By: Emma Reynolds
Updated: Aug. 21, 2015
Originally Published: Feb. 18, 2012
For the past two years, I’ve been navigating the world of physical therapy, and if I’m honest, my children are partly to blame.
I still remember watching a makeover show years ago. A woman, with unkempt hair and weary eyes, lamented, “I just let myself go after having my kids!” I thought to myself, “How could someone let that happen?” Fast forward seven years and two kids later—guess who fits that description now?
“Letting yourself go” isn’t just about appearance; it’s a profound neglect of self-care, both physically and emotionally. I could have starred in a show titled “Where Did I Go?”—a question that echoed in my mind.
I consider myself incredibly fortunate in every aspect of motherhood, yet I sacrificed my own well-being for the sake of my family.
One of the key lessons I’ve learned from physical therapy, or PT as it’s commonly known, is the concept of a chain reaction. One issue leads to another, creating a domino effect of physical challenges: an injured knee weakens my quads, which misaligns my kneecap, making stairs a painful ordeal. I overcompensated on my hip, which created further discomfort, causing tight IT bands, poor shoulder alignment, and a host of other issues that left me feeling like a sway-backed horse.
PT has been an eye-opener, revealing everything that was wrong with my body. I discovered that I was standing incorrectly, walking poorly, and struggling with balance. It was both educational and deeply emotional. I felt anger bubble up inside me. Why was this happening? Who was at fault for my body’s failures? I wanted answers. I never fully recovered from my knee surgery because I got pregnant; I couldn’t rebuild my leg strength while caring for a newborn and then another. My shoulders sagged due to breastfeeding and lugging around my children.
Rationally, I know my injuries stem from a skiing accident, but it’s easier to put the blame on my kids. They’re right here in front of me, while the reckless skier who caused my injury is a distant memory. This heavy blame feels worse than carrying a 40-pound toddler.
Coincidentally, I started experiencing anxiety around the same time my body began to deteriorate—just after my second child was born. I was diagnosed with a peculiar congenital eye condition, began grinding my teeth at night, and felt perpetually exhausted.
My children didn’t break me; they were simply the final straws that made it impossible to carry on. Eventually, I had to shift my focus from them to myself. I stopped waiting for someone to swoop in and help me, much like Mariah Carey’s publicist canceling her world tour due to exhaustion.
Despite feeling like I was on the same path as my 90-year-old neighbor, I began to appreciate the simple act of standing up. I found a skilled massage therapist to address my hip pain, a psychotherapist to help with my mental health, and a Pilates instructor to strengthen my body. I even secured a reliable babysitter, and a backup babysitter, to ensure I could attend my appointments.
I learned to cherish even the simplest movements and accepted that I might never run again. I came to terms with the fact that my posture and alignment would always be issues because, well, that’s just how my body is built—so says my physical therapist, amen!
I stopped carrying my three-year-old every time he demanded it. I took more naps. I committed to doing leg lifts, presses, shoulder exercises, and invested in a roller, ankle weights, and a thera-band because the fear of not keeping up with my boys compelled me. I wanted to explore the world with them and, yes, even climb the stairs to my own bedroom.
Most importantly, I realized that being a mother doesn’t equate to being a martyr. Putting myself back in the equation does not mean I’m taking away from my children.
Today, I no longer attend physical therapy sessions. My shoulders are back where they belong, and for the most part, I can navigate stairs without pain. However, saying goodbye to PT was challenging; I was nervous about my body functioning properly without guidance. The ultimate question loomed: Can I care for myself independently?
I can, but I’m not truly alone. My loving support system—my three-year-old, my six-year-old, and my husband—have helped piece me back together with kindness and humor.
Motherhood may have cracked me open, but it also holds the power to heal. If you want to read more about this journey, check out our piece on pregnancy, which provides excellent resources for anyone on a similar path. And if you’re exploring ways to conceive at home, consider visiting Make a Mom for reliable at-home insemination kits. You can also find more insightful discussions on this topic in our other blog post here.
In summary, motherhood has significantly changed my body, but it has also taught me the importance of self-care and the value of a support system.
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