My hips have widened, preparing for phantom children I’ll likely never have, creating a subtle hourglass shape. My thighs are dimpled in places where baby fat has turned into voluptuous curvatures of skin. My breasts are fuller, supple, requiring more support. My waist is ample, my weight a bit heavier, & my dress size slightly larger.
My body is finally that of which it was always destined to be: a woman’s.
Gone is the lanky little girl I used to know, with her pigtails, her size 0 jeans, her elastic training bras. That skinny-as-a-rod being who fluttered about on the tips of her toes, looking for validation in anyone that gave her a second glance, has disappeared. She lost her body somewhere within my own. They cannot call me String Bean anymore.
These changes are as expected as they are beautiful, but I cannot always find absolute joy in them. I am more accustomed to skin & bones; to sharp lines & dangerous thinness.
I mourn the loss of my adolescent stature. I stare stoically at the faint lines on my hips, the ones that tell of the times where my body began stretching while I slept. I pinch the dainty clusters of cellulite, I rub my fingers over Chicken Pox scars, I stroke the hairs that start the trail to my pubic bone. In that moment I try desperately to see these strange traits as if they were unique emblems symbolizing my womanhood (& they are). But my thoughts meander to a place of bewilderment.
Who is this girl?
One day… my eyes will be used to seeing my naked self, these luscious mounds of skin. One day this strange reflection will manifest itself freely into the open air, becoming one with my identity without any hesitation. One day there will be no unfamiliarity or awkwardness or cruelty upon seeing my bare body in a mirror.
One day there will only be love; well-known, unconditional, infatuated love.