine-fashion, I attacked the summer with travel softball — running from

tournament to tournament, portable breast pump silently working its magic along the way. When the sun is out, I have no kill switch. I am up and at it, all of it, all the time. That part of me didn't change. If anything, it had more to run toward.

When I look back at those first weeks — the hospital stay, the stillness, our little family of four, the visitors and the coos and the naps — I think: how beautiful. There is no other time in my life I have treasured more. And I've been lucky enough to have a lot of incredible memories to compare it to.

But in the background, even then, I was struggling with my size. I know when I'm not happy with my body. I take fewer photos. I avoid mirrors and the reflection in store windows. I pray that other people's cameras find a flattering angle. The noise gets louder.

And then I asked myself: what's the alternative?

To not document this season of my life because I'm too hard

on myself? To let the most treasured chapter go unrecorded because I couldn't make peace with what I looked like while living it? That cannot be the answer. It will never be the answer.

I want to be clear about something. I understand — deeply — what my body did. What it went through, what it built, what it brought into this world. I hold that with enormous gratitude. And I'll also tell you this: understanding what your body did does not automatically make it easy to live in a body you're not comfortable with. Both of those things are true at the same time. And I think more of us need to say that out loud.

BREASTFEEDING

I breastfed until River was 10 months old. And while it was one of the most beautiful things I have ever done, beautiful is only part of the story.

Fasting — my anchor, my structure, the thing that makes me feel most like myself — had to stay on the shelf to protect my milk supply. I understood why. I held on as long as I could. And I'll be honest with you, because that's what we do here: when we were done, when that chapter closed, there was grief and quiet relief. Grief because this special season was over. Relief that I could come back to the tool that helps me feel in control of my body again. Both feelings were real. Both were allowed.

In the thick of those 10 months, I felt perpetually disheveled. Wild hair, crusty milk seemingly everywhere, always ready to whip them out for River the moment he needed me. I felt... untamed. Not in a beautiful Glennon Doyle way — just in a when did I last shower kind of way.

And then I'd look down at him. That little face, that sound. The soft, rhythmic pull of him eating, and the way his whole body would relax into it. And everything — the discomfort, the exhaustion, the loss of my own routine — would just melt. Every single time. What an extraordinary thing to give another person. What a gift to have been able to give it at all.

NOW

River has taught me something I've been trying to learn my whole life: how to be present. Truly, fully, right-here present. He doesn't give you a choice. He is the moment, constantly — and following him there has been one of the unexpected gifts of this past year.

As he approaches his first birthday, I can feel my season coming. Longer days, more walks, more water. More honest conversations with myself. More forgiveness. More grace. Less of the shame spiral that helps absolutely no one — least of all me.

I've returned to intermittent fasting — but this time, I want to look at it more closely than I have before. I love what it gives me: structure, control, clarity. But I'm also asking myself the harder question: is it healthy, the way I do it? Is the control I love a tool or a crutch? I don't have the answer yet. Stay tuned.

There's something else worth naming. We live in an era where it's not just fad diets anymore — those I made peace with years ago. Now you scroll through any platform and you're met with bodies that make you wonder: what are they doing? Is it assisted? Is it medical? Is it safe? Is it for me? That comparison is its own kind of noise, and it's louder than it's ever been.

I'm choosing to tune it out. Or at least, I'm trying. Let's see how my season goes.

What I know for certain: I would never want anyone to speak to themselves the way I sometimes let my brain speak to me. Especially not Leighton. Especially not River. The cycle ends here — I said it once about food and body image, and I'll keep saying it for as many years as it takes until I mean it effortlessly.

This body carried something extraordinary. It earned a little grace.

One more thing, before you go. This is not a post written to hear "Christine, you look amazing" or "you're so hard on yourself" — as much as those words are always received with love. This is me being raw and honest because I've learned, above all else, that writing is how I process. There is alchemy happening with each sentence. Something shifts as the words find their shape. And then I finish it all off with some Reiki — and by the time I hit publish, I'm already a different version of myself than the one who started typing.

Holy moly, I had found my groove.

Intermittent fasting, consistent walks, an August tan — the whole world felt brighter and fuller. When I look back at photos from that time now, I think: wow, I looked great. Not because of an insane amount of working out or dieting. Just because I had finally, quietly, found my rhythm.

But here's the honest part. I couldn't see it then. I never fully can. There's an automatic recording that runs in the background of my mind — a low hum that says you could look better — and it's been there so long I sometimes forget it's not the truth. It's just noise. Persistent, exhausting, lying noise.

I don't know that I'll ever be able to fully trust my own reflection. That's something I'm still working out. But I'm getting better at noticing when the noise is louder than the evidence.

And then... we were p