During my first pregnancy, I became super obsessed with weight gain, and I was determined not to gain more than 20 pounds. I worked out every day until the last week of my pregnancy, but even then, I gained 50 pounds and tortured myself about it. How could I have failed?

I seriously had panic attacks before I stepped on the scale or discussed weight gain. One day, after I couldn't make myself step on the scale, a kind nurse suggested that I not look at the number and offered to put a note in my chart to remind staff not to tell me, unless there was a problem with my health. Still, I was obsessed.

During my most recent and final pregnancy, I finally took her advice. I actually have no idea how much I gained, and I am totally OK with that.

I grew to hate my pregnancies as my body grew and changed. I saw the incredible ways in which my body altered itself to sustain a human being as nothing more than a means to an end that I had to endure. My pregnancy wasn't amazing, fun, or something to remember. It was just something I had to get through in order to have my babies.

At a time when I should have been happy and excited, I was so depressed. During my first two pregnancies, I was so ashamed of my feelings that I kept them to myself and suffered alone, thinking there was nothing I could do or take during pregnancy to make a difference. I was wrong. During my last pregnancy, I was able to get some help and learned that there are several medications you can take for prenatal depression that are safe during pregnancy.

I actually tried to join Weight Watchers during my first pregnancy. When the group leader told me I couldn't participate, I took the materials home and followed the plan on my own. I tried to eat a strict, organic, low calorie, "healthy" diet, but then baby wanted Sour Patch Kids. I ate so many my mouth got sore. I was so ashamed.

During my second pregnancy, I developed hyperemesis gravidarum — severe nausea and vomiting in pregnancy. For my first few prenatal appointments, the number on the scale kept dropping instead of going up. I had forgotten how good that felt.

Then, when my midwife got seriously concerned, I felt so ashamed that I was actually happy about that initial weight loss. The day that I gained four ounces (in a month), my midwife and nurse cheered, but I was silently mortified as they gave me high fives.

I started my first pregnancy planning to take a picture of my bump every week to document my growing tummy. Every week became every two weeks and then once a month, until people had to practically beg me to pose for the camera. I actually only have one photograph from my entire second pregnancy. One. I really regret that.

People seem to think that it's OK to comment about pregnant people's bodies. It's so rude. When I had an eating disorder, their words hurt so much, making me feel horrible about my amazing body while it literally grew a freaking human. Damn.

Having an eating disorder seriously interfered with my ability to enjoy my pregnancies. While most people love the second trimester, because they start to feel better and begin to feel their babies move, I liked mine most because I finally started looking pregnant and not "just fat," which is a terrible way to treat yourself when you are literally growing a tiny human inside your body.

This last time around I was finally able to enjoy parts of my pregnancy, mostly because I had finally come to terms with the fact that I will never be a size 0 or 100 pounds again. And as I hold my chubby baby in my arms and talk to my children about loving their bodies and what they can do, I am starting to realize that other things are so much more important than the number on a scale.