Exercise a little grace

Five years ago I took my first Crossfit class. My feet were quaking in my athletic shoes and I was painfully insecure. Trying something new always makes me nervous, and my jiggly postpartum body couldn’t do a single pushup. I was sure that I would die and leave my child motherless.

Three years ago I was in the best shape of my life, strong, energetic, and healthy, feeling better about my body after two babies than I had before having any. I was running a mile in under 8 minutes, I could easily carry both of my sons at the same time. For the first time in my life I wasn’t insecure about a single part of my body.

One year ago I was back up to a weight that I hated. I was seeing physically the consequences of what it took mentally to survive the most stressful years of my life. Depression medication with a side effect of weight gain, plus a horrid diet of fast and comfort food for convenient and emotional eating had backtracked all of my years of hard work at the gym.

Today, I’m back at Crossfit, somewhere in the middle— weaker than my best, stronger than my worst. My body shape after my third pregnancy is not something I love, but something I’m learning to accept, and maybe eventually appreciate. Mentally and spiritually I am stronger from what I have survived, and I am in a far better place emotionally, even if a bit jigglier than I’d like physically.

Exercise has been a hard thing for me to learn. I am not naturally athletic by any means. My one season of tee-ball was spent picking buttercups in the outfield with my glove dropped carelessly in the grass. In grade school PE, I dreaded being forced to play team sports. My mediocre hand-eye coordination and fear of letting people down made butterflies swirl in my stomach at the mention of scrimmage.

When I got up the nerve to try Crossfit, I was shocked to find something that I loved. I enjoyed pushing myself both mentally and physically. I enjoyed feeling accomplished after a workout. I loved progress, my weight going down and my weightlifting capacity going up. I gave it everything. Going to the gym was my social hour, it was my ‘me’ time, my self-care. I built my day around around the gym. I did it through a pregnancy. I did it with a newborn and toddler. I felt fantastic. For 3 years consistency was key, and I rocked it.

When we adopted our daughter, things started to fall apart. I wasn’t a kind mother, yelling at my kids to find their shoes in an endless struggle to leave the house on time so I could workout. Getting all three of my children anywhere was hard, let alone trying to get to the gym before getting the boys to preschool and squeezing in appointments and therapies. I was slogging through the most emotionally stressful time of my life. While I tried to keep doing things the way I had– going to my 9am class 4-6 times a week to exercise with my friends– it just didn’t work. What was once my happy place became another thing on my plate that added stress. Stress that I was drowning in. For my mental health, I had to take a step back from my physical health.

Fitness is a journey. If it was a one and done thing I can certainly tell you where I’d have chosen to park. But things change. There are times when your family, your job, your mental health, take you away from exercise. Seasons of life change and require adaptation. Sometimes that means a new workout routine or new gym. Sometimes it means stepping away completely. When you make the choice that’s right for you, don’t waste your time feeling guilty or belittling yourself. Be proud of what you have accomplished, whether it’s surviving another sleepless night with a newborn or deadlifting 200 lbs. Whether it’s finishing another half marathon or learning the fine art of rest. Exercise is great, so exercise some grace for yourself, your mental health will thank you for it.