I have been battling a serious hair loss sitch the last couple of years. No one told me that after you have children you start to bald.

Day after day the dark strands I’ve known all my life slowly transition to silver, and fall to the ground, much to my vacuum’s chagrin.

The bags under my eyes resemble those of a Bassett Hound’s and elsewhere on my body, there are other bags that sag. My stretch marks scale my abdomen like deep underground roots, cascading through earth and flesh. I still accidentally pee myself sometimes when I’m not careful.

These parts of me tell a story. A story that is human, and goes back centuries before, connecting me to experiences of women and mothers who have come before me. I used to be ashamed of the body that God gave me — nitpick every single detail and hate the DNA that it was composed of.

But now when I stop to consider the same critical refrain, it’s hard for me to be ashamed of the body that gave me my children.

Mama, your body is capable of sustaining and bringing life. How wonderful and terrifying and stupefying. Doesn’t it deserve to be celebrated in whatever stage it’s in?