Updated: August 21, 2015
Originally Published: February 18, 2012
For the past two years, I’ve been deep into physical therapy. And guess what? I blame my kids for it.
A while back, I stumbled upon a makeover show where a woman, with unkempt hair and weary eyes, lamented, “I just let myself go after having my kids!” Back then, I thought, “How sad! Who lets that happen?” Fast-forward seven years and two kids later, and guess who’s now in the same boat? Yep, me.
“Letting yourself go” isn’t just about appearance; it’s about neglecting your physical and emotional well-being. Honestly, I could have starred in my own version of “Where Did I Go?” It’s a haunting question.
I consider myself the luckiest mom in every way, but I’ve sacrificed so much of myself for my family.
What I’ve learned from my time in physical therapy— or PT, as the cool kids call it— is that one issue leads to another, creating a cascade of bodily chaos: my knee injury weakened my quads, which shifted my kneecap, making stairs a nightmare. Running became painful, so I compensated with my hip, which hurt even more, leading to tight IT bands, shoulders out of alignment, and a posture that’s reminiscent of a weary old horse.
PT has been a wake-up call. I discovered I was standing, walking, and balancing all wrong; my feet were a mess too. This journey was both enlightening and emotionally draining. I felt angry. Why was my body betraying me? Who can I blame for this mess? Rationally, I know my injuries started from a skiing accident, but it’s easier to point fingers at my kids. They’re right here, while that reckless skier is nowhere to be found. This blame is a heavy weight I carry quietly, almost worse than lugging around a 40-pound toddler.
Not surprisingly, my anxiety kicked in around the same time my body started to feel like it was falling apart, right after the birth of my second child. I was diagnosed with a strange congenital eye condition, started grinding my teeth, and felt perpetually exhausted.
My kids didn’t break me, but they were the last straw on my already burdened back. Suddenly, I had no choice but to focus on myself. I stopped waiting for someone to swoop in like a superhero and tell me to take a break.
Even though I sometimes felt like I was on the same trajectory as my 90-year-old neighbor, I gained a newfound appreciation for being upright and assembled a support team for myself. I found an amazing massage therapist to work on my hip, a skilled therapist for my mind, a fabulous pilates instructor for my overall fitness, and a slew of babysitters to make it all happen.
I learned to cherish simple movements, accept that I might never run again, and acknowledge that my posture and how I stand will be lifelong challenges. Apparently, that’s just how my body was made, according to my physical therapist—amen to that!
I stopped picking up my 3-year-old every time he whined. I took more naps. I invested in leg lifts, shoulder exercises, ankle weights, and a roller. The fear of not keeping up with my boys pushed me forward. I wanted to explore the world with them, not to mention just make it up the stairs to my bedroom.
Most importantly, I realized that being a mother doesn’t mean being a martyr. Putting myself back on the priority list doesn’t take away from my children; it actually enriches our lives.
These days, I don’t attend PT sessions anymore. My shoulders are back in place, and I can tackle the stairs without wincing most days. Saying goodbye to PT was tough; I was anxious. Would my body cooperate without professional help? The big question was: could I take care of myself independently?
I can, but I’m not alone. My little team—my 3-year-old, my 6-year-old, and my husband—helped me piece myself back together with love and laughter.
Motherhood may have cracked me open, but it’s also mending me.
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In summary, motherhood has been a journey of self-discovery and healing, teaching me the importance of self-care while also enriching my life with love from my family.