I struggle through the door of his office, my body aching under the weight of it all—the car seat, the diaper bag, the car keys, the mask. Pain radiates through my left hip as I bend to set it all down. 

“You just had a baby?” He asks. “You can’t even tell!” 

I come here once or twice a year—when I sleep on my neck wrong or tweak my lower back somehow. The last time I saw him I admitted I was newly pregnant before climbing onto his table for a series of cracks and pops that, while painful, usually help alleviate my pain. 

He means it to be a compliment. They all do. 

He adjusts my spine, tells me my pelvis is out of alignment. It’s likely the cause of my pain, he says. 

I thank him, and bend to pick everything up again. My hip still hurts. Even 5 months postpartum my body feels bruised and broken. He sees me wince and suggests another appointment next week. “Next Tuesday? Same time?”

Nodding, I struggle back through the door. 

I wonder, what is a woman who just had a baby supposed to look like?