I’ve invested the past two years in physical therapy, and I attribute it all to my kids.
Years ago, I viewed a makeover reality show where a woman, with lackluster hair and weary eyes, lamented, “I let myself go after having my children!” At the time, I thought to myself, “How sad! Who would let that happen?” Fast-forward seven years and two children later: that’s me.
“Letting yourself go” extends beyond mere appearance; it signifies a total neglect of self-care, both physically and emotionally. I could have starred in my own version of “Gone, Girl”—where did I disappear to? I am incredibly fortunate as a mother in every possible way, but I’ve sacrificed my own well-being for my family.
One key lesson I’ve gleaned from my physical therapy sessions is that one problem can lead to another—a domino effect of physical decline. My injured knee weakened my quadriceps, which caused my kneecap to shift. As a result, I struggle with stairs, running is painful, and my hips are overcompensating, leading to tight IT bands, misaligned shoulders, and a complete lack of range of motion. I now find myself with terrible posture, resembling a sway-backed horse, with ribs jutting out and neck thrust forward like a hungry chicken.
Physical therapy has been an enlightening yet emotional acknowledgment of everything that’s gone wrong. I discovered that my posture was incorrect, my walking was flawed, and my balance was off. I was angry. Why was my body betraying me? As a victim of pain, I craved answers: I never fully healed from my knee surgery because I became pregnant; I didn’t regain leg strength due to caring for my babies; my shoulders collapsed inward from breastfeeding and carrying children.
While rationally I understand my injuries stem from a skiing accident, it’s emotionally easier to blame my kids. They are right in front of me, while the man who carelessly caused my accident is not. This blame is a heavy burden I carry silently, feeling worse on my shoulders than lugging around a 40-pound toddler.
Around the time my body began to fail, I also started experiencing anxiety symptoms, which coincided with the arrival of my second child. I was diagnosed with an unusual congenital eye issue, began grinding my teeth, and felt an overwhelming fatigue.
My children didn’t break the camel’s back, but they were the last heavy straws that pushed it to its limit. Unable to care for my family anymore, I finally had to prioritize myself. I stopped waiting for someone to intervene as I collapsed under the weight of motherhood, much like Mariah Carey’s publicist stepping in to cancel her world tour due to exhaustion.
Despite feeling like I was on the same trajectory as my elderly neighbor, I developed a deep appreciation for simply standing upright. I assembled a team to assist me: a skilled massage therapist for my hip, a psychotherapist for my mental health, a Pilates instructor for overall strength, and multiple babysitters (including grandpa) to ensure I could attend all of my appointments.
I learned to value even the simplest movements and accepted that I might never run again or resolve my shoulder issues and posture. This was simply how my body was designed, according to my physical therapist, and I had to come to terms with it.
I stopped picking up my three-year-old every time he asked. I took more naps. I incorporated leg lifts, presses, and shoulder exercises into my routine, investing in tools like a foam roller, ankle weights, and a TheraBand, driven by the fear of not being able to keep up with my boys or explore the world alongside them.
Most importantly, I learned that being a mother does not equate to being a martyr. Putting myself back into the equation doesn’t detract from my children.
Today, I no longer attend physical therapy. My shoulders are mostly back in their proper position, and I can navigate stairs with relative ease. Yet, leaving PT was daunting. Would my body function properly without professional guidance? The essential question remained: can I care for myself independently?
I can, but I am not alone. My support system—my three-year-old, my six-year-old, and my husband—has helped me piece myself back together with love and humor. Motherhood may have cracked me open, but it also has the power to heal.
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Summary
This piece reflects on the physical and emotional toll of motherhood, detailing the journey of self-care and recovery through physical therapy. It emphasizes the importance of prioritizing one’s well-being while still being a dedicated parent. The narrative is a candid exploration of the challenges and triumphs that come with motherhood.