The Pregnant Athlete

One of my proudest moments was in fifth grade when the only kid from our entire class who beat me around the track was a boy named Joey. From that point forward I only wanted to win more. I tried any sport my parents would pay for: gymnastics, soccer, ballet, tap, swimming, volleyball, waterpolo, and eventually flag football, rowing, running, and roller derby. I loved them all.

I mostly liked pushing myself, playing hard, and making friends with my teammates. I loved feeling in control of my own body, teaching myself impressive stunts and embarrassing quite a few boys. I liked what my body looked like and felt like. I slept great and was probably eating three-thousand calories a day, enjoying every bite. I felt invincible.

When I was twenty-six, I got pregnant with my daughter. I was determined not to get out of shape. I ran the whole pregnancy, gaining sixty pounds and fat ankles. I loved having her inside of me. It felt miraculous to feel so close to her, to feel her move. I felt more feminine than ever with that giant swollen belly, albeit a bit freaky. I did NOT like feeling so out of control of myself. The minute that beautiful nine-pound angel came out, I was back on the road running, trying mercilessly to force my body back into submission. That was a bad idea. I hurt myself.

Pushing two more monster-sized babies out over the next five years was in some ways empowering. I am so thankful I was able to do that, even though it wrecked me physically. It wouldn't have been so damaging had I been more gentle with myself. It was completely humbling to my sense of control over my body image and yet not regrettable at all.

I've walked many other athletes through pregnancy woes. It's a tremendous jolt to the psyche that has always been able to mind-over-matter its way to success. Most athletes I've spoken to have not enjoyed their physical experiences with pregnancy. Most have been proud, as I was, of how much we could force our bodies to do. Most loved the control they had in that self-domination and felt completely out of control once those little aliens invaded.

But grieving what you once had always opens the door to what you couldn't have had without the loss. I am kinder to my body now. I cherish my children. I am more compassionate towards others who struggle physically. And I am a better companion to those who are likewise grieving. What do you need to grieve so you can open the door to something perhaps better?