The Dreaded Apron Belly

The apron belly. The FUPA. The pouch. That thing that makes low-rise jeans an actual nightmare. You know I like to talk about the uncomfortable stuff, right? It’s kind of my thing. And this one? It hits close to home—literally hanging over my waistband kind of close.

Let’s start with this: my body is nothing short of miraculous. I’m six feet tall, 220 pounds, with hips built for birthing and a pain tolerance to match. Pregnancy was a breeze—just a few pushes, and my boys made their grand entrance. But the aftermath? That’s what really hurt.

When I first got pregnant, I remember telling my husband how terrified I was of what would happen to my body. Stretch marks? Loose skin? I wasn’t ready. But my husband, being the gem that he is, told me something I’ll never forget: “Stretch marks are sexy.” To him, they symbolized strength, transformation—a reminder of what my body had done. And you know what? I embraced them. These tiger stripes? They’re a badge of honor. A testament to the life I carried.

It’s not the stretch marks that get to me, though. It’s the stretched-out skin that never quite snapped back. The dreaded apron belly. And let’s just be real for a second—it’s not just about looks. Random hairs? Oh, absolutely. Those little suckers pop up out of nowhere. And the occasional smell? Yeah, I said it. When skin is constantly rubbing against itself, it’s not exactly giving off floral vibes. Powder, deodorant, body spray—I've tried them all. PSA: LUME is a lifesaver.

The most embarrassing moment? My last gynecology appointment. The PA glanced at my belly and casually said, “Oh, I didn’t realize you had a C-section.” Spoiler alert: I didn’t. That dark purple crease under my belly? Not a scar—just the way my body folds.

And that’s the thing. No one really talks about the reality of what happens after pregnancy, or just after existing in a body that’s changed over time. Social media is flooded with “bounce back” culture, flat stomachs, and edited waistlines. But where’s the representation of real bodies? The ones with extra skin, the ones that look different in motion than they do when posed at the right angle?

For a long time, I avoided mirrors. I would suck in my stomach when I walked past one, refusing to acknowledge what I really looked like without the right clothes or a flattering pose. I dreaded swimsuit season, not because I didn’t love the beach but because I didn’t want to see the looks. The unspoken judgments. The subtle ways women, including myself, have been conditioned to believe that anything outside of "toned and tight" isn't good enough.

Thank goodness for high-rise pants. If I had been pregnant in the early 2000s, there’s no way I would’ve survived those low-rise jeans and crop tops. Just thinking about it makes me cringe. But the 90s resurgence? High-rise cargos and oversized sweatshirts? My saving grace. Everything stays tucked in, nice and secure, and I go about my day.

But the real struggle isn’t about pants or shapewear or even rogue belly hairs. It’s about facing myself. When the shapewear comes off and it’s just me and the mirror, I feel raw, vulnerable. And intimacy? That’s a whole other hurdle. It’s not about my husband—he loves me, apron belly and all. It’s me. My own self-image keeps me stuck in a cycle of insecurity.

I’m learning to embrace parts of myself. I’ve stopped trying to squeeze into size 10 jeans and accepted that I’m a 14, sometimes a 16. I dress for my body instead of fighting against it. But I won’t lie—there’s still a part of me that dreams about a tummy tuck. And you know what? There’s no shame in that. If that’s what it takes for me to feel confident and beautiful, then so be it.

But before I get there, I want to make peace with the body I have now. Because surgery isn’t a magic fix for self-love. If I can’t appreciate myself today, what’s stopping me from finding something else to dislike post-op?

So, I’ve started making small shifts. Instead of cringing when I see my reflection, I remind myself that this body has carried me through decades of life. Instead of constantly covering up, I buy clothes that make me feel good, even if they hug my stomach in ways I once avoided. I take care of my skin, not because I want to erase my stretch marks, but because it feels good to nourish my body.

And I talk about it. Because if I feel this way, I know other women do, too.

We’ve been conditioned to believe that a “good” body is one that looks a certain way—flat stomach, toned legs, perky everything. And when our bodies don’t fit that mold, we feel like we’ve failed. But here’s the truth: bodies are meant to change. They shift, grow, stretch, and soften. They carry us through love, loss, joy, pain, and everything in between.

I used to think confidence was something that just happened when you looked a certain way. But confidence is a practice. Some days, I still struggle. Some days, I still reach for my old pair of Spanx, wishing my stomach would just magically smooth out. But on other days? I put on my favorite pair of high-waisted sweats, throw on a crop top (yes, a crop top), and remind myself that this body—apron belly and all—is worthy of love.

So whether you’re rocking shapewear, high-rise pants, or just letting it all hang out, know this: you’re not alone. We all have our battles. And this one? It’s worth fighting. Because at the end of the day, you deserve to feel beautiful—apron belly and all.