My Body Betrayed Me (Again)
For the gym moms out there
I was feeling so strong.
Just last week, I was squatting 55 kg like it was nothing—chest proud, core engaged, legs steady. Three years postpartum, and finally, I felt like my body was mine again. Not just a vessel that had been stretched and emptied and stitched back together, but something capable. Strong by any standard—not just "mom strong."
When I got home, I saw it in the mirror: the bulge that told the truth.
That subtle ridge flaring out from my midline, more pronounced than before. That paunch in my lower belly that it made it look like I eat cake everyday (I don’t).
The kind of telltale bulge that women who've carried life learn to recognize. It whispers, you're not as healed as you thought.
I sank to the floor, got onto my back, exhaled hard, and pressed my fingers just below my belly button. Three fingers wide. FFS.
Two years ago, after 12 months of postpartum rehab—weekly sessions with a postpartum PT, planks upon planks, deliberate core work, never a single crunch—I'd gotten my four finger ab separation gap down to two fingers. I'd done everything right. Or so I believed.
Maybe for most women, postpartum recovery is linear. Maybe their bodies cooperate. Mine refuses.
It operates on its own stubborn rhythm—one that ignores my deadlines and punishes my impatience. Push too hard, and it pushes back harder.
Why am I venting here after a long day of work?
Because I'm deeply frustrated. Because after all the money invested in making this problem go away, all those hours of hard work at the gym, all my paranoia about crunching… seeing my progress unravel leaves me heartbroken. It's that particular ache of believing you've finally achieved something, only to find yourself back where you started.
Starting Over (Again)
So here's the new plan:
Drop the weight. Literally. If 55kg squats undo my progress, we're going lighter.
Invest smarter. Not just in therapy, but in expectations. My worth isn't measured in kilos lifted.
Burn the comparison chart. My metrics are mine alone - this body birthed a human. Comparing with the 23 year old me who did Crossfit isn’t fair either.
Real strength isn't just about pushing through, it's knowing when to pivot. So I'm done fighting the body that created life.
From now on, we're on the same team.