Learning to Love Our Bodies Through Infertility

I believe there is a moment in every journey when something shifts, when it stops feeling like a detour and starts feeling like your reality. For me, that moment came after my third miscarriage. Until then, I held onto hope that it was just “bad luck”. A fluke. Something that happened to me but wouldn’t define me. But after loss number three, I couldn’t keep telling myself that anymore. I started to realize: this is my story. And if this is my story, then this is also my body, the one that keeps breaking my heart & failing me. 

How was I going to force it to function the way I believed it was supposed to. At the same time, I knew I needed to find a way to live in this body without hating it, because I had no idea how long this wave would last and I was terrified of losing myself in the process.

There were moments during my pregnancies when I’d tell myself, “This is it. I love my body. It’s doing the most beautiful thing, holding life.” But the second the pregnancy ended, all of that disappeared, and my body failed me all over. Suddenly it was just me again. Getting dressed the next morning, pretending everything was fine. And that pretending is exhausting.

As someone who chooses to share her life publicly, the pressure to show up, smile, and be “put together” made it harder. There were weeks I hated the mirror, turned down every collab,  lived in oversized sweaters, and just gave myself permission to feel. 

The weight gain didn’t help because between the medications, the stress, the emotional eating from the endless two-week waits, my body began to feel like a stranger. I never weigh myself, but the doctor’s office made it unavoidable. I hit one of the highest numbers I’ve ever been, and it crushed me. I felt like I had lost control of everything-my body, my mind, my soul. 

And then there’s the part most people don’t talk about, niddah. The constant bleeding, spotting, surgeries, failed cycles, it all keeps you stuck in this loop of physical and emotional separation. You keep thinking this is the last mikvah night because you’re going to get pregnant this cycle, and yet you’re met there again just a few weeks later. Even preparing and dipping, only to start spotting again days later from meds or loss. The cycle feels endless, disorienting, and honestly, sometimes just so infuriating.

What made it even harder was how disconnected and cold some of my mikvah experiences were. I remember walking in one night, emotionally wrecked, hoping for a soft smile at the very least. Instead, I was asked to be in and out, no shower, no time to do my after bracha, by an attendant who didn’t even make eye contact, barely spoke, and made me feel like a burden. As a balanit myself, I know how much it matters to make women feel safe, excited and seen on their Mikvah night. Especially when there are many walking in holding invisible pain. That night stayed with me. It ruined my entire experience. 

My healing didn’t come overnight. But it began, I think after my fourth or fifth miscarriage. I found a workout class I loved, and I committed to it.  Not for a “glow-up,” not to lose weight, but because it made me feel strong. It gave me clarity. It reminded me that even if I couldn’t control everything, I could still do something. It was the first time in a long time that I felt proud of my body again. I started wearing clothes that had been sitting in my closet for months, clothes that made me feel good. And now when I look in the mirror, I’m still grieving and healing but also rebuilding. 

I began to appreciate my body not for what it hadn’t done, but for what it could do. For how it keeps carrying me forward, day after day.

If you’re reading this and you’ve struggled with your body, you’re not alone.  You know what it’s like to wake up in a body that feels like it’s working against you. To mourn silently while the world keeps spinning. While the comments don’t stop. To dress up and smile while your insides ache.

But I also know that healing is possible. That it’s okay to take space. To rest and recover. To let your body feel. To find what makes you happy. And that one day, with time, patience, and kindness toward yourself, you will begin to feel like you again.

May Hashem bless you with peace in your body, clarity in your heart, and the strength to keep going, even when it feels so so hard or impossible. And may we all learn to love ourselves not in spite of our stories, but through them.

Rebecca Abezis is a Jewish content creator based in Los Angeles. She shares her love for modest fashion, spirituality, motherhood and more through her platform @styledbyrebs. After experiencing many miscarriages, she began opening up about her fertility journey to offer support, raise awareness, and help other women feel less alone.