“Mama, You Were My First Home.”

“Mama, you are my home.”

My daughter said this to me when she was two-years-old. We were sitting by a lake in the North Cascades, snuggling while looking at the majestic mountains across the water from us. 

She said it out of nowhere. I didn’t think I heard her correctly, so I asked her to repeat what she said.

“You were my first home.”

My eyes welled with tears. My daughter is pure magic, and there is so much depth to the wisdom she holds. 

During my pregnancy with her sister, she would love to look at and gently rub my belly. Marveling while it grew. Soaking in every moment.

Since her sister was born, she still marvels at my belly. She carefully touches the stretch-marked skin, and admires the scar her sister was birthed from.

She tells me that my belly is her favorite part about me. 

She loves the fact that she and her sister shared this same sacred space.

I wish I had always loved and appreciated my body the way my daughter does. Instead, for many years, I tried to change and control it. 

I wish that my daughter would always love and appreciate her body the way she does now.

I know that starts with me. To show love and appreciation for my body, and to show it often. To model for my daughters how they can love and appreciate their own bodies.

My daughter still likes to remind me, “Mama, you were my first home.” 

I hold that message close on hard body image days (we all have them), and choose to respect and give my body what it needs, because it has given so much to me.