I felt like a damn gladiator after Grady was born. Even while I was dealing with postpartum anxiety and depression, I felt like my body was strong and unstoppable. I grew and carried Grady for 40 weeks and 5 days, and then I birthed all 8lbs and 6.5oz of him without an epidural. I was my own freaking hero.

And now, two years later, here I am in this body that does not feel like my own. I have been poked and prodded and cut open and sewn back together. I have lost count of how many blood draws I have had this year. I no longer expect any get-to-know-you chitchat when I see a new specialist. I am not Hillary the 30-year old mother with the hilarious 2-year old and a deep love of baked goods. I am stage 3 papillary with the follicular variant. I am a number. I have an ID card with my cancer number and when I call the cancer clinic I don't give them my name. I give them my number.

It is a very strange feeling to hate my body. Not in the teenaged "ugh, I HATE my body" while pinching imaginary fat rolls and staring intently at my ass in the mirror kind of way. In a deep, dark, and twisty "you fucked me, body" kind of way. I hate my body. I capital-h Hate it. And ... that doesn't solve anything. It doesn't make me healthy. It doesn't bring me peace. It gets me nowhere. So here I am. Stuck hating this body that betrayed me.