It is a balmy evening in early July. I have finally managed to get both of my small children to sleep and I am engaging in what has become a new and unhealthy ritual: scrolling through Instagram and trying to work out which of the people behind accounts I once followed for their body positivity content are now taking weight-loss drugs. I take a break from scrolling to pinch layers of fat between my thumb and middle finger, willing them – as I have since I was a child – to disappear. My fingertips trace the folds of skin that have appeared between my hips and ribs since my youngest son was born last summer, then over the raised red zigzags that have emerged all over my tummy since I first began growing children in 2021.
By the time my partner has made his way up to our room, I am sobbing. His face bears the slightly pained but loving expression of someone who has seen this all before. Without a word, he draws me in for a hug before taking the phone from me. “I just … ” I say between sobs. He nods as I finish my sentence “… wish it were me.”
