The body of a pregnant woman is a battlefield. It starts with medical professionals poking and prodding it in ways I didn’t even think were possible, strangers on the street touching it without asking for consent, random people’s opinion on the Internet on how it should be cared for and fed. It ends with the woman herself looking at her body in the mirror, not recognising the shapes and curves looking back at her. The woman is secondary to her own body, which is now an incubator, a vessel to bring forth new life.
For me, pregnancy was a strange state of being so present and so aware of my body, while at the same time being separate from it. This experience really did a number on me during those nine months and during the postpartum period. There was a deep sense of alienation, even despite my partner celebrating my body in all its changes and beauty. Ultimately, the work I had to do around reclaiming and embodying my sexuality was my own and the battle was fought and won in my own head.
Beginning with that precarious transition from childhood to womanhood, a feminine body is sexualised, even when merely existing. Is there a more final proof of having had sex than pregnancy? I think not. And yet, from the moment the body reveals itself to be pregnant, the woman ascends to the next plane, the one of Mother. Once there, you better not be sexual anymore. You better not demand pleasure, for motherhood is sacrifice. And it is not just society who tells us these stories about what we do and do not deserve – we have internalised them so deeply we don’t even second guess them. My body had felt so foreign and unknown to me after the birth of my child that it felt easier to shut it out completely. I punished it for the pain, I celebrated it for the new life it had brought, but I forgot about its endless potential for giving and receiving pleasure and joy. Intimacy feels very far away when what was once a tool for pleasure is now a tool for keeping someone else alive.
When we talk about sex and sexuality postpartum (if we even talk about it in India), we talk about the logistics – How do you find the time when there is a tiny new human needing you all the time? How do you find the space when that tiny new human is most likely in the same room or even the same bed? What we do not talk about is how medical trauma impacts your desire. How do you find pleasure in a body that you cannot even recognise anymore? Why do things that used to feel good feel so different now? Is it normal to not feel attracted to your partner anymore? What happens in the bedroom is so closely connected to what happens in every other space in our lives. In heterosexual relationships, that often means lack of drive is tied in with the disbalance in unpaid labour, and at no point is that more true than postpartum. So you ask yourself, am I really all of a sudden vaccinated against desire or am I operating within systems that put so much pressure on me I can’t even shower in peace much less have sex? If that is the case, I promise you a more equitable division of labour can be the best aphrodisiac. For me, it was the medical trauma caused by the birthing process. While I had all the support and love I could possibly need, I was dissociating from my body in a way that made it impossible to give and receive physical affection.
In the past two years of having these (very often very uncomfortable) conversations with other women, the most important thing I have realised is that I am not alone – and neither are you. It’s common and it’s normal, but it’s not a death sentence. Silence breeds shame, and shame is a killer of healthy, happy, positive sexuality. The only way out is through and that means shining a light on what is dark and hidden. The body will never be the same again, but that doesn’t mean the woman is lost forever. There is joy in exploration, there is joy in going back to basics, in connecting with your partner on such a primal, intimate level. There is healing in embodying sexuality, in allowing yourself to be fully present, scars and jiggling parts be damned. There is also something almost radical and subversive in embodying your sexuality while being told that it is at odds with motherhood.
There are only two models for sexuality once you become a mother: the Madonna, asexual and holy, untouchable, self-sacrificial; and the MILF (Mother I’d Like to F***), the pornified fantasy serving the male gaze. What if we reclaim the whole spectrum of identities and possibilities in between the two extremes? What if we carve out a space for feminine sexuality that serves ourselves first and foremost, subverts societal expectations, and holds a massive middle finger up to the male gaze?
The body of a mother is a site of resistance. Against the society telling her she serves only one purpose. Against the beauty standards telling her she is done for, and from now on must hide herself. Against the patriarchy telling her to do the unpaid labour and be grateful for whatever little morsel of autonomy she gets. What a joy it is to use your body for yourself and not have it used as a tool for everyone else’s agenda! And finally, if we cannot get past shame and guilt, how can we expect to teach our children that their bodies are wondrous and theirs to use how they and only they see fit. Maybe by talking about pleasure and desire and by asking for what we want, we can open a space for others to step into, and maybe we can kill shame. And what a beautiful thing that would be.
Cover Image: Photo by Ömürden Cengiz on Unsplash
