Having my daughter transformed me in ways I never expected, right down to my core.
I was still under the effects of medication when someone first asked me, “But your daughter was worth it, right?” At that moment, as I lay immobile in my hospital bed, I truly didn’t know how to respond.
During my second trimester, I went for a brief jog when a stabbing pain in my groin sent me reeling. My doctor brushed it off, saying, “Pelvis and hip discomfort is just a normal part of pregnancy.” It was clear she meant for me to just deal with it.
As the pain escalated, I transitioned from crutches to a walker, and ultimately to a wheelchair. Sure, I was eager to meet my daughter, but I mostly wanted her out of my body. I couldn’t even stand long enough to shower, and my husband had to help me to the bathroom. The agony made me wish for something as simple as a few painkillers to numb my suffering.
After giving birth, a series of tests revealed that the sharp pain I had felt while jogging wasn’t just a passing ailment; it was a warning sign. I was diagnosed with transient osteoporosis, a rare condition that causes the body to leach calcium from bones during pregnancy. The results showed I had multiple stress fractures in my hips and pelvis, likely exacerbated by labor. At just 29, my body was left with lasting damage.
When I became pregnant, I was ready to give up many comforts: restful nights, dinners out with my husband, and my favorite jeans. I even thought I could step back from running while my daughter grew inside me. “You’ll be running again in no time,” my running friends assured me.
But during a follow-up appointment, my doctor told me, with a grin, “The only time you’ll run again is if you’re being chased.” I assumed it was a joke, but his words echoed in my mind as I left his office on crutches. Back in my home, I looked at the marathon bibs that decorated my wall, a stark reminder of what I had lost.
It took four months of rehabilitation before I could walk without crutches, carry my daughter around, or even push her in a stroller. I watched my husband easily scoop her up and take her for walks, and I couldn’t help but feel inadequate. “What about just a short run, once in a while, in a few years?” I pleaded with my orthopedic surgeon.
He replied, “Running will cause significant arthritis, and you’ll likely need a hip replacement sooner than you think.”
When I confided this to an old running friend, she looked at me with sympathy and said, “But she’s worth it, right?” In those early weeks of motherhood, I struggled to find the right words. I forced out a “Yes, of course!” but deep down, I questioned it. I felt trapped in this new identity as “Mom” and longed for my pre-baby self. I loved my daughter immensely, but I missed my unbroken body and didn’t want to feel like I had to choose.
I tried to push those feelings away, but they crept back in. Every night, as I kissed my daughter goodnight and rocked her to sleep, I felt the sharp reminders of my injuries with every gentle sway.
I scolded myself for feeling this way. I had a healthy baby—why couldn’t my love for her overshadow my pain? Guilt washed over me for wishing things had unfolded differently.
Weeks passed, and by the time my daughter was seven weeks old, I was able to walk short distances with crutches. Eager for a change of scenery, I enrolled in a local class for new moms. Here, I could finally express my feelings without the need to preface every statement with “I love my child, but…” Together, we shared our experiences, acknowledging our sacrifices in a judgment-free zone.
Gradually, my body grew stronger. I formed friendships through the mothers’ group, and they didn’t ask whether my daughter was worth my broken body. They understood the answer: yes, a thousand times yes—but they also acknowledged my scars.
People often say that nothing truly prepares you for parenthood. Becoming a mother broke parts of my body and soul, but I’ve begun to piece myself back together.
One day, I’ll share the story of her birth with my daughter. Will she ask why I don’t run anymore? How will I spare her feelings about the toll her arrival took on my body? If she decides to have children, I hope her pregnancy is smooth. Regardless, I want her to understand that motherhood changes you in unexpected ways. There will be losses, but on the other side lies a new, stronger version of yourself—a version that recognizes the sacrifices that come with parenting and understands that, ultimately, they are worth it.