A few weeks ago I bought a self-supporting ballet barre from amazon, with the full intent of starting my Pure Barre workouts again. I signed up for the on-demand service and was excited to get back to a workout that I love and know works. I knew it would be a good compliment to the Peloton workouts I (sometimes) do. 

A little over a year and a half ago, I was a Pure Barre instructor. And a good one, if I do say so myself. Fitness instruction in this way was something that naturally fit into a lot of aspects of my personality, and over the 4 years I was on the mic, I really found confidence in my ability to motivate women to be their strongest selves. 

I stepped away once teaching became physically too much for me during my pregnancy. 4 months after I gave birth, the world shut down. Not only have I not taught a barre class, I haven’t taken one.

For so long I didn’t have the motivation. Then once I found motivation to work out, I couldn’t bring myself to do virtual classes. One reason being I didn’t want to pay for two subscriptions (peloton and PB), the other being I was mortified by the thought of my instructor friends seeing how my body has changed and how progressively weaker it has become.

Going from my physically strongest, most fit adult self right before I got pregnant, to my physically weakest and least fit adult self postpartum has been…a LOT. I’ve been working hard on carving out time to support my mental health, and although I know physical + mental are SO intertwined – and exercise absolutely helps my depression – finding the motivation for it has been almost impossible. I’ve most definitely put it on the back burner. 

If you’ve been there, or are there, you get it. If you don’t get it and are kind of judging me rn, well I hope you never find yourself in the position where you do “get it.”

Anyway – enough projecting my judgment of myself onto imaginary readers that probably are not actually judging me. Self-preservation – it’s a bitch amiright?!

The second fear I listed I’m aware is very silly, as my instructor friends are some of the kindest, most encouraging, most loving and uplifting women I’ve ever met in my life. I doubt they would even notice the change in my body – and if they did, they would meet it with celebration and compassion. Bc that’s the kind of women they are! 

That said, the embarrassed and competitive sides of me just really couldn’t get vulnerable enough to show how physically weak my once-strong body now is. I used to have to dig deeper to find new layers of burn – but now, I’m not even able to complete a class without coming out of and/or modifying every pose. For me and my ego, DAMN that is so hard to experience.

To go from teaching a workout to not even being able to complete that same workout is a wake-up call that I never wanted to receive. I know I got myself here, but it doesn’t make it any easier to experience.

Yesterday, a full threeish weeks after the barre showed up, I finally took my first class. I chose an on-demand class (still afraid of others witnessing) and it was only 30mins (standard class is 50 min). My ego hurt the whole time as I navigated constant modifications, awareness of my still-separated abs, and inability to stretch like I used to. 

I cried when my husband told me he was proud of me and asked me how my workout was. I cried because it feels like I’m standing at the bottom of the tallest mountain, and I don’t want to start climbing because it seems like I’ll never reach the top. I cried because I’m disappointed in my body for getting so weak. I’m disappointed that I let it. I let it get weaker and weaker postpartum instead of giving it the well-deserved love and rehab I should have.

I cried because I’m disappointed that I focus more on disappointment than appreciation for what it’s accomplished and continues to accomplish. My body is still, two years after I got pregnant, providing for my child. It’s still nourishing him, even when I’m not nourishing it. And that’s incredibly impressive of my body. 

I don’t know if I will ever give my body the appreciation it deserves, but I will forever stay committed to being self-aware of my feelings toward it, and work on improving our relationship.

After some initial disappointment, I was able to turn my attention to the fact that I still achieved the ultimate goal in Pure Barre – to feel the burn and shake. I changed my body when I took my class, with one inch movements and isometric holds. And I found some comfort in the consistency that Pure Barre fundamentals can have in my life. 

It doesn’t always take a high impact jump. Sometimes, life requires small and focused movement repeated over and over, followed by periods of pause. If you’ve taken a barre class, you know that many times the pause – the isometric hold – the stillness – is the hardest part. The deepest burn. The strongest shake. 

Sometimes it’s sitting in the discomfort without “moving forward” that makes us stronger than the forward momentum ever could. 

So I will focus on the class completion, rather than the duration. The effort, rather than the perfection. The form, rather than the depth of movement. 

I will focus on scaling the mountain a little at a time. I will continue to follow each “down an inch” with an “up and inch,” and eventually find the top of my mountain after a few lift-up, up-holds. Even feeling physically weak, Pure Barre will teach me once again that I am stronger than I think. 

This one is for my fellow feelers, or mental health strugglers, or people who don’t identify as that but love someone who does. So I guess, this is for everyone.

I am a feeler. Always have been, always will be. I feel deeply and express it loudly. I don’t just wear my heart on my sleeve. I wear it on my face, on my chest, in my clothes, in my eyes…everywhere. I am a good actor, but I have never been great at acting like I don’t feel how I’m feeling. You know what I mean?

Give me a character and I can play them pretty well. But tell me to not display my emotions, or mask them with a different one, ima have a REAL hard time doing that. It’s like trying to hold in a sneeze. You may successfully end with a quiet and polite “chewp,” but we all saw your eyes bug out and your body convulse and your vein pop out of your head like you were about to explode. You’re not fooling anyone. You’re a sneezer – and we all know it – sneezy.

Anyway – being a feeler means lots of things for me. It means I am tired at the end of every day from emotional exhaustion (on top of normal tiring things like being alive and walking from the couch to the coffee machine). It means I cry at commercials and strangers at the airport or hospital or grocery store. It means I sob during podcasts. It means I sometimes need to process grief that isn’t even mine. 

It also means I am a good listener. I make people feel heard and understood. People feel like they can be open with me – they trust me. It means I am generally good at conflict resolution because I can understand multiple perspectives. I am generally regarded as a good friend. I am frequently described as having a big heart, being compassionate, making others feel loved, being kind. 

It means I can take things personally, second-guess everything, fear abandonment (I’m an ennea Type 2), crave attention, desire vulnerability from others, and make assumptions about their love for/trust in me by their willingness (or lack thereof) to do so.

It means I’ve been labeled as “too much” or “tiring.” It means I am constantly questioning whether or not I measure up.

As an ennea 2, I think my value comes from my contribution more than my person. I believe people love me “because of” <insert the value I bring to their life here>. Don’t worry, I have a whole post I’ll do soon about the definition of love and my recent thoughts about our desire to describe “why” we love each other.

Being inside my “interpersonal relations” headspace is like studying for an exam you’ll never take but still assume you’ll never pass. It can feel very hopeless. And lonely.

I had a conversation with a friend recently who described the desire for closeness with humans as “emotional currency. I give you some, please give me a little.” How spot on. We discussed how we both are “over-sharers” and how it can be a big turnoff for people. We really just want connection, as it is our deepest and purest desire.

But we’ve grown up in an online world where humanity is very much stripped from us. I was listening to Glennon Doyle’s episode on The Skinny Confidential podcast, and she mentioned this. We are filtered and calculated and made to be “the android version of ourselves.” We are more robotic than human.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how we grew up in an online world where people “don’t want to hear about” our humanity.

“Social media is for puppies and babies and happiness.”
“Nobody wants to see/hear about your hardships, your depression, your identity crisis.”
“Stick to xyz. There’s enough negativity out there. Let’s be happy and light.”

That’s only been exacerbated by all this year has challenged us with. “Nobody wants to hear about” your political stance, your desire for all Americans to have fair and equitable access, your human beliefs that drive incredibly important decisions like who we elect as leaders of our communities and country.

If I had a dollar for every time I saw someone post about “what social media is for,” well I wouldn’t be rich but I could buy some cool shit.

Who made you the social media dictator, Karen?! Speak to a manager elsewhere. Zuck is too busy fighting lawsuits to address your displeasure.

Anyway, if you’re still reading at this point, the “processing” I’m working on is recognizing when I am writing a false narrative, vs listening to my gut. I can overanalyze. Every comment, text, story, I slice it three different ways and see if it has a hidden meaning.

 
I wonder if I’m being too much – too open, too share-y, too vulnerable, too attention-seeking, too depressed, too emotional, too exhausting. Will I be “too much” to stay loved?

What if I wake up one day and I’ve exhausted everyone?

What if you’ve gotten to the end of this and you’re too exhausted to be interested in hearing more? What if my carrying of others’ grief is intrusive?

What if in trying to be a good friend, and also feel loved, I’m draining everyone around me?

How do I not be “too much” when all I know how to be is myself? 
How is it that feeling like I’m “too much” also makes me feel like I’m not enough?

I remind myself that I am loved for this. I remind myself that I am me for this. I remind myself that I have some of my best experiences are because of this. I remind myself that I feel one with music because of this. That my life has a soundtrack, because of this. That my relationships can be beautiful, because of this.  That I can be a mindful parent, because of this.  That I can raise kind children, because of this.  That my fear of abandonment does not trump my desire to abandon my fears and live the full life that my unique heart is capable of creating.

Are you exhausted yet?

I was excited. I had prepared. I romanticized labor and felt like I would genuinely love it. It seemed so magical and mystical and other-worldly. I was looking forward to seeing how it felt to truly lose control and trust my body. To feel like I was at my very limit and push through it. Man it sounded empowering. And it was. 

At some point I will share more about my mindset leading up to birth, but for the sake of taking this story from Encyclopedia to Novel, I will stick to the birth story for now.

We decided about half-way through my pregnancy that we’d hire a doula. Justin was pretty against it at the beginning, but came around after a lot of education and meeting with an actual doula (who we ended up hiring). When I found out I was pregnant, I had no idea what kind of birth I wanted. I was honestly terrified of it all and the decisions seemed overwhelming. So. Many. Decisions.

I had every intention of going with the flow and taking things as they came, with no real plan in mind. Loosey goosey. No expectations. That all changed once I started reading about unmedicated births. A lot of people use the term “natural birth” to describe all kinds of things. Vaginal delivery, unmedicated delivery, it can all be very confusing. I took a personal stance against the term early-on because it feels very judgy to call anything about the birth experience “natural” – to me it implied that other things are “unnatural” and with the hundreds of ways mothers can be judged for everything they endure, it just seemed unkind to me to add a label like that. If I had a c-section and had 3 different pain management drugs, I didn’t want to be labeled as my birth experience not being “natural.” Anyway, I’ll get off my high horse for now. 

After reading about the different experiences women who’d had unmedicated labors described, it sounded incredibly intriguing. Magical, even.

I’ve always had a very intense mind/body connection, and the pure animalistic experience these women described was seductive. It sounded so raw and powerful and out-of-body while being so intensely in-body. It was what I decided I was drawn toward, and ultimately wanted. I quickly found out that it was not something I should share with many people, as there was an unexpected tone of judgement from, surprisingly, other moms. 

“You say that now, you just wait.” “Why would you ever do that, do you enjoy pain?” And my favorite…”I just didn’t feel like I had to prove anything to anybody…” Ouch. I soon realized that like many things with motherhood, women’s choices are very personal and it’s easy to be defensive with someone voices their choices.

For things as simple as registry items, to as complex as labor choices, if someone chooses differently than you it’s easy to feel defensive. As if them choosing a different path means they think your path is “wrong.” 

I wasn’t choosing an unmedicated labor because I felt like I needed to prove anything, because I thought I was “stronger” than anyone else or because I’m a masochist. I was drawn to the cosmic-sounding birth stories I’d read. I wanted to feel every part of giving birth – and I thought I could best do that without powerful painkillers or nerve blockers. 

All that said, I obviously wanted to minimize pain as much as I could – hence the decision to hire a doula. With her assistance, I could manage my pain to the best of my ability and allow my husband to truly be my support in the ways I wanted him to be. 

I was measuring ahead my entire pregnancy.  My baby was measuring huge my entire pregnancy. A medium told me I’d have an Oct baby. I had a sense he’d come early. At our 37-week appt I was 1cm dilated and he was measuring over 7lbs. All signs were pointing to Theo being born way before his due date of Nov 14.

Once we got closer and closer, it was clear he was not making an early entrance. Due to his size and some fear I had around letting him go too far beyond his due-date, we decide to move forward with induction scheduled for his due date. 

Very long and frustrating story short, my OB’s office messed up their scheduling and as we were preparing to head to the hospital, they told me I couldn’t come in until the following day. So now I had to wait another full day, after I’d mentally prepared to have my baby, and also had to have a back-up doula because it was the ONE day ours would be out of town. Awesome. 

On Nov 15 we headed to the hospital for a 4pm check-in. I started on Misoprostol (oral med) at 5pm to “ripen my cervix.” Gross. Contractions started almost immediately. 

My whole pregnancy I’d been doing acupuncture and receiving chiropractic adjustments. They all agreed that my body was ready and probably just needed a little assistance getting started. So I was hopeful that this was just what I needed and the rest would progress on its own. Starting at about 5:30pm on Nov 15, I had contractions every 2-3 minutes until he was born. 

Around 8:30 they let us eat some dinner (my last meal) and advised me to get some sleep. We ate dinner and watched forgetting Sarah Marshall on the iPad. At 9:30pm they checked my cervix and I was still at 1cm and only 10-20% effaced. Bleh – not much progress. They gave me another dose of Misoprostal and again advised sleep.

I again rolled my eyes at Justin – do people really sleep through contractions?! Is that real?! Those people are superhuman.

Especially since I vividly remember laying ONLY on my side and with several pillows between my legs. I wanted to stay open and stay on my side to promote dilation and good positioning. All I wanted to do was lay on my back and I couldn’t. I was committed. I was ready to get this baby out. And I was ready to do every.single.thing I was told to try and do so.

Around 12:45 I felt the infamous gush. I woke up Justin… “hey babe…I think my water just broke.” 
“Why do you think that?
“Well I felt a big gush and it feels like I peed myself. Everything is wet.” lol. 

This is all so funny to write out. Even though we’d taken all the classes, we had no idea what to expect – so we were just kind of fumbling through. Justin called in the nurse and she confirmed that my water broke. “Okay” she said, “I will let the doctor know and see if they want to give you another round in a few hours.” WHAT?! Why was she not more excited? Didn’t this mean something? Isn’t it like….about to be go-time?!

For some reason I really felt like this meant things were happening soon. I got a huge rush of adrenaline and felt really excited. The nurse knew to not share in that as there is no reason for me to think that it would now be “go-time.”

I had no idea in that moment that I would be in labor for another 19 hours. 

Also – why didn’t anybody tell me that when your water breaks, you just keep gushing and gushing until you have the baby?! I thought it was a one-and-done thing. Not at all. Enter the pile of pads in my hospital panties and the continuous feeling of peeing myself. Glamorous. 

At 1:30 I received another round of Misoprostol. The contractions were super intense after my water broke. Difficult-to-manage intense. I have a text message to a friend at 5:30 am where my response is simply “it’s fucking hard.” I was already exhausted – by this point I had been contracting every 2-3 minutes for 12 hours.

I was hopeful that with the tougher contractions, I’d be making good progress and wouldn’t need pitocin. After all – from everything I’d heard, piton makes contractions that much more intense, which makes them more painful, which potentially reduces my ability to have a pain-med-free labor. I was praying hard for no pit.

We finally told the doula to head to the hospital as I was 3cm, 80% effaced and was in a lot of pain. In 2 hours we would decide whether or not to start the pitocin.

From 5:30-9:30 I had back-to-back-to-back contractions. We were hopeful that I’d made great progress, but was only 3.5cm at my 9:30 check. So, we started the pitocin and hoped to expedite the process. They had me on a schedule to increase 2ccs every 30 minutes. 

About an hour later, I opted for something that is still not available in all L+D departments in the US – NITROUS!!! Holy shitballs – why is this not widely available yet? It is commonplace in Europe for women to use Nitrous in labor, especially if they plan to not get an epidural. I was lucky that my hospital offered it – many do not. Nitrous is cool because it take the edge off without completely numbing you or causing any kind of cognitive fog. Think of laughing gas at the dentist, but with only about 60% strength. 

The nitrous gave me new freaking life. Made everything seem bearable again. I saw the light at the end of the tunnel and remember Justin making a joke about him not being here by 8pm and I said “oh my gosh he will definitely be here way before that!” I thought we would have a baby by 3pm max.

Then I stalled. For like, ever. I have the beautiful memories of our family taking shifts to come in and see me. I was sitting on the medicine ball, with the nitrous over my face, saying a quick hello in between contractions. I was making sounds that Justin describes as wolves dying, and crying through every groan. Justin was behind me doing hip squeezes and breathing with me, and I am pretty sure every single member of our family was in tears watching us go through this together. It was fucking beautiful.

I will never forget seeing their faces as they watched us, as they felt all the feels of welcoming a grandchild and nephew. They were in awe of us. I was in awe of us.

It was a beautiful sunny day and we had the same song on repeat for hours I think. But was helpful and made me feel ethereal. Centered. For the rest of the day I would contract with pain that I never thought I could endure. And have the doctor tell me several times that she thinks his head might just be too big. That’s code for c-section. She was prepping me. “He’s just a really big baby and I don’t know that he is going to fit. I’ll give you two more hours.” This happened four times. Eight hours of her prepping me and giving me “just 2 more hours.” 

I had really tried to stay on my feet or bouncing on the medicine ball this whole time. I tried to stay upright and moving, to follow everything I’d read. At this point, the doc recommended I try to lay on my side with the peanut ball in between my legs. This lead to one of the two most memorable moments of my labor.

It was so incredibly painful to lay on my side. To not move. I laid in the bed, holding Justin’s hand, looking in his eyes and crying as if to say “save me.” We just stared deeply into each other’s eyes and he could only, what I assume was, try and give me his strength through his sympathetic eyes. It was a silent and powerful display of love and encouragement. He knew I could do it.

I had mixed feelings about my doctor because she seemed to think that wanting to give birth sans pain-meds was silly and I felt a bit judged. But man, did she show up the day-of. She was seriously on my team. She knew I wanted to have a vaginal delivery if I could, and kept doing all she could to allow that to happen.

At my next check, it was almost 7pm. I’d been laboring on pitocin for 12 hours. It had been 18 hours since my water broke. I’d been in labor for 26 hours. My doctor was afraid of infection and also didn’t think the baby was going to drop. She gave me one final “I’ll give you two hours.”

At this point, Justin was afraid that I would go another 2 hours of excruciating pain, only to have to go into an emergency C-section. He plead with me, “babe – I know you want to do this without an epidural. And I support you. But I think this is a good opportunity to revisit. What if it gives you what you need to push him out instead of having to go into surgery. Let’s keep the ultimate goal in mind…”

To be clear, my desire to avoid c-section was because I knew how incredibly difficult it is to recover from one. I didn’t want a major surgery if I could avoid it.

During this conversation I felt so defeated. So afraid. So frustrated. I told Justin I didn’t know if I could stand the pain for two more hours, just to be told I need a c-section. I turned to our doula, which lead to my second most memorable experience in labor…

She said “this is when I say that there is a difference between pain and suffering. If you are in pain, you can push through for 2 more hours. If you are suffering, it might be time to ask yourself what you are suffering for…”

I looked at myself in the mirror and saw how exhausted, miserable and defeated I looked. I was in excruciating pain and had been for hours. I saw myself looking so pitiful and broke into the saddest cry I can ever remember, saying “I’m suffering.”

At that moment Justin called in the nurses and said I wanted an Epidural (I did). My doctor came in and assured me that she was on my team and didn’t want me to feel pressured (justin had taken her into the hallway asking if there was a possibility to Epi could help me have a vaginal delivery). She said “I know you want to do this a certain way – I will do what you want.”

I told her I couldn’t imagine doing this for two more hours only to be rushed into surgery. She told me that I was one of the most impressive patients of her career and that if labor was a profession she would recommend me to every company. She was so proud of me and it felt so good to be seen. I didn’t go into it for the kudos, but man, 26 hours in they meant a lot. She said that some patients who are transitioning ask for the epidural, and that I could simply be transitioning to 10cm. I told her I didn’t have the stamina to take the risk.

At this point I got the epidural. They told me to sleep (again, lol.) and the doula told justin to go get some food. We hadn’t eaten for almost 24 hours at this point. Justin left to go across the street and I laid on my side to “rest.” My contractions were still incredibly intense and I was shivering like I was going to freeze to death.

I could barely talk. I could barely move. I know now that this isn’t uncommon, but at the time I felt so afraid. Teeth chattering. Body shivering. Doula asking me if I felt something happening because it seemed like I was turning a corner.

30 minutes later, the doctor came in to check me. I had gone from 8 to 10cm and he’d fully dropped. It was go time. My doctor was so sweet and surprised. She could NOT believe we were about to do this vaginally. “You’re going to do it, Devin! You’re really going to do it!” I cannot explain how good her excitement made me feel.

Unfortunately, my husband was not back yet…lol…and our doula called him telling him to get back immediately. Fortunately he was already on the L+D floor, walking in minutes after. He threw the back of food to the side and came to my side immediately. “Babe! It’s time!!!”

My immediate response? “You had a beer…didn’t you? I can smell it.”

I was so jealous. “They said you were going to sleep,” he said. We got over it quickly as it was now time to push. I pushed for 30 minutes and he was out. all 9lbs, 11oz, 22 inches of him.

He was incredibly purple, and HUUUUGE. I was kinda freaked out, honestly. And after about 30 seconds they determined he wasn’t getting pink fast enough and took him over to the lamp. I was so scared, having had anxiety the whole pregnancy, and didn’t know what was going on. Justin was just freaking out yelling “oh my God babe, you did it!! Oh my God he’s so big!! Oh my God his balls are huge!” lololol.

After he pinked up, they gave him back for more skin to skin. It was such a relief. He nursed pretty immediately, which was how I envisioned it.

He was my perfect little baby, and after about a day of discussion, we name him Theodore. My sweet Theodore.

I will never know if I was transitioning or if I was stuck. I will never know what would have happened in that next two hours. What I do know is what I now know to be true about motherhood — nothing will go as planned. Everything is a risk. Will this decision lead to terror or triumph? Will it be best for him? Will it be best for me? All I can do…all any of us can do…is choose. In that moment. Considering those circumstances. Maybe they will be what others would choose. Maybe they are the less popular option. Regardless, what we choose is best for us. And for the smusha T. For my sweet Theodore, my big little baby. I am so proud of us. I am so proud of me. And I can’t wait to do it again (delivery – not pregnancy – pregnancy is woof).