I’m Tanvi, 29 years old. I just gave birth to my first child at AIIMS, New Delhi, three months ago. My husband, Raghav Sharma, is a marketing manager at a company in Gurugram, handsome and sweet-talking; his family comes from a wealthy family in South Delhi. Our wedding went viral on Facebook; everyone said I was lucky. But just three months after giving birth, my life seemed to fall apart.

After giving birth to Vihaan, my body changed: I gained almost 20 kilos, my skin darkened, and the thing that bothered me most was the strange odor emanating from my body. I bathed a lot and used body mist, but the odor persisted—probably due to postpartum hormones. I know many mothers face this problem, but that doesn’t ease the embarrassment—especially when Raghav starts showing his attitude.

One night, I was breastfeeding when Raghav came home with a frown. He sat down on the sofa outside the salon, looked at me, and bluntly said:

“Tanvi, you smell bad. Sleep on the sofa tonight, don’t tell anyone.”

I was stunned. I tried to explain: “You just gave birth, your hormones are changing… I was trying to take care of you.” He brushed it off:
“Don’t make excuses. I’m already stressed out all day, and when I come home, I smell this. What kind of wife are you?”

That night, I slept on the sofa with my baby, my pillow wet with tears. Raghav started leaving early and coming home late, making excuses for work. I was suspicious, but I kept quiet.

My mother, Sarita, had come from Noida to visit my grandson. She saw me tired and asked me. After listening, she didn’t get angry, but simply patted me on the shoulder:

“Calm down, son. Men often don’t understand how difficult it is for women after giving birth. Don’t argue—let her experience it herself.”

I remained silent, but the conflict escalated. Once, when we were at home, in front of my friends, Raghav suddenly said:
“Tanvi has become like an old maid now, her body stinks—I can’t be around her.”
I burst out laughing. I felt very bad, but for the sake of my child, I gritted my teeth.

Then one night, he came home late, his breathing heavy:
“Look at you: fat, smelly—who can tolerate that? Marrying you was the biggest mistake of my life!”
Tears welled up in my eyes. I remembered my mother’s words: “Don’t answer with words. Speak with your actions.”
The next morning, I opened the drawer and took out the box containing letters written by Raghav when they were in love—all of which contained this sentence: “No matter what happens to you, I will love and protect you.” I photocopied/scanned them all and bound them into a book. I wrote another letter: describing my pregnancy—back pain, swelling, stretch marks—the night of my delivery at AIIMS, every contraction, every tear; the humiliation of being kicked off the couch by my own husband because of my body odor.

Next to the letter, I kept a USB—a clip—that I had recorded in the hospital while giving birth to Vihaan: I was shaking in pain, crying and calling Raghav’s name, praying for his well-being. I wrote a line:

“This is the same ‘smelly’ woman I once swore I would love.”

That night, Raghav came home. He flipped through the letter, then connected the USB to the TV. The clip started playing. I stood silently in the corner. He collapsed, covered his face, and started crying. After a while, he knelt in front of me:

“I was wrong, Tanvi. I don’t know what you’ve endured. I’m a bad husband.”

I didn’t forgive him immediately:

“Do you think I need this body? I gave birth to your child, this family. You humiliated me in front of everyone. If you don’t change, I’ll leave—because I deserve respect.”

Raghav hugged me and apologized repeatedly. But I knew the pain in my heart wouldn’t heal easily.

At that very moment, my mother revealed a secret: she had secretly taken me to AIIMS for an endocrinology checkup. The result: I had postpartum thyroiditis—a rare but treatable condition. My mother followed the regimen, taking medication, and making frequent visits to the doctor. After just a month, my body odor and health had improved significantly.

But when I posted a lengthy post on Facebook, describing the entire incident: being humiliated by my husband, being pushed onto the sofa, and how I responded in a letter and video, I wrote:
“Postpartum women are not garbage. Body odor and weight gain are a consequence of childbirth—not an excuse to be humiliated. If you’re being humiliated, don’t stay silent. Let your actions speak for themselves.”

The post went viral; many Indian mothers messaged to share similar stories, some tagging their husbands in the post. The Sharma family was shaken up; my usually difficult mother-in-law called and apologized for not taking my side sooner.

Raghav offered couples therapy at a clinic in Saket, sent me a weekend childcare schedule, offered to sleep in the living room during my treatment so I could sleep soundly, and signed me up for a “new father” course at an NGO in Gurugram. I set three conditions:

Absolutely no body shaming, whether at home or in front of strangers.

Divide childcare and household chores equally (the schedule is written on the refrigerator).

Respect the doctor’s instructions—don’t say, “I stink because I’m lazy,” don’t interfere with treatment.

He agreed, and signed the “house rules” form. I gave him time, made no promises.

A month later, my weight stabilized, my thyroid was under control, my skin cleared, and my body odor disappeared. Raghav quietly went to the grocery store, learned to bathe Vihaan, and set an alarm to wake me at night. He placed an envelope on the table—a printout of his old words next to a new sheet of paper:

“I will love and protect—not with words, but with deeds.”

I don’t need flowers, I need respect. And this time, I saw it—from the kitchen to the washing machine, to the baby’s bottle, to the therapy room.

At the end of the article, I concluded:
“Hormonal changes after childbirth are real. If you smell something ‘sour,’ it could be a sign that your body needs help—not an excuse to push your wife off the couch. A good man isn’t one who makes ‘nice things,’ but one who knows how to sit down, apologize, and learn to be a husband again.”

And the “thing” I responded with embarrassed him—not an argument—but evidence of past love rather than present, as well as a medical diagnosis. It forced him to look in the mirror, and made the entire family feel sorry for postpartum women.