How I Learned to Dress After Having 2 Babies—Insights Into a Body, a Closet, and a Life in Transition

Eugénie Trochu is aBest Knockoff Luxury Clothing editor in residence known for her transformative work at Vogue France and her Substack newsletter, where she documents and shares new trends, her no-nonsense approach to fashion and style, plus other musings. She's also working on her upcoming first book that explores fashion as a space of memory, projection, and reinvention.

There's a before and an after. Not a revolution. Not a collapse. Just a shift—a literal change in the center of gravity.

The body, after two pregnancies, doesn't really come back. It settles somewhere else. The hips widen, the pelvis anchors itself, and the stomach starts telling another story. It's not tragic, not sad. It's just that nothing falls quite the same way, and when you've spent half your life thinking about proportions, volumes, and cuts, it moves much more than a single denim button.

I've collected jeans since I was 16—Levi's 501s, low-rise Diesels, ACNE Studios, even a few pairs from Loewe. I've kept them all out of superstition and loyalty. One morning, I realized I wouldn't fit into them again, not even almost.

It's not about weight. It's about structure. The pelvis opened like a door you never quite close again. Even if I lost weight, even if I ran 10 kilometers a day, I wouldn't get that geometry back.

So I started searching for new references: jeans that hug without squeezing, high-waisted ones that shape without restricting, mum shorts that work with cropped tops or a scarf worn as a makeshift shirt. Sometimes, I go the other way—low-rise jeans again—for comfort and for that slightly looser, cooler attitude.

The hardest part isn't the morphology; it's the social mirror. Can I still wear minishorts? A crop top? Loafers with white socks without looking like a late teenager? I'd love to say yes without hesitation, but sometimes, standing in front of the mirror, I catch myself wondering, Is this still me, or am I trying to be the person I used to be?

We tell ourselves motherhood shouldn't change anything, but the truth is it changes everything. It changes the way we walk, the way we rest our hands on our waist, the way we cross our legs. It even changes our relationship to sexiness. It's no longer about seduction. It's about feeling at ease in a body that has done its job.

I used to love short dresses. I still do, but I wear them differently now—with a long jacket, a soft trench, something that smooths the lines. I cover more, but I cheat better.

I've discovered the beauty of layering: a shirt tied over jeans, a scarf over a dress, a soft cardigan thrown over a pair of shorts. It's not about hiding. It's about balancing and creating shadows, movement, dimension. The silhouettes gain density, mystery.

There's this quiet pleasure in matching my look to my baby's—almost unconsciously. Think striped shirts from La Veste, beige trenches, matching Bobo Choses booties. It looks deliberate, but it's really just continuity.

No one talks enough about stroller style. It's an entire category on its own built around silent adaptations. Bags have to be worn crossbody, jackets must let you bend down without tearing, and shoes have to survive three flights of stairs with no elevator. Chic is measured in endurance.

I've learned to spot the stable pieces: thick shirts that don't wrinkle, jeans that don't slide down when you crouch, sunglasses that hide sleepless nights. Elegance becomes logistics. A hat that protects you from the sun while saving a questionable hair day, that's what post-maternity style is—a grounded kind of glamour that's anchored in real life.

I almost never wear makeup. I'd rather invest in good beauty products, the ones that actually do something, even after four hours of sleep and a forgotten bottle of micellar water. I have my little rituals: an eye serum that cools the gaze, hydrating masks that fake rest, rich creams applied by hand onto still-damp skin. It's my version of makeup—invisible but essential.

What fascinates me today isn't so much the lack of sleep. It's the temptation to "correct." Botox, fillers, and lasers promise instant radiance. I watch it all with a mix of curiosity and caution. In Paris, the options are endless, which is exactly what makes them terrifying.

Some women, like Kris Jenner, have taken it very far and look 30 at 60. It's fascinating but also slightly unsettling. I haven't decided yet if I want to be part of it and whether it's a form of self-care or escape. What holds me back, for now, is the uncertainty of later. No one really knows what those faces will become, and maybe a well-placed wrinkle is better than a frozen expression with no story left to tell.

The post-baby swimsuit deserves its own chapter. I used to love minimal shapes—tiny bottoms, delicate triangles. Now, I love structure, high-waisted cuts, solid fabrics, and designs that sculpt without punishing. I'm not trying to hide. I'm trying to live in it.

With a fuller chest, you have to relearn how to choose supportive straps and reliable fabrics. It's not less beautiful—just more honest.

There are clothes you hide in and others you find yourself in. I've learned to tell the difference.

The moment you start loving yourself in clothes again is very quiet. It doesn't come from a size regained or a zipper that closes again. It comes from a detail: a bare wrist, a single earring, the feel of fabric on skin. Post-maternity style is the rediscovery of pleasure, a gentle way of picking the thread back up.

It's not a comeback. It's a continuation.

Maybe that's what real glamour is: a morning when you pull on a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt and—for no particular reason—everything feels right again.

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