I went back to the gym this past week. I hadn’t taken a body pump class since the end of September.
It. Was. AWFUL.
And it felt amazing.
Also. I cried.
Not, like, the sobbing cry that you do when you are alone in your car or shower or closet or wherever it is that you have sob sessions.
But, the tears definitely streamed down my face at a steady pace.
Even though I arrived early, I somehow begrudgingly ended up in the front row and of course, there is a gigantic mirror in the front of the room.
So, not only did everyone behind me watch as I tried, unsuccessfully, to squat and lunge my way through class. But, if they were looking in the mirror, they could also see me crying at the end.
The definition of hot mess being played out before their very eyes.
You see, for two months, I missed my favorite class. But, it wasn’t by choice.
We found out that we were pregnant again.
So, I got to spend some of September and all of October being joyfully pregnant instead.
The PERFECT reason to skip the intense classes and take on treadmill walking.
And then, when we were 8 weeks along, we found out that our little baby wasn’t going to make it much longer. That although I had all of the right medications and was taking all of the right precautions and going to our doctor weekly, sometimes twice a week…that we were going to have to say goodbye to another one of our babies.
So, I spent the next two weeks losing this little one. Painfully and slowly saying goodbye as my body changed from pregnant lady back to regular ol’ broken uterus lady.
And suddenly, I had no reason to skip my class.
No reason to pace myself on a treadmill, to go to the doctor, take shots and pills. No reason to come up with silly excuses as to why I wasn’t having a glass of wine with friends.
But, even still, I couldn’t bring myself to go back to that gym.
And during that god forsaken body pump class, I realized why.
Every time I lose a baby, I become incredibly angry with my body.
A part of me knows that it is not my fault. But a big part of me also believes that, had each baby been in someone else’s body, they would be running around, smiling and living in this world today.
I connect my loss to my body failing me…failing my children.
And it is one of the hardest parts of my grief process to reconcile.
So, going back to the gym was a big step for me. A big step in dealing with another loss.
Going back to the gym meant facing the real reason why I actually COULD go back.
And, during that cool down portion of the class, it all hit me like a huge, unexpected wave.
I was at the gym to take care of my body again, yes. To take care of myself.
And also, I was in that class because I was no longer carrying my baby.
And it was about time that I faced that.
Of course, I wish that I had figured that out PRIOR to stretching my hammies in the packed Studio #2 while listening to a techno version of Britney Spears.
But, alas, you can honestly never estimate or pinpoint when grief hits and how long it will last.
So, you just have to go with it. Allow every feeling to develop. Process through every emotion and thought. Remember that being sad and angry is ok for a season. Being happy is ok, too.
And sometimes, you just have cry it out.
In front of strangers. While wearing yoga pants that should be a size bigger.
At least, that is a part of my story.
And, I am ok with that, too.