Oops, I’m Human: Allison Bornstein

“Looking hot became a quiet lifeline”

Oops, I’m Human invites women to share their relationship with their bodies—the messy, totally human parts. This series evokes the emotional gymnastics of living in our bodies, rejecting what we’ve been taught while quietly relishing the contradictions of self-acceptance. If you’ve ever felt both empowered and complicit, you’re in the right place.

I’m kicking off this series with Allison Bornstein, a stylist, wardrobe consultant, the author of Wear It Well, AND my best friend, as she takes us through how pregnancy and postpartum reshaped more than her body; they forced her to confront, negotiate, and ultimately reclaim the intentional choices she makes everyday.

Thank you, Allison, for being open and vulnerable. I LOVE YOU.

An essay by Allison Bornstein

I used to think I had a pretty neutral relationship with my body. It was more background noise. I’d feel bloated sometimes, or off around my period, but it never occupied much mental real estate. I’d lived my whole life in a body that fit societal norms for appearance, and because of that, I didn’t think about it very much.

Pregnancy changed that completely.

When I was pregnant, I woke up every day feeling physically awful. I didn’t like the way I looked. I didn’t feel right in my body. At one point, I had this horrifying thought: Am I just hating being pregnant because I don’t like how I look? That realization felt cruel and shallow and deeply upsetting. But what I eventually understood, through a lot of therapy, was that I was depressed. The body stuff was part of it, but it wasn’t the whole story.

Still, it was the first time my body felt like a problem I couldn’t ignore. For the first time, clothes didn’t just look “not great,” they didn’t work. I couldn’t wear them. I had to relearn proportion and figure out how to still feel like myself in a body that was changing daily.

Postpartum was worse.

During pregnancy, at least there’s permission to grow. After, you’re left with a shape you don’t recognize. Intellectually, I knew my body wouldn’t “bounce back,” but seeing it was different. The number on the scale wasn’t that far from where it had been before, but everything had moved. My hips were different. My boobs were bigger and much lower. When I was pumping, my arms and back got larger in ways that felt completely foreign. It was disorienting.

Then there was the NICU. My son came early, and suddenly postpartum wasn’t just about adjusting to my changing body; it was about navigating a world I wasn’t prepared for. Days blurred into nights of pumping, monitors, alarms, and the constant tension of wondering if he was okay. I realized quickly that the breezy motherhood I had imagined wasn’t possible. My son didn’t fit neatly into my life; I had to meet him where he was. That experience reshaped everything: how I parented, how I thought about control, and how I thought about myself.

In that chaos, looking “hot” became a quiet lifeline. Haircuts, bangs trimmed, an outfit that felt intentional, these were the least important things in the grand scheme of survival, but they grounded me. They reminded me that even when everything else was uncertain, I could show up as myself. Caring for my appearance wasn’t vanity; it was maintenance. It stabilized me so I could be present for my son.

I tried to be neutral. I told myself I would never judge someone else this way. But neutrality is hard when the body you live in no longer feels like yours. I felt gross. That’s not a generous word, but it’s an honest one.

If my body could talk to me now, I think it would call me out. I didn’t really take care of it for most of my life. I didn’t exercise until the pandemic. I don’t eat particularly well. I coasted on genetics and youth and then, suddenly, expected my body to perform perfectly on demand.

The strange thing is that the moments I feel most powerful in my body have very little to do with my body itself. They come through clothes. Through fashion. Through wearing something that feels unmistakably like me. When clothes fall the right way, when the proportions make sense, I feel present in my body instead of trapped inside it.

After pregnancy, I put everything away that didn’t fit. Not as punishment, not as motivation, just to remove the daily confrontation. Slowly, intentionally, I started trying things on again when I wasn’t rushed or emotional. Not as a goal, I fit into this now, but as information. Some things came back into rotation. Others fit, technically, but didn’t feel like me anymore. That surprised me. It turns out there’s power not just in fitting into clothes, but in deciding whether you even want them. Sometimes what you outgrow isn’t your body, it’s the person you used to be.

Parts of my body still feel like a stranger. My breasts are especially big and low in a way that sometimes makes it hard to even look down in the shower. My C-section scar, which I avoided looking at for months, has numbness around it that makes it feel like someone else’s skin. That literal lack of sensation mirrors the emotional distance I still feel sometimes.

And yet, the smallest things bring me back to myself. My favorite white T-shirts. The exact ones I love, not substitutes. Pulling one over my head and thinking, Oh. There I am.

When I get dressed now, I think I’m more daring. Funkier pieces. Chunkier jewelry. Brighter pajamas. I’m less confident in my body, maybe, but more confident in who I am. After everything I’ve been through, I don’t want to disappear. I want to be seen.

People told me to wait six months to feel normal again. Six months felt unbearable. And yet, here I am. Not the person I was, but clearer, steadier, changed.