Gemma Hartley

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It wasn’t the name I would have picked — not originally, at least — but as days turned into weeks, it grew on me.

“Feminism” wasn’t a word I heard much growing up. When I did hear it, I equated it with a historical event, not a work in progress. I thought first-wave feminism was a one-and-done deal, and that all the work necessary for women’s equality had already been accomplished.

But I was yet to face the cold, hard fact that my lack of acceptance for my own body, was really a lack of acceptance for all the bodies I had falsely embraced for so long. Could I really love someone else’s ample stomach, when I could not love my own?

I went on to drink a small glass of wine or two per week throughout my pregnancy once I got over the initial shock of it being unplanned. Once I had adjusted to the fact that I was going to bring another baby into the world, I was still overwhelmed by the stress it brought on. I had suffered from postpartum depression after the birth of my son and we had decided not to have any more children. I didn't want the risks or the horrible anxiety that came with pregnancy. Yet here I was, facing all that uncertainty again. Damn right I needed a drink.

My husband and I have been together for 12 years, eight of them married, four of them teenaged.

When I made the decision to become a stay-at-home mother, the choice was an easy one.

I know it’s a lie when I tell myself that I’m “simply off” or “maybe I’m just having a few bad days” or “I’m in a funk” or “I must be upset about something, but I don’t know what.”

The money is great, but it is not the best part of becoming a working mom. Having my own career has shifted the power balance of my relationship.

Last week, the internet went into an understandable uproar when a Christian woman decided to take to Facebook to talk about how she is