Confessions of a Pregnant Stylist EP 1: Extra Pounds

Intro to this new series, getting rid of what doesn't fit and building myself an inspiration board

As I learned that the miracle of life was being created in my tummy, I soon realized that magic is also bittersweet. The happiest I've ever felt was suddenly merging into one new state of consciousness that was peak ecstasy but average suboptimal. For the past 16 weeks, I had to pretend not to be pregnant, not to talk about it, not to write about it, and go on with my life as if I wasn't living through the greatest moment of my entire existence. It’s bad luck, attracts weird energies, your body is nobody’s business, and the risks of early pregnancy are too high. The sayings go on and on about this period of silence that sucked away a part of me.

Then, there's the moment when you start sharing and receiving support, finally. However, you quickly become old news. Being pregnant is not the crisis in the Middle East. I mean, for everyone else it’s not, but for me, it’s all my being represented in this specific quantum of time and space, all my mind can process - so the love you receive, as big as it is, will quickly feel diminutive in comparison to the magnitude of feeling you are experiencing.

But I was still happy, you know? I started new hobbies: becoming a Montessori certified caregiver, a nursery decorator, and a baby registry mogul - watching every "welcoming the new baby” YouTube video. And even though my time was filled with all these new anxiety-procrastination pastimes, my days were still wide open at the beginning. I lost the few things that defined me and had no perspective of when I would get them back, due to nausea, fatigue, the sexist business world that would not hire an expecting woman, and other tragicomic instances of the (literal) mother fucking destiny. I struggled to keep up with yoga, writing, personal shopping outside, homemaking, making money, reels, and all the other entitlements of being a woman in the twenty-first century. With a sudden 15 extra pounds. And boy, were they heavy.

After spending 28 years worrying about weight gain, like most capitalistic brainwashed women, the sudden healthy pregnancy pounds do not get all the mental health awareness they deserve. I felt beautiful but my clothes told me the opposite. My favorite teenie weenie skirts and shorts were all too small. My pants wouldn't let me breathe. And even my yoga pants gave me a sweaty bum. My wardrobe stopped being a holy sacred temple and became a one-size-too-small museum of how my lifestyle suddenly became unfit for my current self. How come pre-natal depression induced by tight clothes gets no light?

Here's what startled me, after all, this is not the first time I wouldn't fit into my jeans. What was popping on the horizon looked dire. I started shopping for maternity outfits and even the most exciting of stores suddenly turned beige at the single click of the "maternity” selection. Every brand appeared to have the same long tube dresses and high waist leggings, which I would learn to appreciate after experiencing what was yet to come: abominating pairs of jeans with cut and paste waist of leggings - or worse, dark navy lycra instead of the side pockets - that I'll kindly link here for the few innocent minded that haven't yet been exposed to this innovation. The cherry on my meltdown cake was the nursing camis that reminded me of my pre-pubescent Abercrombie & Fitch long tank tops with a built-in bra layer I had to resort to when real bras didn't fit my AA breasts. Minus the topless hot model steeped in first-date perfume at the door.

So I lost myself, my routine. And especially, my style.

I look at every single person in the street and imagine that each and everyone had a mother who felt some dose of what I was dealing with. And how badass every single one of them is. I want to be among them, the kick-ass women who pushed a kid out and remained a full person, more generous, more fulfilled, and more sexy. I am done with wanting to be strong and normalizing the suffering that a person has to endure to achieve this status. I am not the first and will not be the last, so I might as well write about it. If not to comfort you, at least to cash in the healing powers of writing and share a good laugh.

As I write this I stare at my closet full of everything I love and I suddenly realize that I am feeling the rut people now hire me to solve. Limited maternity is just an example of how inaccessible fashion is, with slim pickings all across plus sizes, and the body negativity involved in having many wardrobes in your closet and every day having to do a mental run-through of what fits. Can surgeons self-operate?

The first thing I did was separate what fits and what doesn't and stock my Barbie-sized clothes and shoes in a box to simplify my life. I wasn't ready yet to throw it all out, with hopes I would fit in them again, but just time will tell. I have seen enough of Mary Kondo's radical cleanouts to know that quick radical changes don't last and often create more anxiety than they release. What I know is that these garments simply don't work for my current body anymore so any hanger real estate it takes up is, suddenly, a waste of time and self-loathing mental health. I'm calling this inner peace-keeping method (H)anger Management - don't worry, it’s getting its full article soon. I have to admit that I got tired of a few items and was glad I had an excuse to put them away, so, for these, I ended up deciding to sell - and that's what motivated my last article.

Even with a clean slate, I still wasn't feeling it. I needed fresh inspiration to put outfits together in my recently disjointed collection of elastic waistbands and loose skirts. I went back to my toolkit and started building myself a mood board. I collected happy moments, and style inspirations from Vogue, Instagram, Camera Roll, and Pinterest. The color palette was consistent with my clothes. The defining terms emerged, also coherent with how people are used to describing me: colorful, bright, naive, handmade, and joyful. I closed my eyes and finally breathed out with confidence: I knew what to do and wow, it turns out that I was able to help myself with what I use to help others, validating the actual need for the style rediscovery mood board I sell.

This is my mood board for now. What makes you smile? What are moments when you felt you looked great? What aesthetic are you going for? What's home for you? I can help.

So here's what this Confessions series is about: I am opening my heart and the belly of the beast (my closet) to narrate my adventure of trying to be true to myself and my wardrobe, during this crazy and blessed period of my life. Accepting beauty and doing my best to tune out negative vibes and voices. Easier said than done. So, hopefully, you can learn from this too. If bittersweet means grapefruit and oat matcha lattes, I am very much looking forward to what's to come. I hope this series is nothing but evidence for this baddie bun I am baking in my oven that she can do whatever in the world she wants to.