A few months after a brutal birth, my husband became obsessed with “fixing” my body. I didn’t realize how bad it was until one family dinner blew everything up.
I’m a few months postpartum and I feel like I’m losing my mind.
Pregnancy was brutal, and the sleepless nights were almost too much. But our daughter Emma is perfect.
After I gave birth, instead of helping me heal, my husband Jake became obsessed with my body.
It started small.
Or, “Your face is puffy.
Maybe cut back on the salt?”
Then he moved on to my stomach.
“Wow, it’s still pretty big, huh?”
He’d grab my belly and jiggle it, laughing.
I slapped his hand away once.
“Don’t do that.”
He shrugged. “Relax. I’m just joking.”
The “jokes” kept coming.
He’d stand behind me while I got dressed.
“Babe… your thighs didn’t used to touch like that.”
I stared at him in the mirror.
“I just had a baby, Jake.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but you’ve also let yourself gain way more than you needed to.
You should start working on it. I don’t want to be embarrassed going out with you.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“Embarrassed?”
He nodded like it was obvious.
“Look at my friends’ wives. They bounced back.
They actually care.”
I went into the bathroom and cried so quietly the fan almost covered it.
A few weeks later, not long after I gave birth, he came home from work with this smug expression and a grocery bag.
“Got you something,” he said.
He dumped it on the counter.
Cucumbers.
Just cucumbers.
I looked at the pile, then at him.
“Um. Okay. Where’s the rest?”
He smiled like he’d solved world hunger.
“These,” he said, completely serious, “and water should be your best friends now.
You want to fit through doors again, right?”
I laughed because it sounded so ridiculous.
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head.
“I’m not. Cucumbers are basically zero calories. Snack on those instead of… whatever you’ve been eating.”
“I had oatmeal and an egg today,” I said.
He rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, plus that muffin yesterday, and whatever you had when I wasn’t here.
Babe, be honest. You’ve been overdoing it.”
“I’m breastfeeding,” I snapped. “I’m starving all the time.”
“Or your body is used to overeating,” he said.
“You don’t want to stay like this, right?”
Something in me just… folded.
I was already exhausted and raw and hanging by a thread.
It felt easier to give in than to fight.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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