Authors disclaimer: As a new mother just now starting her journey back to herself, I do not have any answers nor do I believe positive thinking is the ultimate solution to all of our struggles. Society is illiterate when it comes to motherhood and changing its approach to understanding, caring for, and supporting mothers culturally and systemically is a priority in terms of resolutions towards healthier journeys into motherhood. Putting the pressure on individual mothers to make the change is problematic, but that is a blog for another day. Today all I have is a story to tell and a sore ass.
My mind suddenly shifted. With every grunt, the hyper focus on each repetition sharpened. My counting taking on a new, unconventional format:
“Ugh 1…
Ugh 2…
Ugh 3 out of 10?…
Ugh 4, 6 more?!
Ugh 5, f#(< this…“
My counting morphed even further until each repetition was accounted for by full on sentences, questions, accusations.
“Why are you doing this—6?…
This is pointless—8…
…s#!+”
I was no longer counting my reps. I was having a full-on argument. My body working, straining, pushing for an unknown number of repetitions while my mind protested, degraded, and battered it.
When I woke up this morning, I was energized. I had arranged to have the afternoon, post-workout, “off” from mothering, letting my husband take the baby for the day. This would be the first time that I would be away from my son for a significant amount of time, recently made possible by his self-weaning from our afternoon nursing session. I could now manage to be away for a span of 8 hours if coordinated correctly, a thought both exhilarating and intimidating to me. Eight whole hours to get my life together! Eight hours to get back in shape, and hydrate, and finally look put together, and start my business, also finally read my book and listen to the long list of podcast episodes I’ve been meaning to catch up on. Do I have enough time to binge Love is Blind? Taking inventory on everything I seemingly was missing out on felt overwhelming, but the thrill of possibilities served as a direct IV of endorphins.
Organizing my first day off on a day I have my gifted personal training sessions felt brilliant. I turned thirty-four, four months after my son was born and in my postpartum bliss/chaos I had enough foresight to ask for just the right gift. I knew one day I would be ready to move again and that I would need the heavy push to do so. Personal training was my answer.
I prepared for the gym feeling motivated, light, giddy, the same way I remember the first days of middle school. I picked out my best training fit the night before from the only two sets that somehow still fit this postpartum body and prepared my bag. Barely sleeping through the last night before the “first day of school training.” This would also be my first day (or half day) dedicated fully to myself since giving birth. That’s 347 days to be exact and this is me generously not counting pregnancy where baby was permanently en tow. This was MY day and my hopes and eventually, expectations were high af.
The second I left the house my nerves kicked in. I was awkward with each step, as if I had forgotten how to walk sans a stroller or 10 kilos of a child strapped to my chest. I was feeling foreign in my familiar surroundings, questioning if I even knew how to navigate the subway system anymore, navigate my own autonomy anymore. Fortunately, I had worked with my trainer before so, upon successfully arriving at the gym, meeting him felt like a relief in the way seeing an old friend after a long absence brings comfort. I hung on to that comfort while we became reacquainted as the workout started, my mind distracted telling tales of my little one’s milestones and inquiring about my trainer’s life after the pandemic. All was well, until it wasn’t.
As the conversation faded, I began to exist in my head, a seemingly neutral space at first as I was impressed by my muscle memory and how much I was actually still capable of doing. I had convinced myself I must be at the weakest point I’ve ever been given I had created, hosted, birthed, and was still currently sustaining an entire human life with my body. Realizing I could do more than I anticipated I would be able to give my confidence one final endorphin spike before it crashed and burned. I set a number, a goal weight.
I set a number, a goal weight and suddenly slammed into a wall of overwhelm. As if switching on the garbage disposal, things began to spiral. I didn’t want to be here, I didn’t want to do this, I felt ashamed for setting a goal in the first place. I haven’t been in that “goal” body in yearssss & much less in any remnants of a body since my son was born.
The gurgle of my chaotic thoughts got louder as they clanked down the metaphoric drain.
“You won’t ever be anything more than this—9…
My body increasingly resisting with every count. Each negative thought, an invisible weight added to the exercise.
I became fascinated at how setting one simple goal on a whim could have such an impact on me. How a goal that was not written down, that had not been spoken into existence, that no one knew about but me could derail me in one single moment. In one single count to ten.
In a society that so easily adores the role of motherhood during pregnancy and then so quickly dismisses it once a sweet innocent newborn becomes a strong-willed free-spirited baby, it had become so easy for me to adore my role and dismiss myself too. I had spent this past year equal parts learning on the job, surviving on the go, dedicating my full self, mind, body, and soul to another human life, neglecting anything and everything that pertained to my own well-being. I spent a year simply living on autopilot. When it came time to finally focus on myself, of course my mind unhinged. Focusing on me felt foreign, impossible, wrong, heavy. Heavier than the weight I was physically lifting and thus, it was easier to turn a personal goal into a weapon formed against me, BY me. Like the unspoken, invisible pressures of motherhood reduce us to our barest minimum, I realized it had become second nature for my mind to apply enough pressure to myself to consequently cause myself to crumble beneath it in real time.
“who do you think you are—10?”
This count was almost a whisper in my head. Asked in slow motion, emphasizing each word as if they existed independently of each other. Less of a critique then it was an honest inquiry.
“you,” my mind repeated.
After nearly a year steadily distancing from myself as a result of the demands of motherhood, on my first day back dedicated to myself I realized I had become my own worst enemy. If there was no goal set, there would be nothing to contest. I was the one setting the goal therefore I am also the one in control of how it is executed. I could easily abort the mission without consequence. I could assess the set standard and adjust it according to my physical capability. I could even manage the timeline and formulate a game plan for success. Or, I could continue to spit in the mirror, one rep at a time.
I began to be intentional with my thoughts:
“You got this—1
You can do it—2
LFG—3!”
As uncomfortable as it felt to forcefully believe in myself, my mind finally began to settle, allowing each subsequent ten-count to become lighter, more focused, and clear. Amidst the whirlwind of emotions likely brewing in me for nearly a year, I completed the work out. I couldn’t do much else after, exhausted more so from the mental gymnastics it took to get out of my own head than any physical effort put forth, so I headed home. Back to my boys, back to what’s familiar, back to my role as ‘Mama.’ Now, however, with a sore ass and a fresh new perspective realizing I’m not solely on a mission to train my body, I am on a mission to show up for Myself in the ways I am expected to, the ways I willingly do, and the ways I always will show up in motherhood.
WORKOUT
Fitness is hard. Motherhood is hard. No one promised it’d be easy to do both, that’s for sure. However, fitness is such a major key to overall wellness (especially) throughout motherhood!
Here are a couple workouts to get moving even in the comfort of your home.
At Home:
set 20 minute timer
each minute perform the movement and then repeat for the duration
complete as many reps as you can during that minute
Minute 1- burpees
Minute 2- air squats
Minute 3- planking shoulder taps
Minute 4- walking/rest (think in literal circles)
**and repeat!! YOU GOT THIS!!!
With Dumbbell/Kettlebell/Can of Soup(get creative):
set 20 minute timer
each minute perform the movement and then repeat for the duration
complete as many reps as you can during that minute
engage your core during all movements
Minute 1- kettlebell swings
Minute 2- weighted squats
Minute 3- weighted dead bugs
Minute 4- walking/rest (think in literal circles)
**and repeat!! YOU GOT THIS!!!
