My Dirty 30s

Turning 30 is certainly a cause for celebration... But what are we celebrating exactly? In "My Dirty 30s", columnist Samantha Y. reflects on the good, the bad, and the downright ugly truth about what this decade spells for "ageing" millennials like herself.

Don't freak out, but I think I see some stretch marks," my husband whispered to me in a hushed tone. For a second, I didn't know whether to scoff or to laugh in his face. I opted for the latter.

For context, I was about eight months pregnant at that point, and had gained close to 20kg. I thought I would rock my baby bump with a modicum of Rihanna's pizzazz or Blake Lively's effortless ease, but all I could manage was a clumsy waddle.

And no, the father of my child didn't mean any harm by pointing out my newly earned tiger stripes. His delivery was awkward, but he was trying to be supportive because I had a hard time coming to terms with my pregnant body, including all the discomfort and additional weight.

Like many women, I struggled with body acceptance. I wouldn't say I was obsessed with my weight, but throughout my 20s, I would step on the scales whenever I hit the gym to check if I was still in the lower range of a healthy BMI.

And while I didn't have a superdefined muscle tone, my workouts were all designed to maintain a flat stomach - something I would check for in a full-length mirror almost daily.

Looking back, I recognise now that all of this bordered on the unhealthy. I wasn't on some physical training programme, nor did my livelihood depend on being able to fit into sample sizes. There was simply no need for me to be scrutinising my body like that.