Motherhood Didn’t Ruin My Body, But I’m Still Choosing Surgery

When I was pregnant with my triplets, I genuinely thought my stomach might burst. I’m not petite by any stretch of the word, but the logistics of growing three babies at once left me dumbfounded. Some days it felt like my skin was stretched thinner than paper, like one wrong move might split me wide open.

But women are amazing, and my body did that. At first, the physical growth was slow and gradual. Then, once I hit the middle of the second trimester, it was full steam ahead. My belly grew faster than I could process, and suddenly strangers were staring, doctors were warning, and I was wondering how much more my body could take.

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Thankfully(?) I delivered at 32 weeks and 3 days, so I was spared in some respects. Still, I often wonder what might have happened to my body if I’d gone even one more day. Would I have burst at the seams? Would my muscles have given out completely?

What I didn’t realize at the time was how much my body would be changed forever. Pregnancy ended, but the aftermath stayed: the pain, the weakness, the skin that didn’t bounce back. My body felt foreign, like I was walking around in someone else’s shell. I looked in the mirror and couldn’t find “me” anymore.

And here’s the thing: I know every mom walks away from pregnancy with scars, with marks, with reminders of what our bodies endured. Some, including myself, wear those changes like badges of honor. But for me, those changes weren’t just cosmetic—they were painful, limiting, and constant. My back ached when I carried my kids. I couldn’t trust my core to hold me upright. Even basic movement felt like a reminder of what had been taken from me.

That’s when I started to wonder: could I fix this? Not for vanity, but for the chance to move, to stand tall, to feel strong again.

Which brings me to this: plastic surgery and motherhood.

Without boring you with my full medical history, I was left with a five-finger–wide, three-knuckle–deep separation of my abdominal muscles (diastasis recti) after my triplets’ birth. You could literally fit a fist where my belly button once lived. Along with it came back pain, weakness, lack of core strength, excess skin, stretch marks galore, and, of course, three beautiful little boys. Could be worse, right?

But after countless hours of physical therapy and more visits to the chiropractor than I’d like to admit, it became clear: this wasn’t going to resolve on its own. I could either live the rest of my life working around the pain, or I could do something about it.

At first, all I wanted was to be stitched back together, as if I were some well-loved Raggedy Ann doll. Just close the gap, give me back my core, let me feel whole again. But after a few consultations, I realized surgery could do more than repair the muscles. It could also address the stretched, sagging skin that no amount of exercise or kale smoothies was ever going to fix.

Now this is where things got complicated. Because suddenly, it wasn’t just about function, it was about appearance, too. And that’s when the questions started creeping in. Was I trying to erase my pregnancy? Would people think I was vain?

The truth is, I am so proud of my body. So unbelievably proud. It grew three lives at once and kept them safe. But pride doesn’t erase pain. Pride doesn’t repair muscles. Pride doesn’t make you recognize yourself in the mirror again.

So if there’s a chance I can both stand tall without pain and finally feel at home in my body again, sign me up.

Because here’s what I’m learning: it doesn’t have to be either/or. You can love your kids fiercely and still choose yourself. You can be proud of your body for what it’s done and still want to change what no longer feels like you.

Motherhood is not the end of who we are, it’s a new chapter. And for me, part of writing this chapter means taking back my strength, my confidence, and my reflection in the mirror. Not because pregnancy ruined me (it didn’t), but because I finally believe I deserve to feel whole again.

So maybe the real question isn’t whether surgery makes me less of a mom. Maybe the real question is: what would happen if more of us gave ourselves permission to stop disappearing into motherhood and started choosing ourselves, too?