Definition: Me.

I catch a glimpse in the mirror when I walk past and cringe - sigh. I pull my shirt down trying to cover my stomach, tug on my underwear so they cover my belly as much as possible; as if that'll make it disappear and with it every single insecurity that lives inside my skin.

I don't know, maybe. 

I twist to the side, then left - stumble over a toy that's careening across the hardwood and into my ankles - before finally resigning myself to the fact that no matter how much I contort my fucking body in front of this useless (smudged) mirror I'm never going to actually look attractive.  

Before I really think about it I take a picture; selfie culture right? In my head It's going to come out looking amazing: great lighting even though there's not a single light in my living room, no stretch marks even though I've had 4 children, my fat won't be visible because angles obviously, and I'm just going to look fucking beautiful because pictures always look better than mirrors. 

Until they don't. 

Until it doesn't.

Until I'm staring at this reflection of who I am unable to breathe past the pain and "reality".

The first thing I notice are scars: straight lines across the side of my stomach.

Self-inflicted bullshit.

I wish I could carve them off or tattoo over them so I never have to look at them. When I do it's like my chest has been cut open and fingers are prying my ribs apart piece by piece just to poke at my heart until I can't breathe.

And the stretch marks, so many stretch marks across this giant stomach that carried 4 children. Is that an excuse? How dare I make a fucking excuse! Careful, remember to breathe. In and out right?  Every time I see them my chest gets so tight I can't exhale and my skin crawls until I have to move just to keep still... 

I stare at this stupid picture for minutes while it blurs underneath my scrutiny and the tears I'm holding back with so much force my throat is raw. 

I just cave.

I crumble.

I give up.

I preach self love to every single person I run across. I beat it into my children so hard I'm pretty sure I'm raising egomaniacs. So why can't I even like myself? For just one tiny second.

I should look at this picture and see strength not weakness. Those scars are a fucking victory - a reminder that I survived more than I should have. My stretch marks are life. They are literally fucking life so how can I judge them? 

I'm standing in this picture taking care of my kids and my husband even though I'm on day 9 of a migraine that's making my face numb.

I can't feel parts of my legs and back and stomach because of my spina bifida surgery and two c sections but I'm standing. 

My hips still pop out of place and make me fall randomly from carrying so many children at once in so quick succession but I fucking mother. 

My thyroid cycles back and forth to the point of such physical exhaustion that I'm literally dragging my legs praying I make it to my bed before I crash yet I am still up when I hear them call.

Even the smallest of touches hurts me but my kids use my body like a fucking jungle gym and I take it with cringed smile because they laugh.

None of that shows up in this picture because this picture doesn't define me.

I fucking define me.

So here it is; a completely unfiltered and unedited version of me. And, in reality, it's pretty damned bad ass.