They say to sleep when the baby sleeps. I say to run before the baby wakes.
Set out your clothes and set an alarm. Get yourself out of bed with the promise of coffee and a muffin while you pump. Put in your headphones, and put on your shoes. Bring the dog along if you want. Avoid that creaky floorboard and don’t slam the door as you step outside into the morning. Take a deep breath. Begin.
In the first summer following the birth of my daughter, this routine sustained me. The forward motion was the movement I needed to reach a new understanding of the mentality and physicality of motherhood.
Running has been part of my life for over a decade now—of all the things one can dabble in during college, running certainly wasn’t the worst option.
It might be something different for you, but running was what carried me through my tumultuous twenties. I could always depend on the activity as a steady constant across multiple moves, career changes, and different relationships.
In fact, running was the thing that connected my now-husband and me. Our first hang together was a conversationally-paced 10K, and a few years later, he proposed to me in the middle of the woods on a trail run.
Whether trekking by my side or cheering from the sidelines, he encouraged me to keep reaching towards my bigger fitness goals. He was there when I finished a race, saying, “I feel strong, but I’m weirdly out of breath! And my tummy is a little upset…”
A week later, we found out we were expecting.
They say that pregnancy is a marathon, not a sprint. And on this one, I agree with them.
What they don’t tell you is where the finish line will be. My due date came and went, then weeks forty and forty-one crawled on interminably. I walked endless laps around the neighborhood and bounced on the birthing ball while Googling increasingly bizarre ways of inducing labor, but each day I grew more doubtful about my ability to endure.
Eventually, contractions started, then almost immediately, complications began.
Your body was made to do this, they say (ugh, them again).
Then why, I asked, couldn’t mine?
These condescending voices in my head grew louder throughout labor and delivery.
I went from hoping for an unmedicated birth to accepting an epidural and Pitocin then ultimately agreeing to a C-section.
The marathon of pregnancy was over, and much better than any medal around my neck, I had my incredible, beautiful daughter in my arms and at my chest. I felt intense joy and immense relief, but I also found myself deeply grieving the birthing experience that I imagined I would have.
Like always, my husband was by my side as we navigated what happens after an unplanned C-section. Beyond the physical recovery, there was also so much to process mentally.
In the weeks that followed, I rode the ups and downs of new parenthood while my inner monologue kept circling around and around. I replayed the hospital experience in my head and questioned whether I could have done anything differently.
I was spiraling with shame and uncertainty, and my intrusive thoughts had nowhere to go. I so badly wanted to take them on a run—to get out of the house and get out of my head—but my body needed to heal first.
They say that running is 90% mental and 10% physical, but I guess they never talked to a postpartum woman.
Time is funny in the fourth trimester. The sun’s light and the moon’s beams have nothing to do with being awake or asleep, so when the doctor says you can exercise again, it feels totally reasonable to set an alarm for 4:30 a.m.
My first walk/run was humbling. I was shuffling and stumbling, but I was moving forward.
While labor and delivery felt like a loss of control, choice, and agency, returning to running gave me the ability to make deliberate decisions daily. With every step, I am processing and progressing into my new identity as a mother runner.
Movement and motherhood look different for everyone, but we all need ways to remind ourselves that we are strong and capable.
It’s not actually the promise of coffee that gets me out of bed in the morning. It’s trusting that by caring for myself, I am caring for my family.
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