Five Months

This is a photo of me five months pregnant.

It was taken after a long day at work, and initially, I was tempted to make a few narrative criticisms about the way I look in the picture, but I was stopped by a pressing thought that's been growing inside me, as if parallel to the growth of my baby: the body is a miracle. So why are we taught to acknowledge our physical imperfections to the world? Why are we compelled to point out our flaws? Every second, my body is putting on a grand production of intricate processes that keep me alive and without me consciously instructing it how to do so. My body tells me when to drink, it tells me when to sleep, it tells me when I've had enough cookie dough for one night, and it keeps me breathing. For every imperfection I perceive in my body, there are a million perfected processes that keep me living. And now, it is forming from scratch an entirely new person inside me who represents hope and purpose and direction. How, then, can I be anything but thankful for my body, frizzy hair and all?