Setting a New Pace
By Allie King
@alliehking
It’s 5 p.m., dinner is simmering in the slow cooker, and my brand-new husband won’t be home from work for another hour. Our cozy little home is silent save our six-month-old rescue dog snoring at my feet. I close my laptop and stand up to stretch my sedentary, work-from-home legs.
My movement rouses my puppy, who promptly rises by my side, wagging her tail, eying me expectantly. “OK, OK, we can go,” I say, patting her on the head. I grab her leash and my running shoes and usher her toward our front door. We’re jogging down our street less than two minutes later.
I start slow and even, my feet taking turns. Push, lengthen, land. Push, lengthen, land. The fresh air invigorates my lungs; the breeze whips against my skin, energizing my very flesh. Warm blood shoots through my veins, pumping harder and harder until it finally steadies. My breath evens, falling into a rhythm that mimics my feet. My dog runs by my side with ease, our route as familiar to her as it is to me. We reach the edge of the neighborhood, and our feet move from asphalt to grass, adjusting to the softer landing beneath us. My mind empties, filled only with the verdant color of the oak leaves, the warm sun on my face, the calming cadence of my own exhales. We climb steep inclines and rolling hills, and I marvel at the way my legs carry me. Land stretches behind us and possibility before us. I’m not afraid to push my muscles or my mind. I am strong. I am steady. I am free.
***
I’m six weeks postpartum with my second baby, lying on a stiff exam chair in a windowless room. A kind, young physical therapist performs the exam my OBGYN ordered as an afterthought. I stare at the cheap white ceiling tiles overhead. After a few minutes of painful silence, she takes off her gloves and asks me to sit up.
“I’m sorry you’re going through this at twenty-nine years old,” she begins.
I’m silent, my mind trying to make sense of her words. I know my body feels different than it did before, but I assume it’s because I’m merely six weeks out from delivery. I assume the pain and heaviness are temporary. My OBGYN said my diagnosis was common—typical even. So why are my physical therapist’s eyes emitting such palpable pity?
My face must give away my confusion, because she immediately stops talking to pull a human anatomy model from the cabinet behind her. Measuring each word, she explains what she sees. The more she speaks, the sicker I feel.
The prolapse isn’t normal? The tear was essentially fourth degree? My symptoms may be lifelong?
“Will I be able to have another baby?” I blurt out, anxious for understanding.
Her eyes cut away from mine, settling on the wall behind me instead. She pauses, chewing the inside of her lip. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”
I try to process her response, but my mind races to the next question like a caged animal to the door, desperate for an escape. “Will I still be able to run?”
“I’m not sure,” she says, looking down. “Definitely not right now.” A weight settles in the depth of my stomach. “Let’s just focus on our treatment plan right now,” she says.
The rest of the appointment passes in a blur. She schedules twice weekly therapy sessions for the foreseeable future. I walk out of the building in a trance, my feet plodding one after the other on the black asphalt. The thud of my car door is the hammer that breaks open my heart. I wrap my hands around my steering wheel and let my head fall against the worn leather. My chest heaves as I sob alone in the parking lot, clueless to the world around me and devastated by the world within me. At first, my mind bounces from one worry to the next, but then it catches on one thought: I may never be able to run again.
***
It’s 8:30 p.m. and both my two-year-old and four-month-old are asleep. I’m stretched out on my yoga mat on the back patio. The sun sinks further into the sky, and the birds sing their last songs of the day.
I’m in the first week of a strength-training program designed for women with birth injuries. My physical therapist encouraged me to look at programs like these, but honestly? My thumbs were spiteful just typing birth injury into my phone’s search bar. Six weeks after my first delivery, I was already pushing my fast walk to a slow jog. And yet, here I am, four months after my second delivery, lying in savasana.
“You’re stronger than you think you are,” the workout instructor’s voice booms from my phone. Gritting my teeth, I attempt to simultaneously lift my pelvic floor and squeeze my glutes. I will my body to cooperate, but all I can feel is my innermost muscles twitching like a toy running out of batteries. My butt collapses onto the mat, along with my resolve. Hot tears slide down my face.
No, I am not. In fact, I am weaker than I think I am. I think of myself as someone who climbs hills. I think of myself as someone who logs miles. I think of myself as the person I was before bringing two humans into the world.
Nine months, 88 workouts, and many pep talks later, I am on the same mat. My entire abdomen quakes; sweat drips down my forehead. The buzzer on my phone erupts, and my body melts into the mat. I did it. I finished the program. I lift my head to see the fuzzy black-and-white monitor screen switching between my three-year-old and one-year-old, and I smile at their napping bodies before resting my head back on the floor. I’m thirteen months postpartum, and I’ve finally checked the last box on my pre-running checklist.
I’ve pined for this moment for months, yet somehow the moment is here, but I am not. I am lost, still searching for a version of my body that no longer exists. No matter how many reverse bridges or clamshells I do, that version is gone. My body is changed. And because I can only see weakness where I see that change, I am resentful. But what or who do I actually resent? Is it motherhood? Was it becoming a mother that took my strength, my confidence, my freedom? Or is it myself? Do I resent my own body, my own mind for the way they bore the weight of motherhood?
I try to move forward, but my persistently achy muscles serve as a constant reminder of what used to be.
One afternoon while the kids are with my mom, my simmering frustration roars to a boil. I dig my running sports bra out from under the nursing bras, flinging the nude monstrosities halfway across the room. I snatch my purple running shoes and lace them as quickly as I can. Pulling my messy hair taut into an I-mean-business ponytail, I set my smart watch to track my pace. The front door claps shut behind me, and my feet waste no time finding the pavement.
Although I’m upset, I’m still rational. I remember to concentrate on landing softly, keeping the impact minimal, but then the voice of my physical therapist kicks in. Uphill: contract pelvic floor slightly; downhill: hold the contraction. I shift my focus to these contractions, my brain begging my body to behave like a robot. I’m terrified the symptoms I’ve fought so hard to quell will emerge with one wrong contraction, or worse yet, I’ll injure my pelvic floor further. But then I’m focusing so intently on my pelvic contractions, I forget about the soft landings. Oh, and have I even been engaging my core? My brain spins. My body feels stilted and unnatural. I wait for the rhythm I know so well, but it never comes. I push through anyway, determined to make it a mile and a half.
I do make it a mile and a half, eying my watch as it ticks from 1.49 to 1.50 at the peak of one of the neighborhood’s steepest hills. I come to a jarring stop, my inhales short and fast. My heart thuds against the walls of my chest, the uphill climb having required every last bit of my determination. My frenzied breath echoes in my ears, and I want to scream. I am both proud—I did it—and devastated—that was terrible—a strange contradiction that’s now so familiar.
The next morning, I know my body is agitated before I even step out of bed. When I do stand up, a deep, heavy ache settles within my pelvis, and my irritated muscles twitch at random. I flash back to that first physical therapy appointment, feeling the weight of it all over again. Your anatomy has changed, my physical therapist had said. Because your organs moved and your muscles tore, your body may never feel the same again. At this moment, I’m tempted to give up running altogether, but my angry determination outweighs my hopeless resignation. I schedule the next available appointment with my physical therapist.
The following week, I recount my first run and the pain left in its wake to her, hoping she can coach me on better form, proper technique. She asks a few questions about my day-to-day life, and I answer, impatient for her running advice. But instead of demonstrating a new technique or offering breathing tips, she looks me in the eye.
“I don’t think your pain is from your birth injuries or from running,” she says. I wait silently, confused. “I think it’s from subconsciously clenching your muscles in fear,” she continues. I look down at my body and notice the way my toes are curled tight within my shoes and my hands are pressed firm against my thighs. “It’s as if your body believes holding everything clenched will prevent any further damage, any further change.”
“But … it won’t?” I ask, knowing the answer. She smiles, then her expression becomes serious. “Walking around with a grip that tight is only going to cause you more pain. You have to let go if you want to move forward.”
I think about all the moments anxiety has stolen from me, my white knuckles chaining me to fear. I hear my counselor’s voice telling me to counter each negative what-if with a positive one. What if my fear isn’t protecting me at all? What if I’m stronger than I think I am? What if my changed body can still be a good body?
***
I’m eighteen months postpartum, and my husband, my kids, and I sit in the driveway of our new home, admiring our new view—the quaint street we live on, the large trees hovering above like a canopy. It’s spring, and the new growth around us inspires me.
“Mind if I go for a jog?” I ask my husband.
He raises an eyebrow, surprised by my request. “Not at all,” he says.
Several minutes later, my feet meet our street—this street that holds no trace of who I’ve been, no trace of who I am. I inhale, letting the fresh, balmy air sink into my belly. I notice the way my pliable stomach expands, flipping the waistband of my shorts over, but instead of sucking my middle in and straightening the waistband, I leave both relaxed. My exhale propels me forward, my feet moving a bit faster, and a bit faster. I hardly notice I’m gliding uphill, but when I look down, my protruding quads tell me I am. My feet pad to a rhythm.
I’m halfway around the loop, approaching a downhill slope when I feel fear creep up my spine. Buckle up, it seems to say, your damaged body can’t handle the impact. I feel my pelvic floor begin to tense, but instead of gritting my teeth and pounding out the remainder of the loop, I slow my pace to a walk. Disappointment rises from within, but I let it pass through me, my hands open. And for once, I don’t berate this body of mine. I don’t even wish for her to be what she once was. I just place one foot in front of the other. I let oxygen travel through my nose, into my chest, down to the depths of my abdomen, melting muscle by muscle as it moves.
Minutes later, I round the corner and see my kids’ tiny bodies, now parked on our front porch. My son jumps up and down, waving his hands like I’ve just finished a marathon, and my daughter whacks her chubby hands together, copying her brother as best she can. My husband sits beside them both, grinning.
I continue walking until I reach them, calm but still huffing.
“How was it?” my husband asks.
All three stare at me expectantly. I realize I have a choice—not a choice to rewrite the story, not a choice to resurrect my past body, but a choice to move forward. I look down at my legs, then back up at my family, and reply, “You know? It was different than it used to be. But it was good. It was still good.”
I am still good.
Guest essay written by Allie King. Allie lives in East Tennessee with her husband and two children. She’s passionate about baked goods and mental health, belly laughs and the way God moves. When she’s not writing, you’ll find her walking to the library with her little ones or lost in deep conversation with a friend. Find more of her words on her Instagram.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.