I Wanted My Pre-Baby Body Back. Stewed Oxtails Showed Me a New Way to Be Strong

Soon my mom presented me with a steaming plate of tender Dominican oxtail guisado in a red sauce. I handed her the baby, making a trade, and sat crooked on the couch, devouring the juicy meat, surprising myself at how hungry I’d been. My mother glanced at me with concern as she held Penelope and played with Julian, encouraging me to eat more, more, even bringing me extra servings so I could keep going. As I filled my belly, I could feel myself grow stronger, more alert. Yet there was something else about this meal that satisfied more than my hunger.

Making oxtail guisado entails a simple yet lengthy process, sometimes requiring three hours of slow-simmered cooking time, which was part of the reason I’d never bothered to learn how to make the dish myself. But as I enjoyed the savory flavors with a throbbing back, I was reminded of other major milestones in my life—both happy and difficult times—when I’d eaten this dish, and how it had enriched me. Its consistency was a map that tracked where I’d been, who I’d been. Seeing my mother playing with my children created a sense of urgency within me. “I want you to teach me how to make oxtails,” I told my mother in Spanish.

The worry left her features immediately. She laughed so loudly her shoulders shook. “In this state?” she asked. But I was determined to learn. My mother would be leaving for DR in just a week.

A few days later, I stood beside her as she cut onions into thin slices. By then, I could be on my feet as long as I moved slowly. The dried oregano bunches she’d bought from the Dominican grocery store were so aromatic I wanted to hang them in my bathroom, smell them every morning when I woke up. I pulled the small dry leaves, crushed them between my palms, the smoky, pungent fragrance jolting me awake.

My mother and I didn’t need to talk as we worked. I had seen her do this from a distance countless times as a child, before I had any language to express how beautiful I thought she was. Over those three decades, her weight had often fluctuated, depending on whatever she was going through. Yet, I’d always looked on at her in wonder, admiring the way she comforted us with her presence and her skill. She was as beautiful then as she was now. Standing next to her, gingerly limiting my movements because of pain I’d inflicted to make myself smaller suddenly seemed absurd.

As the hours flowed, I added enough water for my oxtails to drown and boil, undisturbed. I was relieved the recipe called for resting time, for restraint. I went back to the couch, fed my baby, gave Julian a kiss, added more water to the meat, went back to rest. With each trip to the stove, I felt my body loosening up, the tension I’d been carrying dissipating bit by bit. For the first time in weeks, I was in less pain and aware of it. Instead of a “snap-back” summer, maybe I could slow down, make my body strong enough for my children, to fling them into the air and catch them as they descended.

It would be another couple of hours of rising and walking slowly to the pot. Sometimes I stayed for a few extra moments to watch the liquid reduce. There was something meditative about the way the water bubbled and burst, coaxing that tough meat to tenderness. When I took a big bite of my finished dish, I was delighted. The oxtails were succulent, deepened by the slow-cooked peppers and tomato paste, brightened by fresh cilantro. I gave my toddler a small piece to savor, and he opened wide for more.

Cleyvis Natera is an award-winning author, essayist, and critic. She is the author of Neruda on the Park and The Grand Paloma Resort, out August 2025.

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