In the summer of 2023, an unexpected change occurred. My son, who a few years earlier would barely brush his teeth or comb his hair, suddenly discovered himself in the mirror. Almost overnight, he decided that how he looked mattered. He started to try different hairstyles, and spent hours combing and spraying his dark brown locks this way and that. He decided to get fit and strong, waking up early each morning to ride his bike to the community center to work out and swim. He had turned 13 in January and transformed into a young man by June.

One night as we watched TV together on the couch, he talked enthusiastically about his exercise routine and how he was working toward six-pack abs. Then he lovingly patted my soft belly and said, “You could exercise too, Mama.”

I laughed and said, “You know that I grew you in here, right? In my womb for nine months.”

“That was a long time ago,” he said.

“Was it, though?” I replied. Then I realized that 13 years was literally a lifetime ago for him.

For me, on the other hand, a lifetime was more like 47 years. Yet, even though so many years had passed, our conversation quickly took me back to the memory of looking at myself in the bathroom mirror at 13 years old.

I remember wishing that my body and my hair were this way or that, and futilely trying products and exercises with varying results. I remember the fear and embarrassment when things didn’t turn out the way that I had hoped. I remember trying to fit myself into the mold of other girls at school or on TV or in the magazines, and never quite getting there. I never had a six-pack or anything close.

Even when people told me that I was beautiful, I didn’t believe them.

The irony is the best I ever felt about my body was when I was pregnant with my son. Finally, gone was the shapewear holding my belly in! It was in its full glory, round and thick, with something beautiful growing inside. My body has never felt stronger than when I became a mother, not only during the pregnancy, labor and delivery, but in all that motherhood brought afterward too – surviving the feedings and sleeplessness of the early days, then having the courage to let go of his little hands so he could explore the world.

As I sat on the couch that summer evening, I didn’t think about our fitness or lack thereof, but rather our connection as mother and son, and even deeper than that, our connection as God’s children made in His image. It might seem like a stretch to jump from our light-hearted conversation to one about God, but whenever I hear the word “womb,” I think of the Hail Mary prayer that I recited as a girl at least 50 times a day praying the rosary alongside my mother.

“Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

Blessed is the fruit of my womb, I wanted to say to my son, whether you have great hair and six-pack abs or not.

It’s taken me a long time, and some days it’s easier than others, but remembering that I am blessed releases old insecurities and fears about my body and how it is “supposed” to be. Instead of worrying about embarrassment or judgment, I appreciate my blessed body for what it has given me, and what it has carried me through.

Remembering I am blessed is a kind of grace that encourages me to look lovingly at the wrinkles and fine lines on my face, and the gray in my hair. I can see my beauty and strength because I know I was made on purpose, with purpose, just the way that I am, in the image of the one who blessed me.

My son and I will continue to grow and change in ways we can’t imagine ~ both in body and soul. Our hair, skin, and bones will transform with each new season of life. My hope is that he can see how to embrace those changes with grace and love, that together we will always remember that we are blessed.