As I cruise past her, I can’t help but notice her ponytail bouncing with each determined stride. She’s got one hand on the jogging stroller, pushing through the uphill battle of both herself and a 50-pound bundle of toddler fussiness. I spot her little one, snug in a blanket, clutching a sippy cup that’s sure to make a flying exit from the stroller at least 15 times during their run. The expression on her face—a mix of grit and fatigue—speaks volumes about how she’s carved out this precious 30 minutes for herself, battling everything life throws her way. I recognize her all too well because I once was her, not too long ago.
In my early days as a mom, the monotony of nap time, the endless laundry, and the tantrums nearly drove me up the wall. As a stay-at-home parent, I bore the brunt of daily chaos. Sure, my partner pitched in when he got home, but most nights, I’d collapse onto the couch, completely spent, with a thumping headache. I’d zone out in front of the TV until my husband nudged me that it was bedtime. A few hours of sleep later, and I’d be ready to do it all over again.
There was never a moment for me. No time to hit a yoga class to clear my mind, and chasing after a toddler didn’t do much to slim my mom hips and C-section scars. Though I was in my late 20s, I felt like I was aging in dog years. Even climbing stairs left me winded, and playing at the park with my son sometimes felt like a Herculean task.
But hey, that’s what being a mom is about, right? Putting yourself last?
Not according to my friend, Lisa. She dragged me out one warm summer evening for a jog around our suburban neighborhood. I hesitated, but the promise of a post-run glass of wine was too enticing to pass up.
That run was a hot mess. I huffed and puffed, swearing as I lagged behind Lisa, who was clearly in much better shape. When we finally crossed the finish line, her cheeks were flushed with joy as she exclaimed, “Didn’t that feel amazing?” I rolled my eyes and limped inside, grateful to find my husband had handled bedtime.
Perhaps running wasn’t all bad after all.
For the rest of that summer, I committed to carving out time for myself. I transformed into that mom with the ponytail, sweating behind a jogging stroller. I became the mom who stocked up on snacks, sippy cups, and hydration gels. I learned to make pit stops for tantrums, dropped toys, and the inevitable lost sippy cups. I was that mom standing at busy intersections, wondering why drivers couldn’t be more mindful of a mom just trying to jog safely. Cursing hills became my new normal as I strained to climb, all while my toddler screamed that he wanted to go home “nooow.”
But most importantly, I became the mom who understood that taking time for myself didn’t mean I was failing; it meant I was thriving.
So, as I drive past the mom in her vibrant running tights, cap firmly in place, I want her to know that I see her struggle. I see her wrestling to get her toddler dressed, searching for shoes while he begs to watch cartoons. I recognize how she battles a squirming child to strap him into the stroller, all while he protests that he wants to steer himself.
I know that first mile well—the one where the stroller feels like it’s packed with bricks. I can feel her contemplating turning back because, let’s face it, plopping on the couch sounds so much easier than dragging a protesting toddler through traffic. I can sense the soft grip of the stroller handle and the bouncy rhythm as she navigates potholes and bumps. I know that downhill stretch feels like a gift from the universe, as gravity makes pushing that stroller a little less daunting.
But mostly, I see how badass she looks, and I can’t help but smile as I drive by. In my rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of the satisfaction on her face—a look that says she knows she’s a badass, and she truly is.
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In summary, whether you’re jogging with a stroller or navigating the challenges of motherhood, remember that you’re not alone. Embrace your journey and know that taking care of yourself is just as important as taking care of your little ones.