So why is it so hard for me to look this precious bundle of joy in the eye without that fear wiggling back in? I’m trying so hard not to admit it, but I’m so scared I’ll hurt my little girl, be a poor example. Because if I’m being honest, the anorexia that engulfed my life as a teenager isn’t as gone as I’d like it to be.

Old habits are hard to break, and new ones, good ones, are easy to lose, too. When exactly did I stop keeping a gratitude wall? I don’t remember the last time I journaled. What happened to taking the vitamins that helped me so much?

But somehow I’m always making calculations, as much as I try to ignore it when somehow my brain counts the calories in a spoonful of peanut butter. And somehow my automatic reaction when I look in the mirror is to critique my reflection.

Where did all of my positive self-talk go?

And now… now I have a little baby girl who is going to get older, and all she will ever know is a mother who dislikes herself. And with that, what are the chances of her liking herself?

I tell myself I’m going to start positive self-talk again. I’m going to journal. I’m going to be better. For her. For my baby girl.

But she’s getting older quickly. She’s four months now, and everyone says she looks just like me. Just like me? No way! She’s beautiful. She’s going to be much prettier than I ever was or will be. She can’t look like me because I still don’t like the way I look.

I decide to fight harder. I put yoga and Pilates back into my schedule. Focusing on my body’s amazing abilities instead of how it looks proves extraordinarily therapeutic. I practice mindfulness. I work positive self-talk. I focus on gratitude. Slowly I’m changing.

AS my little girl gets older, her mother gets stronger. The morning she turns nine months, I look in the mirror and thank Hashem for creating me the way I am. Spontaneously. Naturally.

The fear melts as I grow into a better me in a way that only having a daughter can encourage.

When I look into her eyes now, the fear is smaller, different… less meaningful in a way. It’s almost like the fear now is baseless. It’s there because it’s scary to be a parent — even a healthy one. It’s there because my daughter might have her own challenges that I may not know how to help her through. Because even if I’m a healthy mother, she may find out on her own that our society is brutal to girls, and she won’t be able to be everything people want her to be. It’s there because that’s life, and I’m not perfect. I’m not perfect, but I don’t need to be. I’m good.

Maybe I’ll need more help. More therapy or support. But for now, I’m taking the tools I used to heal years ago and using them to become a better version of me. A content me.

Now when people tell me they’re so happy I finally have a little princess, I give a genuine smile, and I agree. It was a long time in coming, but I’m so excited to raise my daughter.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 847)