Lifestyle
Was She Worth It? by Jenna Taylor
Updated: April 22, 2021
Originally Published: March 13, 2016
Having my daughter transformed me on a fundamental level.
I was still groggy from pain medication when someone first asked me, “But your daughter was worth it, right?” At that moment, trapped in my hospital bed, I wasn’t entirely certain.
During the last stretch of my second trimester, I was out for a brief jog when a sudden, sharp pain in my groin left me doubled over. My doctor dismissed my concerns. “Pelvis and hip discomfort is just part of the pregnancy experience,” she quipped, meaning, “Get used to it.”
As my discomfort escalated, I transitioned from crutches to a walker, and ultimately to a wheelchair. Sure, I was thrilled to welcome my daughter, but mostly, I just wanted her to vacate my body. I couldn’t stand long enough to shower, and my husband had to assist me with even basic tasks. My excruciating pain made me yearn for relief, and I fantasized about taking a few pain relievers to numb myself.
After giving birth, multiple pelvic X-rays and an MRI confirmed that the sharp twinge I felt while jogging hadn’t been an injury; it had been a warning. I had experienced the early signs of transient osteoporosis—a rare, pregnancy-related condition where significant amounts of calcium are drained from the bones. The tests revealed that the ball part of my hip had suffered stress fractures, altering its shape, along with three other fractures in my hips and pelvis, likely sustained during labor.
At just 29, my body was permanently affected.
When I found out I was pregnant, I anticipated giving up many comforts: uninterrupted sleep, date nights with my husband, and those snug jeans. I was even willing to pause my running while my daughter was developing. “You’ll be back out there soon,” my running friends reassured me.
But during a follow-up appointment, my doctor joked, “The only time you’ll run again is if someone’s chasing you down a dark alley.” While he meant it humorously, his words echoed in my mind as I hobbled out of his office on crutches. Back at home, I gazed at the marathon medals and race bibs proudly hung on my bedroom wall, a stark reminder of my former self.
It took four months of rehabilitation and physical therapy before I could walk unassisted, carry my daughter, or push her stroller. I watched enviously as my husband effortlessly scooped her up, took her for walks, and comforted her when she cried. What kind of mom couldn’t care for her own child?
“What about just a few miles someday, years from now?” I implored my orthopedic surgeon.
“Running will lead to arthritis. You’ll need a hip replacement sooner than you think.”
When I confided in a former running friend, she looked at me with pity. “She’s worth it, though, right?”
In those early weeks postpartum, I struggled to find the right answer. I stammered, “Of course!” but at times, I didn’t fully believe it. I felt confined in this new “Mom” role and yearned for my former self. I loved my beautiful daughter but wished to reclaim my unscathed body, not wanting to feel like I was trading one for the other.
Despite my efforts to suppress it, I couldn’t help but harbor a twinge of resentment. Each night, I would kiss my daughter’s soft cheeks and place her in the bassinet beside my bed. I’d lie on my side against my injured hip, tears threatening as I rocked her to sleep, every gentle movement a reminder of my brokenness.
I berated myself for these feelings. I had a healthy, happy baby; why couldn’t my love for her overshadow everything else? I felt guilty for wishing things had been different.
Weeks rolled by, and by the time my daughter was seven weeks old, I could finally walk short distances with crutches. Eager to escape our apartment, I enrolled in a local new moms’ group. Here, I could express myself without needing to start every sentence with, “I love my child, but…” Surrounded by coos and laughter, we supported one another as we acknowledged our sacrifices in a judgment-free environment.
Gradually, my bones regained strength. I formed friendships, especially with those in the mothers’ group who didn’t question whether my daughter was worth the toll on my body. They understood the answer: yes, a thousand times over—but please don’t ignore my scars.
People often say that nothing can truly prepare you for parenthood. Having my daughter broke parts of my body and soul, yet I’ve started the journey of piecing myself back together.
I often think about how I will share her birth story with her one day. Will she inquire about why I don’t run anymore? How will I spare her from feeling guilty about her impact on my body? If she chooses to have kids, I hope she has an easier experience. But even if her journey is smooth, I want her to understand that motherhood reshapes you in unpredictable ways. There will be losses, but on the other side awaits a stronger, more resilient self—prepared for the sacrifices of parenting, and who recognizes that, once the dust settles, those sacrifices are undeniably worth it.
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Summary
This heartfelt narrative explores the profound changes that accompany motherhood, particularly the physical toll that pregnancy can take on a woman’s body. The author shares her journey from excitement to disillusionment as she navigates the challenges of recovery and the emotional complexities of feeling both love for her newborn and resentment over her altered identity. Ultimately, she highlights the resilience that emerges from these sacrifices.