I’ve spent the past couple of years in physical therapy, and I hold my children responsible.
Years ago, I saw a makeover reality show featuring a woman with lank hair and tired eyes, lamenting, “I just let myself go after having kids!” Back then, I thought, “How sad! Why would anyone let that happen?” Fast forward seven years and two kids later: I’ve become that person.
“Letting yourself go” isn’t just about appearance; it reflects a complete neglect of self-care, both physically and emotionally. I could star in a version of “Lost and Found” – where did I disappear to? The echo of that question haunts me.
I am incredibly fortunate to be a mother in every way, but I’ve sacrificed a part of myself for my family.
One significant lesson from my time in physical therapy, or PT as the insiders call it, is that one issue can lead to another—a cascading effect of bodily chaos. My injured knee weakened my quadriceps, which shifted my kneecap, making stairs challenging and running painful. Consequently, I compensated with my hip, which started hurting, and my IT bands tightened. My shoulders rolled forward, I lost my range of motion, and my posture became dreadful. I ended up sway-backed like an ancient horse, with my neck protruding like a chicken’s.
PT revealed everything that was amiss. I discovered I was standing, walking, and balancing incorrectly. It was both informative and emotional. I felt anger—why was this happening? Who could I blame for my body’s betrayal? Like any person in pain, I craved answers: I never fully recovered from my knee surgery because I got pregnant; my leg strength never returned as I cared for one baby and then another; my shoulders caved in due to breastfeeding and carrying my children.
While I know my injuries stem from a skiing accident, it’s far easier to blame my kids. They’re here, tangible reminders of my struggles, while that reckless skier from Colorado is long gone. This blame is a heavy burden I carry in silence, weighing more on my shoulders than a 40-pound toddler.
Not coincidentally, anxiety crept in around the same time my body began to break down, coinciding with the arrival of my second child. A strange congenital eye condition was diagnosed, I started grinding my teeth, and fatigue became my constant companion.
My children didn’t break me; they were just the final straws on an already overloaded camel’s back. Unable to care for my family, I was finally compelled to prioritize my own well-being. I stopped waiting for someone to rescue me, like a publicist canceling Mariah Carey’s world tour due to exhaustion.
Despite feeling like I was on the same trajectory as my 90-year-old neighbor, I developed a newfound appreciation for simply standing upright and assembled a support team to help me stay that way: a skilled massage therapist for my hip, a thoughtful psychotherapist for my mind, a great pilates instructor for overall fitness, and a dedicated babysitter, with backup options including my father-in-law, to help me reach my appointments.
I learned to appreciate the simplest of movements and accepted that I might never run again. I came to terms with the fact that my posture and the way I stand would be lifelong challenges because—yes, you guessed it—that’s simply how my body was designed.
I stopped carrying my three-year-old at his every whim, took more naps, and incorporated exercises like leg lifts and shoulder workouts into my routine. I even invested in a roller, ankle weights, and a thera-band because the fear of not keeping up with my boys—of not being able to explore the world with them or even climb the stairs to my own bedroom—was a powerful motivator.
Most importantly, I realized that being a mother doesn’t mean being a martyr. Including myself in the equation doesn’t detract from my children’s lives; in fact, it enriches them.
Today, I’ve graduated from physical therapy. My shoulders are back in place, and most days, I can ascend stairs without discomfort. However, parting ways with PT was daunting. Would I manage my body’s needs alone? The ultimate question was: could I care for myself independently?
The answer is yes, but I am not truly alone. The love and humor of my little team—the three-year-old, the six-year-old, and my husband—have helped stitch me back together.
Motherhood may have cracked me open, but it also has the power to heal.
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In summary, motherhood has its challenges and rewards. It’s essential to remember that self-care is not selfish, and prioritizing your health benefits the entire family.