6 weeks tomorrow.
Updated: a day ago
My plan was to give birth in February 2021, breast feed & enjoy my time off with my child, let my body do what it wants to do, and give zero fucks about “returning to my pre-pregnancy weight”.
We all know how that plan went.
It’s hard to lose weight.
It’s hard to be a Personal Trainer and not “look like one”.
It’s hard to have pregnancy weight and no baby to explain it.
It’s hard to go through years of treatment & rehab for eating disorders, believe you have reached full recovery, and then be thrown a massive shitstorm that causes you to wonder if you really learned anything during your time there.
I know I worked hard to get my body to a place where it could support a pregnancy like it was supposed to.
I know my body provided a safe space for my child for 22.5 weeks like it was supposed to.
And I know it will recover like it is supposed to.
But it didn’t save her, like it was supposed to.
It didn’t keep her alive and protect her and go to battle when she couldn’t.
You know, like it was supposed to.
And when she was gone, I was left without a daughter and with a suddenly empty body that could not do the one thing I thought it was supposed to.
I was left feeling like my body failed Raya, and I failed everyone else.
Like I failed my parents, who were so excited for another grandchild.
Like I failed my mother and father-in-law, taking away their first grandchild.
Like I failed my brother-in-law, who isn’t having kids of his own and was so excited about ours.
Like I failed my friends for having to spend money on a baby shower they didn’t get to throw.
Like I failed my husband, because I told him he was going to be a dad and then I had to take it back.
That he married this girl who’s been in love with him since she was 12 that was going to give him a child during their 4th year of marriage, and instead it was the world’s worst 5-month story arch that ended before their 4th year could even begin.
That the girl he married that loved to workout and find positivity and humor in everything was now much larger than before, couldn’t get off the couch or wash her hair, and didn’t believe there could possibly be any good left in the world.
And I’m not sure how long it’s going to take to feel okay again; to feel like I deserve him.
To not feel like I want to scream “I lost my child” when I feel people are looking at me wondering how in the Hell I would know anything about fitness and nutrition.
To not feel like I could have somehow prevented this.
And before you ask how often I think about Raya, know that all of these thoughts stemmed from not being able to button my jeans this morning.
So the answer is all the time; every day, every minute, every second, always.