Ed Note: “My Testimony” is a section where our readers can write personal essays on whatever you’ve been through. Be it funny or heartwrenching, “My Testimony” is a space to for us all to share the common experiences that make us human. If interested in submitting a piece, please send an email to: info[at]squarerootz.net.

I consider them the most decadent portion of this sock-it-to-me cake God has served the world in the form of my body. They are perfectly curved, holding up my low rise jeans just fine. Even with all the hoopla about such-and-such’s breasts and booty, real folks know ain’t nobody messing with them thangs Beyonce and Alicia Keys are rockin’! The hips are the sexiest part of the body, period. And when matched with some heavenly thick legs, a woman like myself owns any ground she stands on - I dare anyone to prove otherwise.

When I found out I was expecting last June, I just knew my destiny as a “baby making hips” blessed goddess had been fulfilled. I pictured them spreading even further at each stage of pregnancy, loving every vision my mind displayed more than the one before. I couldn’t wait to experience the most beautiful joys being given to me. I had the glow and was ready to go!

And then, at the beginning of second trimester, when you’re supposedly allowed to let out a sigh of relief, my worst nightmare came true. All my anticipations and hopes shattered, my hips left me betrayed.

I knew something was wrong because the nurse was acting funny. When she said there was no heartbeat coming through on the sonogram, I wanted to die. I was frozen. My boyfriend was outraged. He demanded the doctor tell us something different. But I had miscarried and nothing could be done about it.

The “baby making hips” weren’t “baby holding hips”, and I was baffled. How could hips so wide lie?

The depression that plagued my soul following the tragedy was a pain I wouldn’t wish on even the most skinniest, chicken-legged woman alive. I felt less than a woman, less than human, just worthless. I knew the statistics, women have miscarriages everyday. But that wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I wanted my baby, and in my eyes, my body deserved that child.

The next few months were passed with long, tear-filled gazes in the mirror. I just couldn’t fathom why a 23-year-old brick house in a loving relationship was denied motherhood when teenaged slims give birth all the time. No matter what my man did or said, I still couldn’t feel beautiful. My sensuality was robbed from me by that damn size two nurse, and I know that doctor had a little twig at home.

I made the mistake of attending a baby shower and spent the entire afternoon being bitter and proceeded to mean mug every narrow-tailed mama up in that joint. The hating only got worse when the Hollywood pregnancy trend became hot. Alright, I was totally cool with J.Lo and Halle, even Jessica Alba, but Nicole Ritchie… are you serious?

February 16 was my due date, and up until that Saturday I wondered how I was going to cope. I wasn’t sure if I’d lock myself up in the bedroom and cry or if I’d be getting down at the club all night trying to groove away my sorrow. But I woke up on the day I should’ve been giving birth with a weight lifted off my precious handlebars.

No matter what I try to argue against it, I simply was not ready to be a mother. I forgave God, myself, my hips, my man, and all the mommy petites. My day will come, and I’m sure my glorious frame will serve its true purpose when the time is right.