I have PCOS. For most of my adult life, my body has felt like something I’m in a constant negotiation with. Weight that appears without warning and refuses to leave. Hormones that don’t behave. The particular exhaustion of a body that seems to be working against itself no matter what I do. The one exception, the only time in my life my body has ever felt like it’s actually doing what it’s supposed to do, is when I’m pregnant. Which is its own kind of complicated thing to sit with. I gained about 20 pounds with this last pregnancy. Within a week or two of the twins being born, I had lost 30. Which sounds like a dream, right? It kind of was. For a minute. But in three months I’ve already gained 12 back. I know weight doesn’t define me. I know that. I know that what my body is doing right now — exclusively feeding two human beings, every single day — is nothing short of extraordinary. I know that the number on the scale is the least interesting thing about what my body is capable of...