I got to class just in time, rolled out my mat, set up my weights, and managed a quick hello to the other moms.
“What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done?” The instructor always started class with an ice breaker.
I snickered. What a fucking question.
“Mine was moving across the world to another country to study abroad,” she stated, and then she turned to the next mom to answer.
But I didn’t hear her answer. I was preoccupied. This icebreaker triggered the challenges I’d endured these last years, things that were wholly inappropriate to say at a fitness class for moms.
I felt my rage seeping out.
I figured talking about my prolapse or recent autoimmune diagnosis wouldn’t be the right tone for this upbeat class. I didn’t want to hear the pitied chorus of “I’m so sorry” by bringing up my Hashimoto’s disease, an autoimmune disease I’d never heard of until my recent diagnosis.
Sure, I’d been tired. Sure, I’d gained weight. Sure, I had rage episodes. But what working mother couldn’t relate? We were struggling to conceive a second child at my ripe age of not-quite-39, so my midwife suggested blood work. This led to learning about my underactive thyroid – and the explanation for why I wasn’t getting pregnant.
I didn’t care to share the complexities of my pain with this group of more-than-acquaintances, but-not-quite-friends. How do you explain the immense grief you feel, with the simultaneous guilt-ridden relief? I desperately wanted another baby, but I feared my broken body couldn’t carry another one.
I only wanted to shed sweat, not tears.
“Paying off my student loans,” the mom standing next to me answered.
Shit. My turn was next. I wasn’t ready. So I went for a softball answer, “running a marathon; I’ve actually done two.” Eons ago.
I saw I impressed my instructor. “Two marathons, wow! That must’ve been so hard!”
But I felt my anger rise. My answer made me fixate on my prolapse, the reason I don’t run anymore. My marathon running belonged to another life, another me.
I started to feel self-conscious about the current status of my fitness. I was humble bragging about my marathon running while carrying an extra 20 pounds and dealing with constant fatigue and muscle aches from my Hashimoto’s. Are all the other moms judging me now? Watching me do all of the modified impact exercises and wondering, “How did she ever run TWO marathons; what happened to her?” I felt like a fraud.
I berated myself. Why did I fall off of my PT exercises? Why did I let my body become so weak?
But I heard my therapist’s voice in my head, “Is that how you would speak to a friend who’d recently been diagnosed with an autoimmune disease?” Logically I knew my weight gain and exhaustion were a result of my Hashimoto’s, but somehow it felt like my fault, my failure. But what good was logic, really, when you have an underactive thyroid that fucks with your emotions?
“Okay everyone, we’re going to start with butt kickers!” the instructor said.
I came here to escape, not to think about all of the hard things in my life.
I started to do my modified butt kickers, while I smiled back at everyone in class and silently chanted to myself. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. Hold it in, you’ll have a good rage cry in the shower at home. Now is not the time to cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. “Time to do my favorite exercise, the hover plank. Don’t forget, your body always wants to give up before your mind can do it, but stick to your mantra, ‘I can do it!’”
I closed my eyes and attempted to do whatever this hover plank nonsense was. My arms started to shake, my abs burned, but I tried to make myself hold on a little bit longer. Next to me a pregnant mom seemed to be hovering with ease. Why is she in better shape? How dare she be pregnant next to me – doesn’t she know I’ll never be able to give my son the sibling he so desperately wants?
“Let’s move into jump lunges!”
I ruminated on how hard these last few months have been. Trying to work in doctor appointments, blood draws, and dosage changes in the midst of a 40-hour-work week and endless hours of momming. Why did I still feel so out of sorts? When would my doctor find the right dose for me?
“Great work, now pick up those weights and let’s move into deadlifts with a row at the top.”
My temper suddenly flared as my mind drifted to the impact our country’s work culture has on my life. Who has time to process a new medical diagnosis when they have a high demand job? It was my busiest time of year – there’s no space for me to take time off, because if I do, then who will get everything done? And if I’m not getting the work done during our busiest season, will I become replaceable? And if I become replaceable, who will pay my family’s bills?
My fury ran deep as I thought about how the system forces us into burnout and withered versions of ourselves.
All of a sudden, I was my 4-year-old’s domino set, arranged so tenderly, one by one. Standing strong and tall with all the hope in the world for future success and joy, until one little finger decides to push the first wooden block, and one crashes into the next, angrier and angrier, until they all fall down.
“Grab those weights again!”
My ears perked as I noticed the song had transitioned to “Jenny From the Block.” This song sparked a memory of my husband and me, in our 20s, in the bedroom of his Santa Monica apartment. I was perusing his iTunes, and I came across “Jenny From the Block.” I squealed with delight when I realized he had purchased the entire album This Is Me… Then. My boyfriend, the Jo Lo fan! I turned on the song, and we danced through his room and sang the familiar lyrics:
“Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got / I’m still, I’m still Jenny from the block / Used to have a little, now I have a lot / No matter where I go I know where I came from.”
And that made me smile a bit.
But I quickly pushed it away. I did not want to smile: I wanted to hold on to this anger. I wanted to write this story of my rage that was in my head, hold on to this indignation.
“Get down on your mat for push ups.”
Missy Eliot started singing “Lose Control,” and I just wanted to dance. I remembered her performance of this song at the Grammys. My husband and I sat on the couch and kept repeating, “she’s so cool, how is Missy Eliot so cool?! She’s just the coolest.”
“Get back up for fast feet. I want you to get to a 7 out of 10 this time in your effort.”
Despite my resistance, I was slowly feeling some good vibes. My endorphins were pumping, and Kelly Clarkson started screaming “Since You’ve Been Gone.” I was in college, riding in the car with my girlfriends, singing at the top of our lungs, unaware of the lives we’d live after this perfect moment.
And then Pink’s “Raise Your Glass” was up next.
“I love when she says ‘Don’t be fancy, just get dancy’, it’s so silly,” the instructor said.
She was right, it was so silly and light and wonderful and fun. I was doing my fast feet, feeling the burn in my calves, and starting to have fun again.
Then “Low” by Flo Rida came on. Two Thanksgivings ago, my nephews came to visit. My 12-year-old nephew sang the lines “apple bottom jeans / boots with the fur” on repeat. Over and over, and my son quickly picked it up. I still hear him walking around the house singing “apple bottom jeans.”
So I shared this story aloud with the class. And they laughed. And I laughed. And it felt good to have collective joy and laughter.
I felt open and alive and shut down inside all at the same time.
The thing about Dominoes, I remembered, is there are countless ways you can set them up and knock them down. They don’t work without each other – they fall together, not alone. And after they fall, my son always insists, “Let’s do another one.” So we pick them all up and start over again.
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