In Praise of Being Totally Gross

I was mortified.

I was pregnant at the time with my first baby and working my way through a pile of books I'd hoped would prepare me for motherhood.

This included Jenny McCarthy's "Belly Laughs," her bestseller about being pregnant, and its chapter on vaginal discharge, called-I will never forget-"Niagara in my Pants." Whatever shock you're feeling reading this now, I promise it pales in comparison to what I felt at 24.

I grew up in a conservative home in which no one, ever, talked about anything "inappropriate," particularly if it was bodily. Many families from my generation had cutesy words for genitals. Ours was "privates"-as in, that is private and not to be discussed openly for any reason, not even with my older sisters.

The problem is that anyone who ages beyond 12 or 20 or 39 will experience some profound physical changes. Without context or insight, even the most natural shifts can feel weird or wrong. So what do you do if you're not sure what's normal but also too embarrassed to ask? You try to pretend it isn't happening. That is certainly what I did with everything from my first pubic hair (the surprise of a lifetime!) to my first trip to the gynecologist.

Then along came Jenny McCarthy, who bracingly described all the wild, gross, cool things that happened to her body, but without shame or judgment. Every chapter of that book shocked me. I clutched my pearls, but I was also thinking, "Oh thank God it isn't just me!" Hearing another woman talk about something I was too ashamed to admit I was experiencing was world-tilting, not least because McCarthy was one of the prettiest, coolest women on the planet. If she, too, was secreting strange bodily fluids and reckoning with hemorrhoids, maybe it wasn't so weird? Maybe it was just, you know, normal? Rob Bell, a bestselling author, writes that "two of the most powerful words you can hear someone say are 'me too."" Bell was surely describing something loftier than heavy periods or that weird single hair that grows out of the mole on your back, but for those of us who grew up feeling mortified by our bodies, learning that what seems gross is actually common can be reaffirming.

The thing is, no one gets to say "me too" unless someone else admits to it first.

It would take me another decade to have the courage to write about things I was embarrassed by: my postpartum depression and struggles as a new mom, my anxiety attacks, stretch marks and hairy toes.

But every time I'm candid about what's hard or weird, I always hear from people who are grateful to learn they are not alone.

Not everyone wants to read about this stuff. Plenty of people assure me that my openness about life's messy bits is somehow improper or impolite. I keep doing it anyway.

When I do, I think of my prudish, anxious 24-year-old self, who needed to see a confident woman own every part of herself before I found the courage to do the same.