Still finding her
When I say I was fortunate to receive six months of paid leave after giving birth, I mean it with every fiber of my being. It gave me something I didn’t know I would need so desperately: time not just to recover, but to find myself again.
Let me be clear: eight weeks of leave, especially in the U.S., feels criminal. For reference, most new mothers can’t even be cleared to work out before six weeks—if everything goes smoothly. To expect a return to “normal life” before the physical and mental wounds of birth have even begun to close is, quite frankly, inhumane.
Looking back, I’m glad for the way my husband and I structured our time off. We welcomed our baby on Thursday, October 12th. Both of us took the first week off together, and my mom flew in to help for the first two weeks. After that first week, my husband returned to work—right into his busy season. That meant long days, late nights, and a lot of silence in the house.
When my mom left after week three, the stream of visitors stopped, the house grew quieter, and suddenly it was just me, a newborn, and a dog. That’s when loneliness crept in, disguised at first as exhaustion. But it was more than that. My hormones were crashing, my identity was unraveling, and I found myself staring into the mirror at a stranger.
Six weeks postpartum, I had my checkup—and a curveball. An ultrasound revealed a peach-sized cyst on my left ovary that required immediate laparoscopic surgery. The procedure happened at eight weeks postpartum. Physically I healed well, but mentally it felt like another hit to my already-fragile sense of self. The silver lining? It extended my short-term disability by two more weeks.
There were still beautiful moments. Having an October baby meant snuggling during the coziest time of year, with holiday Hallmark movies playing softly in the background. But let’s not confuse that with “easy.” Far from it.
In late December, desperate to get a grip on my mental state, I started journaling. I scribbled out goals for the coming year, some as simple as “shower today,” and others bold and ambitious—like running a marathon in the fall. Journaling turned into meditation. Meditation turned into mental clarity. Slowly, I found tiny moments of peace.
By mid-January, I was cleared to work out. I hired a personal trainer who specialized in postpartum fitness and running. I had a base; I’d run half and full marathons before. But this body was different. This brain was different. This life was different. Postpartum running is its own story.
From January on, I woke up every day at 4:30 a.m. I pumped, ate, journaled, trained, and showered—all before 7:00 a.m. when “mom duty” officially began. Was it hard? Incredibly. But that structure gave me what I craved most: direction. It gave me a way forward, not back. Because the old me? She wasn’t coming back. I had to meet the new version of myself—and she wasn’t just going to show up one day. I had to work to find her.
I used the remainder of my leave to do just that. I explored what kind of mom I am. I came back stronger as a runner. I found joy again. But did I fully find myself? Not yet.
As I write this, I’m 18 months postpartum, and I’m still searching. But I’m closer. I can feel her. And maybe that’s what motherhood really is—constantly evolving, constantly seeking, constantly becoming.
One step at a time.
