On Running Post-Baby, Post-Pandemic, Post-Everything (A personal journal of survival)

The first run, Florida, Mid-February 

Going to take this slow. It’s been two…  no, wait, THREE years since I’ve run consistently. Or at all.

Really, THREE years? Well time flies. But I know, I know. Start slow. Runs that alternate a few minute walk, a few minute run. I know how to do this “getting in shape” thing, and I know my body.

One and a half minutes later.

Ok, maybe this is a different body. I don’t think I have ever been in this much pain, by choice at least. Other than labor and delivery. But if I am honest, this pain is a close second. Like close. 

But I am doing it. 

And thank God I am doing it in my parent’s neighborhood in Florida, hundreds of miles away from anyone who could ever recognize me. 

I want to run faster, but I can’t. As in I cannot move my legs faster than they are moving right now. 

Run. Walk. Run. Walk.

Eight and a half minutes later.

Text to husband: Just finished my first run! More pain than I ever imagined but also feeling proud. Thinking I want to run a 5k by May. Although may need a running stroller or a way to work out with child.

Text back from husband: That’s awesome. What do you think about finding a gym with childcare?

Return text: Uh, that would be incredible.

Stretching post-run, I am transported back 20 years – high school track team. It’s the first day of practice, still very cold in Wisconsin but we can sense spring is coming, something about the smell of the air.

My stomach would be in knots. Nerves wrapped up in teenage bravado. I was a middle-of-the- pack varsity sprinter, but the question always was, how can I get faster? I prepared myself mentally for the months of work ahead. I knew I was out of shape—but my body liked the challenge. 

I chuckle now as I stretch in the Florida heat. Never, ever, ever would I have imagined a day when my body would not do exactly what I willed it to do.

One week (and four “runs”) later, Florida

I just have to keep moving.The knee pain usually works out a little after 10 minutes of movement. 

Ok, apparently that is not a sure thing. 

30 seconds later

Shooting pain. Both knees. Must. Stop. 

So I’m not going to make it as far as I thought I would today, so what? I might need to adjust the goal just a tad. A tad! Let’s say 5k by the END of May. Still May.

Most important thing: just keep moving. It’s going to get better. It’s got to.

I limp back to my parent’s house.

One day after that, Florida

I cannot bend my legs. I mean, I can walk, but I cannot bend them all the way. Something in the back of my knee has stopped working.

This is only a problem because half of my life is lived on the floor, playing and interacting with my 18 month old.

As it turns out, if I kind of roll over to one side, get to my hands and knees and then try standing up, one foot at a time from there, I can do it. Otherwise. I am not getting up on my own. 

I berate myself internally as I let go of plans to exercise for the remainder of our trip. This is a giant setback. How could I have been so foolish? 

My phone buzzes across the room. Oh, heck no.

One week later, my neighborhood, Illinois 

I still can’t bend my knees all the way. But it’s possibly 50 degrees and sunny and so let’s take this jogging stroller out for its first spin. I bring our dog along for good measure, because I envision how efficient and adorable the whole endeavor will be: fresh air for child (check), exercise for me (check), walk for dog (check). 

Two minutes later.

I think I am moving, but then evaluate and realize, I am not actually, you know, moving forward. I’m more like bopping in place, when a nice older man waves as he walks by.

Just give up. I can’t do it. 

I’m not a running mom. Just like I’m not a cool mom, or a chill mom. Or a do-it-all mom. I don’t even know what kind of mom I am.

But still, there’s a vision in my head of the kind I want to be. Calm. Confident. Capable. Fully myself and fully engaged in mothering. Knows exactly what to do in every situation. Deep down, I admit that the picture is unrealistic, yet I still want it. 

Or at least can I have the running mom part? The running mom seems to have it together enough to care for herself and her child. That’s all I want, to be a mom and a person at the same time. 

One more minute later.

Nope. Time to walk. Too embarrassed. Mostly for my neighbors, they shouldn’t have to see this. I’ve sunk too low to be embarrassed for myself.

My husband returns from work that evening and asks about my day. I tell him I don’t think I will ever be a runner again. 

One week after that, the gym

I hate treadmills. Hate them. All the work of running and none of the fun. But it’s Chicago in March— which means it’s still winter— and the gym has childcare. 

So I pick my poison and just start. It’s been days of little movement and I resolve to try again.

But what is this new little pleasure? Ah, yes the numbers. The ones that tell you your pace and distance and all of that? Motivational, in the past. Today, they are accusatory— revealing just how short my run, and how slow my time.

I have another running-related memory. 

Senior year of college, some roommates and I decided to run the local half marathon— desiring, apparently, to end our college careers with an intense physical challenge rather than coasting into the sunset. 

But it was about camaraderie, and about having something to enjoy together before we scattered to adult lives and responsibilities. It was also a little bit about competition. At least, in my head it was. What’s your time? Mileage? These were regular conversations around the house. 

Despite completing every long run in the training regimen, I didn’t do the race. I claimed I couldn’t make it back, with all the demands in my post-college transition. But in my heart I knew the truth. The scheduling was a convenient excuse because I was afraid. Afraid to be slower than my friends. Afraid to look silly. Afraid to fail. 

And here in 2022, I still regret that I didn’t do the race.

Fourteen minutes later

I step off the treadmill, a little woozy as my feet meet solid ground. The idea of a 5k by May feels absurd. Absurd! I just completed a mile jog/walk and it took everything I had. 

In the past, this would have been my first run back. Instead, it’s my… ok who’s counting.

Yet.

I feel… joy? Maybe it’s just endorphins but I will go ahead and claim joy. 

Comparison is a thief. This will not be one more thing it steals from me.

Ten days later, the gym

Twelve minutes. Twelve minutes. I just ran for twelve consecutive minutes.

Technically I jogged twelve minutes, according to the treadmill speed guide (thank you very much). But I felt like this is maybe something I can do. I can run again.

The other people in the gym must wonder what is the point in running if you are going to move so slowly. I feel like they know— they know how far I have fallen out of shape since becoming a mom.

I rage internally. Do these people have any idea what I just accomplished? What I have been through to get here!?

How dare they judge me. 

I glance around me at the handful of other people working out. No one is looking at me. No one gives two flips about how slowly I am moving.

Why do I?

I think about the last two years— what have I been through to get here?

Pregnant during a pandemic. Early delivery. Premie. Three and half weeks in the NICU. Infancy without family in town. Walking away from a successful career. Postpartum Anxiety. Moving across the country. Health questions and doctor visits. New home. New city. New friends. New church. New meds.

If the pieces of a life are pulled apart one by one, what emerges then?

The question catches me off guard. And the answer is— I don’t know, not yet. I was not expecting to have a major life epiphany at LA Fitness this morning. But I look down. Twelve freaking minutes. Nothing to prove. Nothing to earn. Nothing to compare.

I feel odd. Like I’m a human, again. And I didn’t even know I wasn’t already one. 

If I cry, people are definitely going to notice me. I pull it together and go stretch.

Two days later, the gym

I’m in a routine now. Warm up. Run/walk twenty minutes. Stretch. Stretch a lot. If there is one thing I’ve learned this side of thirty five, it’s that there is no skimping on stretching. Ever. 

I feel pretty good and bump up the speed a little on the treadmill. Then I look over the balcony to the far side of the gym, where my son is in childcare. This, taking time away to work out, seems indulgent, selfish, wrong even. Him there, me here. All I’ve known is pandemic parenting— always on, always together. 

But what got us to this point, isn’t going to carry me forward. I know that now. So I have to relearn everything. And I have no idea how to do this. 

Thirty four minutes later 

I pick up my son from childcare. He is wearing no shoes, one sock, and having the time of his life. He runs to me, squealing, MAMA!

Well, at least that feels right.

A week after that, the Arboretum

My husband and I have always enjoyed working out together. Of course I don’t actually remember the last time we “went on a run” together. But here, in my favorite place in our new hometown, we take the stroller out again. This time, he pushes it and I just concentrate on running. 

The trail is soft below my feet. It cushions me in a way that makes everything lighter. I can’t help but look over at our little family and consider the changes we have been through in the last two years. The change I have been through. It would overwhelm me if I let it.

Instead, we cross a bridge, and look out at the landscape. Our jog will be slow, and it will be short. My husband slows down significantly just to be with me. And I let him. I accept it all as grace and not guilt.

The old life had to go. I couldn’t keep carrying it. The striving, the constant fear of not being enough. Avoiding failure at all costs. It had to go or else it would kill me. 

Just like running, this new mentality requires practice. Practice of both mind and body. Maybe there will be a 5k in my future, but there will definitely be running. I lean into the cool breeze as we finish our short loop and I run like I love it. And actually, I do.