I always knew that having a baby would change my body. It’s inescapable. And I was ready when my silhouette started to morph and blur, my skin became speckled with pigment and my ankles slowly disappeared, devoid of all definition.
(Did you know the human body carries roughly three to four litres of extra fluid in pregnancy?) Post-birth, I deflated slowly, like a balloon. Again, I knew the things to expect: the stretched skin, the diastasis in my abdominals – when the vertical tummy muscles separate and won’t re-knit – and the ricocheting . They were a small price to pay for bringing another human into the world and, in my postpartum bubble, I was somewhat oblivious.
But a year after having my son, I bumped into a colleague, and the reality hit me hard. ‘You look great,’ she told me. ‘But I have to tell you, your posture is terrible.
You need to see my chiropractor.’ As a child, I danced – ballet, ballroom, contemporary – and continued all the way into my twenties. I’d assumed, naively, that this discipline had carried through; that standing tall was ingrained in my DNA.
But my friend was right – and when I studied myself closely in the mirror, I could see how my shoulders had rounded and my back was starting to curve. As someone who regularly gets up on stage and moderates in front of audiences, I know better than most that how you hold yourself sends strong subliminal cues to those around you; that good posture denotes confidence, ability and authori.