Postpartum Style Story — Chapter 1: A Song of Milk and Blood

Recounting my first year of motherhood, narrated through the clothes I wore. Part 1/5.

This month, I celebrated surviving my first year of motherhood. 365 days of spending the majority of my waking (and a few would-be sleeping) hours in the presence of a wondrous, yet confounding creature who holds my heart in the palm of her sticky, berry-stained hand. I have no groundbreaking parenting advice to impart, nor the ability to adequately relay what this experience has been like for me. Instead, I’ll attempt to stitch together the story of my style over the past 12 months, reporting on the lessons I’ve learned about dressing for myself from being in the trenches of complete servitude.

Chapter 1: A Song of Milk and Blood

By now, the birth itself feels like a fever dream — to be fair, there was a good amount of drugs involved. But, hours after my daughter’s arrival via C-section, I can clearly remember hobbling back and forth between the hospital bed and the bathroom — wearing a colostrum stained bra and some disposable underwear slapped with a gargantuan pad — in a desperate bid to squeeze a few drops of pee out of my battered urethra so they wouldn’t re-catheter me. In another memory that comes easily, I am reclined in bed with my nightgown pushed down to the waist, attempting to do skin-to-skin with my newborn while milk sprayed out of my nipples like a pair of firehoses. These scenes set the stage for my initiation into motherhood.

During this period, personal style was far from my consciousness, and my continuous outfit tracking streak (since 2018!) went cold. When I got dressed, the garments I reached for needed to check two boxes: feel comfortable against my sore abdomen and offer easy access for nursing.

My recovery from surgery went better than I expected, but the process of growing and expelling a child leaves a wreckage of corporeal trauma that takes time to heal. In the immediate aftermath of the birth, I lived in mesh underwear and nightgowns, as the idea of wearing anything with a waistband made my skin crawl. Eventually, I found myself back in loose, soft pants and my maternity bike shorts — despite being completely sick of them by that point (beware the marketing spiel suggesting you’ll wear maternity clothes post-pregnancy!). I did enjoy rediscovering a pair wool joggers I had purchased in my first trimester, though. I found the warmth of the chunky knit as psychologically comforting as the generous size was physically. In Traditional Chinese Medicine, restoring heat to the body through clothing and food is essential during the postnatal period. Paired with the steaming bowls of fish bone broth my mom prepared for me, I could feel myself regaining my strength — rebalancing my qi.

Breastfeeding, on the other hand, was punishingly hard. The first few months were consumed by the task of trying to provide sustenance to a child who mightily resisted it (she somehow developed an aversion to both breast and bottle). It took months of persistence — much of it spent topless, wet with milk, sweat, and tears — before things improved.

My (non-ironic) postpartum starter pack

During that time, through some trial and error, I discovered my ideal nursing top combo. When I started out on my breastfeeding journey, I wore various bulky, clip-down nursing bras with stretchy tank tops that I could easily pull down. My monstrous supply early on was a blessing and a curse (that fish bone broth worked too well), requiring me to replace soaked-through garments several times a day. Eventually, my supply regulated, and I abandoned the tangle of straps for the game-changer merino camisoles that I’m still wearing today. They feature a built-in “shelf” below the bust which offer support and hold nursing pads in place. The antimicrobial fabric means I can often wear them for a few days without smelling like soured milk. These bralette-tank hybrids, topped with an oversized button up or my cashmere cardigan, served as my no-fail uniform for much of the year.

It’s fitting that my fourth trimester coincided with the beginning of autumn: a time of transition. From a lifetime of being preoccupied with myself, including chasing the clothes I desired, everything changed the instant I heard her cry out from my open womb. My senses may have been foggy from the epidural, but I saw with clarity what truly mattered to me. Two people were born in that moment.

Yet, my love for clothes was still there — no longer a priority, but not unimportant, either. Dressing for comfort and practicality was my focus, but I noticed how much better I felt in clothes that fell within the realm of my style preferences (denim shirts and wool pants > sweatshirts and leggings), even just at home. How satisfying it was to sweep my closet of the stretched out maternity clothes that no longer felt right on me. Throwing on a duster jacket over my spit-up-covered house dress to go for a walk — my abdomen still taped up — was an absolute luxury.

I realized I did not need to be dressed in the most artfully composed outfits that epitomized my “personal style” in order to feel like the best version of myself. However, clothes are still necessary tools that accompany my every movement — now with a baby in tow, as well as objects of beauty that make me feel something. When I am despondent after another feed that ended in screeching, buttoning up my favourite worn-in denim shirt might lift my mood a few inches. And when I am overcome with love at the sight of the miraculous girl sleeping in my arms, I could be wearing a cat-hair-covered sack and it wouldn’t dampen the moment one bit.