A Personal Stylist Helped Me Make Peace With My Postpartum Body
In some of my earliest memories, I'm mimicking my mom as she follows along with a Jane Fonda workout video in our basement. In others, I'm joining her for Weight Watchers meetings and playing with the scale that almost always sat on our kitchen counter. I remember the ever-present food log and the Slim Fast shakes. The exercise bike and the treadmill. The step aerobics platform and the rubber resistance bands.
But mostly, I remember my mom being unhappy with her weight—and, by extension, herself. In watching her struggle, I came to understand two equations: small body = good, big body = bad.
My pregnancies provided a brief respite from my body dysmorphia. It was performing its "highest purpose," growing and birthing two tiny, healthy humans—right? But when my daughter turned 1 last September, the familiar voice in my head came back: "You've let yourself go," it said. "You look terrible."
I recognized a cycle repeating, and it scared me. Because I saw my mother hate her body, I hated mine. Because I hated mine, my children would likely learn to hate theirs.
I couldn't let my kids grow up with that voice in their heads, so I had to find a way to quiet the voice in mine. But in my 40+ years, I've been able to do that just once, between ages 28 and 32. It required my developing an obsessive-compulsive disorder centered on tracking every calorie I consumed, exercising every day, and berating myself whenever I fell short. That's not something I wanted to pass on to my kids.
Although I returned to regular exercise as soon as I could after Maggie was born, I haven't been able to work out as long or intensely as I used to. Although I've tried to eat healthily, it's a struggle to plan for balanced meals when your kids want chicken nuggets—and only chicken nuggets—for dinner every night. My body reached a stasis, and I had limited options (liposuction? coolsculpting?) for changing that.
Then, I noticed a post on a local women's networking group. A member shared something about her business: She was a personal stylist, and many of her clients were new-ish moms looking for wardrobe updates. I stared at the post for several minutes, thinking.
Part of me recoiled: How in the world could I consider paying someone to help me dress myself when we had to pay for one kid in daycare and the other in preschool?
The other part of me reasoned: The only clothes that still fit me were maternity clothes. I hadn't gone "real" shopping in more than 5 years. I had no idea how to look good for my age, not like someone chasing her twenties. I needed at least some help navigating this new terrain.
Friends, it was the most carefree shopping experience I've had trying on clothes since visiting Kids 'r' Us to get a back-to-school wardrobe before first grade.
So I gave the stylist a call.
Yes, the cost made me wince a bit. But when I considered her expertise—not to mention the time she'd save me from scrolling sites or strolling stores—it all sounded reasonable. It'd be an investment in my relationship with my changed body. And because I've been a dedicated saver for many years, I could afford to spend a little to boost my self-esteem and demonstrate a healthier self-image to my kids.
We started with a closet-edit appointment, during which we (unsurprisingly) got rid of just about everything. She listened as I talked about my fashion likes and dislikes, my job situation, and what my typical day looked like. She distilled that that conversation, took my measurements (blessedly keeping them to herself), shopped for me, then brought it all to my house for a three-hour try-on party.
Friends, it was the most carefree shopping experience I've had trying on clothes since visiting Kids 'r' Us to get a back-to-school wardrobe before first grade.
My stylist hit the mark perfectly, balancing the kinds of clothes I said I felt good in with others that gently pushed my boundaries. There were a handful of items I know I'd never have considered trying on if I were shopping on my own. Because she thought they'd work for me, I gave them a chance. And more often than not, I loved them.
I didn't look at one label for the size. I didn't care. And that felt amazing.
After the try-ons were finished, she handled the size exchanges or returns for me. She even prepared a "look book" to remind me how to style the different pieces I'd purchased for different occasions.
The day after my try-on party, I wore one of the new outfits to drop my son off at preschool. A few days later, I wore another one to a winery for an afternoon with some friends. A week or so later, I wore yet another one for dinner out with my husband.
Each time, I felt comfortable. I felt confident. And my body hadn't changed an inch or an ounce.
I'll be damned if my kids learn to hate their bodies because they see me hating mine.
You're waiting for the asterisk, right? OK, here it is:
The opportunity to work with and afford a personal stylist is admittedly a privilege. And new clothes alone won't fix the fraught relationship I have with my body. But this experience has given me time and space to work on that relationship without ill-fitting clothes adding extra pressure. I take fewer potshots at my body, especially in front of my kids—something I remember my mother doing to herself constantly.
I don't blame my mom for passing the body dysmorphia bug down to me. Her fixation on her weight probably passed to her from her mother and older sisters. It certainly was shaped by the bombardment of "thin = good! fat = bad!" messages she absorbed from every TV ad, movie, and supermarket tabloid she encountered back then—and even now. Body hatred is endemic, but it's not organic. It's learned behavior, not innate.
And I'll be damned if my kids learn to hate their bodies because they see me hating mine.
Little plug if you are in Baltimore or Pittsburgh and interested in trying out personal styling for yourself: Check out Julia Nauer's Sort & Style — we've worked together twice and I can't rave about her enough.