My Stretch Marks Have Better Stories
Than Most Men I’ve Dated
Let’s be real:
My stretch marks?
They’ve been with me through everything.
Late-night fries.
Three-hour sex marathons in my 20s.
Heartbreaks I thought would kill me but didn’t.
The baby I thought I couldn’t have.
The body I forgot to love.
The confidence I had to rebuild from scratch.
Meanwhile, most of the men I’ve dated?
Couldn’t last longer than a season, a situationship, or a Scorpio moon cycle.
Stretch marks don’t ghost you.
They don’t send mixed signals.
They show up, stay put, and tell the truth—even when you’re trying to hide it under high-waisted leggings and dim lighting.
We’re told to erase them.
Cream them.
Laser them.
Filter them.
Why?
Because realness isn’t sexy?
Because softness isn’t desirable?
Here’s what I think:
If your skin has stories, it means you’ve lived.
And if your stretch marks are loud, it means your body is tired of whispering.
So here’s to the soft belly that carried your babies.
The hips that widened with age and wisdom.
The thighs that rub because you actually move through this damn world.
The stories written across your skin in curves, not edits.
And here’s to the version of you who no longer apologizes for any of it.
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