I LOVE meal prepping. It embodies the kind of mother and working professional that I long to be – organized, sophisticated, practical, a true go-getter.
And some magical days, it is all true; life finds a way to bring the moments of my day a beautiful and effortless tapestry of efficiency.
When I do manage to pull it off, I give all the credit to my sister.
My sister is a master meal prepper. She is a master at almost everything mom-life. From Halloween parties to baby showers to nights out with friends to baby-breakfast gatherings, her house is spotless, her children groomed and thriving, her hair perfectly curled and her brows expertly micro-bladed. I might hate her if I didn’t love and admire her so. Did I mention that she meal preps by the week? As in, she meal preps weeks out – 14 perfectly portioned chicken breasts in 14 perfectly sealed containers with green beans, potatoes, and pepper.
I will be honest – I am not my sister. I try. Sometimes I fake it – but there is no denying it.
I might love meal prepping; it doesn’t change the fact that I am TERRIBLE at it. I don’t know what I’m going five minutes before I actually do it Planning my meals for a week? Really? It’s almost 3 and I still have no idea what I am making for dinner…and I still won’t…as I’ll most likely get distracted by something else that needs doing post blog…Pre-baby, my idea of meal prepping was downing my beer sampler post bike ride.
So, while I preach meal prepping to my challengers, I know from personal experience that it doesn’t always happen and it isn’t always possible. Thus, I need a collection of easy, healthy, veggie first and taste most recipes that I can make on a moment’s notice.
Enter the sweet potato:
Who doesn’t love this incredible starchy, sweet, sexy hunk of Earth? And guess what – it is even BETTER when assembled with other veggies.
Enter my fav mid-week super mom hack – sweet potato hash.
My husband loves it; my son loves it; my mother-in-law got seconds! It can also easily be made vegetarian (just more veggies, less meat) and is already beautifully gluten free. It works best and is healthiest with venison sausage (venison mixed with a bit of pork sausage, chorizo style) but can be made with turkey sausage or even good old pork sausage. It makes a great meal and better left overs; it has the feel of a slow cooked casserole, but can be made on a stove in half the time.
It is basically perfect.
And as with all things, let your personal tastes and spice tolerance guide you.
Sweet Potato and Sausage Hash (in a Pan)
Prep Time 15 minutes
Cook Time 20 minutes
Total Time 35 minutes
Ingredients (if going veggie, omit sausage and add more root veggies)
1 lb Bulk Sausage (of any kind – I love venison or full on pork – turkey works, but you should add some fat of some kind to give it more body)
2-3 medium sweet potatoes, peeled and chopped into small cubes
LOTS of spinach
1 red pepper
LOTS of portabella mushrooms
1 tsp olive oil
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1/2 sweet onion, chopped
Salt + pepper
1/4 c. Cheddar Cheese (if desired)
1/2 c. water or stock
Saute sausage over medium heat until cooked. Drain excess fat. Set aside.
Heat oil in a large sauce pan.
Add garlic and onion.
Add sweet potatoes. Cook for 5 minutes over medium heat or until outside of potatoes are browned.
Add red pepper, spinach, and mushrooms. Stir and continue to cook over medium heat. 5 minutes.
Add water and stir. Cover. Cook, stirring occasionally for 5-10 minutes, or until potatoes are soft.
Decrease heat. Add sausage. Add salt and pepper to taste. Stir.
Add cheddar cheese. Cover and let sit on low heat for 1-2 minutes.
Ask around. Particularly now as winter melts into mud season and the desert starts calling. In the mountain community, you will find nearly every lovely mountain mama you meet shares a few things in common:
An affinity for plaid flannels and beanies
The requisite Girafficorn hat + a craft beer sampler
A strange addiction to carbon and a growing collection of Shredly shorts
A disastrous story of one’s first attempt at mountain biking
Then, a love story about that same bike, that same trail, and that same sport
The “dirt pow” and the wheels that traverse it hold a unique place in my heart. I have never been more terrified or broken than at the hands of my pink handlebars; I have never been more alive or liberated. There has never been more doubt or uncertainty; there has never been more courage or confidence.
I have never been dirtier or more elegant than at the back of my Minon DHF tires.
In fact, in all the ways that mountain biking has broken me (literally – from ankles to ribs to shoulders), it has built me back up, creating someone new, someone bold – all while fostering a deep appreciation for life, for mountains, and for my beautiful + badass babes (and the men who love them).
My story with biking was a horror story; it began with a flurry of rocks and endos aboard a cheap, $50 Craigslist bike (a 20+ year old Trek with a busted front shock). My then boyfriend (soon to be husband) took me and that glorious bike to a trail in Boulder known as Bitterbrush for my first run (one of “the most technical trails in Colorado” – thanks babes). It was a maze of rocks and ledges, of narrow cliff bands and long descents. I would consider that trail to be oodles of fun now…then? I wore a climbing helmet and a pair of vans sneakers; I managed the rock gardens with a death grip and the smell of burning v-brakes; I almost died. I emerged hours later, bruised and battered. I admit- there were also a few tears. At the edge of a rocky switchback upon which I KNEW I was about to meet my own, bitter end, a kind man with dreads and a Jamaican accent (who also possessed a fancy Yeti and turquoise shorts) told me to, “walk to day; ride tomorrow. The trail will always be here when you are ready.”
I was broken; I was humbled; I was hooked.
How does this sport (in which nearly everyone has their own horror story) inspire such devotion and joy? Why did I emerge from my near death experience with the competing desire to throw my bike into a lake…then swim out, retrieve it, and try again?
Regardless of how, over the past decade, mountain biking has saved my life and my sanity more times than I can count.
1. It is hard.
Yes. This is a reason WHY mountain biking is so addictive and transformative.
Challenge. Sweat. Humilty. There is nothing easy about mountain biking. To quote a friend and former amateur cyclist:
It never gets easier. You just get faster.
I remember moments of defeat – where I carted and heaved and lugged myself and my bike up and over rocks, jumps, logs, and streams. There was fear and apprehension, a sometimes brutal wakeup call to my limitations. There was always sweat and the thrill of pushing my body to its edges and beyond. Sometimes, there were bruises, tears – but always, there was the challenge. That challenge meant that there was opportunity and possibility. the room for growth demanded growth – guaranteed it. With every triumph came humility; with every humbled moment came possibility – the chance to grow, to learn, and to try again.
It is hard. And that’s the point. With easy things, you start and end and stay right where you are. With hard things, you end up somewhere else – you become someone and something more.
2. It is fun.
You know what makes those hard things less impossible? When they are also fun.
It’s simple, really.
Riding bikes is fun. It is the joy, the thrill, the possibility of childhood personified. Close your eyes. You can almost feel it, can’t you? The wind in your face, the sound of rubber on pavement, then dirt – the promise of summer. Simplicity. Friendship. Every good thing. Spinning.
That promise? That joy? It is still there, and I rediscover it every time I leap to my bike seat.
It is fun to climb mountains, to stand atop distant ridges, to soar back down. It is slap happy, giddy, irresponsible, beautiful, liberating, glorious FUN – from ear to ear.
3. It is freedom.
Susan B. Anthony said it best.
Independence is happiness
That’s what riding is: freedom. As a child, my single speed huffy provided the freedom to go, to explore, to travel, to wander in search of life, friends, and adventure. When I received that pink tasseled steed of glory (aptly named the B.G.M, aka big green machine), I gained a certain degree of independence. I could now test the borders and boundaries of my quickly expanding world (and I could put a few internal boundaries of my own to the test as well).
As an adult, cycling also represented freedom – this time from self doubt and depression, from cubicles and rush hour traffic, from pain and disappointment, from anger and uncertainty. It was a way to reconnect with something innate and primal within my soul; on my bike, with the sky above and the wind behind, I was utterly and completely free.
Ms. Anthony went a bit further with her take on cycling, crediting it with the rise of the Women’s Liberation Movement.
You see, in the Victorian era, the fashion of the day (tight and tighter corsets, long heavy skirts, etc.) made walking, running, and most physical activities nearly impossible; it served as a reminder and as a metaphor for the limitations placed upon women who were expected to be physically, economically, socially, politically, and intellectually subservient to and dependent upon men. When even breathing is a chore, how could one even begin to imagine something more? In the early 19th century, however, the bicycle emerged and quickly became a cultural phenomenon. Everyone had a bicycle. It was the “it” thing to do – particularly among women. And despite some inevitable backlash and criticism, the tour de force of bikes and ladies continued to gain momentum (literally).
Women began to use bicycles to, well, go places – to shop, to travel, to wander, to run errands, to visit friends. Fashion changed, making movement easier and more accessible. Women’s ankles were being exposed (the horror!). And with the ability to move freely, women discovered something even more profound: the empowering thrill of independence and agency.
Today, man or woman, adult or child (and everything in between), recognize this simple fact: the ability to move = freedom. And freedom, the ability to move as and where one chooses, by the strength of one’s own body and the conviction of one’s own heart = happiness.
4. It simplifies.
Bikes (particularly of the modern variety) have gotten more complicated. But riding bikes? It is the most simple thing in the world. There is simply you, your body, your breath, and the trail beneath and before you. There isn’t room for much else.
Jobs and careers, mortgages and rentals, cars and dinners and conference calls and zip codes and fine denim jackets – all that silliness that divides and steals our time and energy, that robs us of unity and focus? It doesn’t matter on the trail. Not in the least.
And while, at the trail head or behind your keyboard, you may gawk at equipment, shorts, chamois, brake fluid, garmins, and whatever other silliness we have tacked on to the biking industry – on the trail itself? All that “stuff” fades into the joy of simply moving, simply breathing, simply riding.
5. It is meditative.
When riding, all else falls away. It must, to an extent. Daydreaming about bills, errands, and that morning-argument with my SO, is a surefire way to start a much more physical argument with an Aspen tree (ouch).
Mindfulness means living in the moment. To quote a former Zen master, “when you sweep the floor, sweep the floor. When you run, run. When you sit, sit. When you eat, eat.”
Too often, our bodies are doing one thing while are minds are off, doing a million others. This division breeds stress, anxiety, depression, and a host of negative emotions, thoughts, and actions. Meditation seeks to resolve this division, and thus, provide us with a way to reconnect with our bodies, to live in the moment, and to foster awareness and gratitude.
This may be why sports like mountain biking are so addictive and therapeutic. When biking, your mind and body are working together, in the moment, on the very specific task ahead of you. It is a kind of meditation – of the much more thrilling and exciting kind. There is nothing more than you and the trail and your bike. In the moment, your mind is clear and present, your body is moving, and you are truly and fully living within that moment, soaking in every ounce of its joy, color, light, and potential.
6. It is adventure.
The open road – you can see it, can’t you? Admired and traversed by wandering gypsy souls, a metaphor for American ingenuity and spirit, the greatest symbol we possess of freedom and possibility. Here, you can be, do, and go anywhere.
That road. Navigated. Adored. Feared. A place that was not a destination as much as it was a journey – less a thing and more an opportunity, a tool to be used to whatever end.
Today, the American road, unfortunately, is less “an open race towards freedom” and more a “grid commute.” But the spirit of that metaphor lives on in a different way in the wildness of dirt roads, singletrack, and aspen groves.
Because, at the edge of that trail head, out there, is adventure and possibility – things happen. And in wandering those spaces, you get to be a part of those happenings. Riding, is simply a microcosm of those open road and their figurative possibilities. Whether your ride is ten minutes or ten hours, a causal ride on familiar terrain or a week long excursion into unknown places, you will do things, you will explore, you will meet people, you will challenge yourself, you will experience something.
And that something? That unknown, mysterious possibility? That is exactly what life and living are all about.
7. It is wilderness (and wilderness is good for you).
There is something about the mountains, about nature and wilderness. It reignites our souls and our imaginations. It nurtures our spirits and strengthens our bodies. In the wilderness, we are able to focus and align ourselves with something greater than ourselves. We discover humility and purpose; we sweat and we learn. And we emerge from those lessons renewed.
The benefits of getting out into the wild spaces of our souls isn’t limited to the emotional and irrational world of us gypsies, however. Nature is energizing and restorative. Getting out of the “box” and out into the open spaces of the natural world increases both mental and physical well being, increasing our sense of well being and vitality while warding off exhaustion and depression.
Wilderness is not only good for your spirit; it is essential to your physical health. In fact, according to the 2010 issue of Journal of Environmental Psychology and professor of psychology, psychiatry, and education, Richard Ryan:
Human beings do not function well in isolation. In fact, isolation is akin to torture and can rapidly undermine both our mental and physical health. Loneliness can kill you – literally. To guard against isolation, we surround ourselves with people, with social media, with “things” – but it turns out being alone isn’t where we go wrong; being lonely is. You can be in the center of a crowded room and still be lonely; you could have the world at your fingertips and still be isolated. To guard against isolation and loneliness, we need and crave meaningful connections with living things (and adding more insta followers isn’t going to cut it).
“We have a natural connection with living things,” says Ryan. “Nature is something within which we flourish, so having it be more a part of our lives is critical, especially when we live and work in built environments.”
Mountain biking cultivates connection. Even when riding alone, one is never alone. There is the connection you have to the natural world around you, the connection that you feel and foster within your own spirit and body, and of course, the connection that you foster within the larger cycling community. Mountain bikers are a social bunch; we are passionate about our sport and thus, passionate about each other. I have never met a stranger at a trail head. I have experienced the greatest kindness on singletrack laps – from those who stopped to chat and share their glory to those who have, in the past, picked up my mangled steed and helped me to repair a chain, a tire, a cable. While biking, my walls are down, my mind and heart are open; the world rushes in and I rush back to meet it with a smile, a nod, and a genuine, deep-in-your-soul kind of joy.
Go to any trail head. I dare you. See for yourself. Like minded people, connected by a shared joy for nature, wilderness, and all things rubber? Now that is fabulous.
9. It will make you stronger (and fitter).
Mountain biking is hard. And doing those hard things does wonders for your body.
Biking is, simply, an incredible work out. It increases endurance, transforms those little lungs into massive cauldrons of athletic glory, and strengthens your heart. It strengthens nearly every muscle in your body.
And, did I mention that is far easier on your joints than high impact sports like running (or even high impact workouts, like plyometrics)?
What’s more, biking is the kind of workout that doesn’t feel like work. Sure, it’s hard. Sure, it gets your heart pumping and your body moving. But it is fun – and that fact means you are far more likely to jump on your bike over the years than hit the gym.
10. It breeds self sufficiency.
Wilderness sprawling in every direction, the open singletrack, my bike, myself and the adventure before me. And to traverse those spaces? I needed to be self sufficient. Because the freedom that mountain biking offers has a cost: that cost is your willingness to take responsibility for yourself and your actions.
Because, while your community is always there to provide guidance, support, and knowledge – at the end of the day, your ride, your bike, and your journey belong to you.
You need to know how your bike work and how to fix it. You need to know where you are going. You need to know how to take care of yourself (and others). You need to be prepared to take responsibility for a poor decision (and to learn from it). You need to analyze what is and plan for what might be. You need to think, act, and do – sometimes all on your own.
On the trail, you cannot hide behind someone else, you cannot slink into the shadows of another’s decision. It is your body, your bike, your ride, your future. You must be your own line of defense against injury and hazards.
And it is this mentality, the need to be aware, responsible, and sufficient as a mountain biker, that has had the most immediate impact on my professional and personal life. Because, the person that I am on my bike (confident, prepared, aware, resilient, free, and capable) – that person is still there at home, in the office, and in the classroom. I found her and discovered her strength on the trail. And because of my passion for riding, I get to develop that strength and bring her back with me.
There is always something about the mountains that transforms fear into courage – that, in showing us our weakness and humbling our pride, reveals our true potential. In daring to strip away our ego and shower our mangled bodies in a shower of sweat and dirt, the mountains provide a path and an opportunity to let go of all that which truly does not matter.
And in this way, in this sweaty, muddy, bruised and battered way, every dirt path promises only one true thing: freedom. This freedom, this sport, saved my life – through injuries and poverty, through homelessness and despair, through bad relationships and eventual romance, through the struggles of marriage and baby making, through the joys of motherhood and the difficulty of finding a balance, through all the trials and celebrations of my life now and into the future, mountain biking has been my center.
Sunday was Easter; in our family, it’s a big deal. It is a day of carefully crafted, beautifully lazy moments and memories, of figurative bunnies, baskets, love, prayer, and gratitude, off mass and grace – an opportunity to reflect on the divine in our every day lives and to celebrate hope, rebirth, and the goodness within each of us.
You may be rolling your eyes. I hope not. But you may be. And I understand completely.
It’s a strange thing…faith – a word wrapped in considerable doubt, angst, and lore. Divisive, even.
But, if there is one thing being a mother and an athlete has taught me, it is that faith (in anything good) and a strong moral compass are as essential to adventure, safety, and happiness in the mountains as an actual compass.
That will require some explanation…thus, let me explain.
Faith, Fitness, & Mountains
Faith in the context of fitness and extreme sports seems unnecessary, superstitious, even dangerous. On the surface, I completely agree. Our lives may seem random, our adventures reckless. But to exist (and persist to play another day), we depend on accurate predictions and measurements, numbers and data fields, calculations and expert opinions and assessments. When a misstep could mean the difference between life and death, we take our steps (however fun they might be) seriously. Here, our lives depend on choosing the right terrain, the right action, the right route, the right amount of risk. And thus, we adore and lean heavily on certainties.
You don’t climb mountains without a team; you don’t climb mountains without being fit; you don’t climb mountains without being prepared; you don’t climb mountains without balancing the risks and rewards. And, you never climb a mountain on accident – it has to be intentional
Faith, in the face of this certainty, can appear to be a funny and seemingly out-of-place condition. Many of the wilderness babes I have met over the years have openly denounced and even been hostile to the notion of a big man upstairs, of mystical saints and risen Lords.
However, to say that faith is useless in nature would be to deny the inherit mystery and majesty of wilderness. There is simply something about the mountains.
The mountains are calling and I must go
In scripture, mountains are frequently referenced and utilized as both a literal and figurative metaphor for the unknown mysteries of the universe. Their power and brilliance, their capacity for awe and violence, their seemingly endless majesty is a bridge between the human and the divine. Servants of that divine power found themselves drawn to the mountains again, and again, climbing through desolate and beautiful wildernesses (within and without themselves), called by something they could not touch, see, feel, or hear into a land that they could not imagine nor understand. In the face of fear and uncertainty, they climbed. They rose. They soared. And in the process, they discovered something profound.
And we still follow in their footsteps.
For behold the LORD is coming forth from His place He will come down and tread on the high places of the earth
Mountains also have a special place within our culture – from religion to literature (and everything in between), from Abraham to Christ, from Greek mythology to Zen Buddhism, from prophets like Mohammad to Beatnik Poets like Gary Snyder, mountains are both a literal and figurative symbol of something beyond us. Mountains are elevated, literally – separated geographically from the rest of the world, distinguished from the world of man (and thus from the sins of man) – a physical representation of freedom, power, and enlightenment as well as the embodiment of the wilderness and the unknowable mysteries of life.
It is a place where we are stripped down to our barest, our most raw and exposed. And we often attempt to navigate that exposure, to guard against the dangers of the mountain, with plans, training, gear, and science (all of which are necessary survival tools). We criticize and ridicule those who wander into the mountains unprepared; we guard against the silliness of superstition and faith…
The Best Laid Plans…
…And generally, I agree. The tools of our trade (equal parts gear and knowledge) are critical to successful adventures and pursuits.
However, while I avow my commitment to science and planning, I admit that I do carry a good luck charm in my back pack (a Sedona red rock cut into the shape of a heart given to me by a kind hippie dressed in nothing but a speedo and a large turquoise necklace). I never assumed, however, that my happy rock did more than add some extra grams to my pack. I wasn’t a fool. I know that no amount of luck prayers or hippie speedos could guard against the weight of a poor calculation. It is what I love about the mountains. In an urban world of endless gray areas and “maybes,” the mountains offer violent and concrete certainty. If you make a mistake, you die. It is black and white; my destiny and my future are in my own hands.
Until it isn’t.
There is something about the mountains…and that mysterious something has teeth.
Nature is both predictable and completely unpredictable. There is always the known – then the unknown, that mystery. One can do seemingly everything right, make every right decision, have all the right gear and training…and still tragedy can strike.
This group did everything right and the only thing they could have done differently was to not go there in the first place.
In regards to my close escapes, I also did almost everything right. Then, things went wrong.
In retrospect, I could analyze and deconstruct every choice I made (not putting my foot there, perhaps not hitting that jump, turning just a few seconds before hand, taking ski conditioning more seriously…), but in all reality, the only way to know for certain was to not be there in the first place.
I was in control of my actions, my choices, my responses. But I was not in control of the mountain.
In the mountains, we are face to face with our power and our powerlessness. Connected with the divine and infinite, we become aware of our mortality. As we embrace our ability to control our own actions and lives, our agency, we simultaneously must embrace our inability to control the world around us.
It is why, often, in our moments of joy and despair, we find ourselves reaching out towards something unknowable and impossible. In the hard, concrete world of granite and physics, we discover mystery. And it is this mystery that brings me back to faith, to my Sedona rock and prayers, time and time again.
Understanding Grace and Faith: a Mountain Perspective
And this brings me back to my original argument: faith is essential to a modern mountain life. Note: I am not saying that religion is essential or necessary (while grace and faith are largely attributed to religious ideals and practices, they are not unique to them).
Grace, actually, has two definitions. On one hand, it refers to the Christian notion of the divine spirit, the essence of God and his mystery as experienced by man. On the other, it refers to movement marked by purpose, elegance.
As a mountain girl, I found peace and continuity in the unity of these two definitions. Through our calculated movements within these desperately beautiful and raw spaces, truly alive and unified in mind, body, and spirit, we discover the divine within ourselves and our world – the divine being that which is beyond us, some measure of goodness realized through utter simplicity, action, and trust.
Faith, then, refers to this trust. It is the ability to visualize an outcome, a future that cannot be known, and to then trust, with absolute certainty in the realization of this possibility. It is hope – to the next level.
Faith and grace, however, are fundamentally useless if not lived. We must live as thought that hope, that future, that possibility is certain. And seek grace by living in that faith. And in this sense, our mountainous pursuits, depend upon faith and grace just as much as we do our scientific calculations.
We must use the powers of science to plan our ascents and adventures; we must depend upon our knowledge and skill to walk the path; we must utilize our gear appropriately and effectively.
But we must TRUST in each other. We must move with grace through the unknowns and the mysteries of the wilderness. We must navigate both the terrain as well as our own souls. We must move graciously, trusting to hope and in the certainty of a summit that is not certain.
The mountain life, in its harsh reality, breeds confidence and humility simultaneously. It rewards both caution and action. It demands focus and skill. In the mountains we MUST assume total control over ourselves, our emotions, and our actions. We are entirely within the present – mind, body, and spirit are unified towards a single task and the forward movement required to realize that goal.
It is exhilarating – the essence of being truly alive.
But it also means embracing our limits, recognizing that we are NOT in control, and that to realize the summits within our life and beyond, we must move with grace and embrace faith – faith in oneself, in one’s partners, in one’s training, in one’s calculations, and faith in that great unknown, in hope and grace, in the mysterious powers of the universe.
Pregnancy – there were too many words and then, too few. My language, desires, passions, along with my energy, were swallowed into a growing chasm of possibility – a darkness bathed in the light of a dozen competing dreams and ambitions, of what ifs and maybes, a growing lump of futures and pasts, a million different stories with a million different endings, written in the flesh of my expanding body.
I had been an athlete, riddled with muscles and scars. I had been too hard for the possibilities of my child and our future, and so, my body shifted and pressed outward until those hard places collapsed into jelly. I became soft and pliable. Every inch of me shifted, like water, and my skin bubbled out into radiant balloons and clouds, dreaming just beyond the horizon of my son, his future, our family, our future – my story told in the third person, by me but for someone else.
I was a walking, talking embodiment of every duality and hypocrisy: simultaneously strong, then weak, empowered and powerless. The world moved forward with and because of me…and regardless of me and what I thought I wanted, nature would, at some point, take over.
In birth, there is a death: the woman you were before fades and the mother you will become follows your child out into the world. You take your first breath together.
As an athlete and as a poet, I had always been focused on questions of the body. From how it worked (and how far it could take my extreme desires and goals) to the stories it told and transcribed; from mountain descents in spring to my graduate dissertation and several largely un-read books of poetry.
Thus, my pregnancy created another opportunity, not only for me to reflect on my body, but for others to share in its struggles, triumphs, and transformations. Pregnancy was my first realization that my body, built by and for me, was not solely mine. It was of me, but it did not belong only to me. It was a part of some greater dance, of some larger purpose and reality, of the wilderness without and the communities I built against that wilderness.
Thus, for nine months, we discussed how motherhood transforms your life and career; we also discuss, at great lengths, the various troubles and awkward situations that pregnancy itself creates – from morning sickness and swollen feet, to weight gain and back pain. And while there was discussion of getting my “pre baby body” back, of the bike and ski trips that would follow, of my silly claims that I would be back in the saddle (literally) in just a few short weeks – no one mentioned the obvious: that person and that body were gone, replaced instead with the mother I became the instant my son entered the world and landed, like a bird, onto my chest.
Perhaps this is what so many fitness professionals, well meaning grandmothers, and ill advised athletic trainers misunderstand when it comes to motherhood and the postpartum period…
After a day of pre-labor, two hours of the universe repeatedly breaking my pelvis awhile squeezing my stomach with barbed wire, and a dramatically quick series of pushes, my son was being weighed and cleaned while I was stepping out of the tub and back into some new world. Naked, in a maze of midwives, grandma’s, and soft baby voices, I looked in the mirror.
From the outside, it wasn’t pretty. I was caked in sweat and fluids, my hair was a nest of anxiety and humidity, my breasts swollen from the sudden rush of motherhood, my body exhausted and strained. And yet, standing there, I took my hands and passed them over my stomach. I pressed it in to my spine, feeling the sensation of empty air and taking in with that sensation, my new body. I was light, free, filled with an impossible confidence and irresponsible satisfaction. Appreciative, perhaps. Liberated and new.
My world had changed; so had I. And my body had shifted along with it, emerging from the dark pain of labor with a new strength and thus, a new form.
There was no getting my pre-baby body back. That person, that body, that story was over. Something new had emerged in its place. And discovering that body, living in it, learning to love it, occupying it? THAT was what my fitness journey was and became.
Not losing weight.
Not regaining my figure.
Not jumping back into racing or mountain adventures.
But, instead, resting, regaining strength, discovering this new body in all its forms, and learning to adore and appreciate its unique beauty and possibilities.
There were frustrations, of course. Fears. Sadness. The sleep deprivation, anxiety, uncertainty, and of course, the pain of my recovery. There was also my inability to let go of who I was. I loved her, of course – that gypsy of a woman. I mourned her. I had spent 32 years building and defining who I was (and the body that encapsulated and expressed her). The thought of rebuilding seemed impossible.
And yet, piece by piece, day by day, choice by choice, the painful, boring, and sometimes exhilarating process of rediscovery and re-imagination took hold.
Perhaps that is what my journey as a coach, a mother, was; perhaps that is my love letter to my post-baby body and the insight I bring to the new mamas who join me. I was someone; I became someone else. And my body, my brilliant, flawed, captivating, compelling physical form, still soft and pliable, shifted and slowly empowered me to become that someone new –