Thursday, May 28
Reflection: No one ever talks about what a woman does after infertility, or after learning what her body can’t do- have a baby. The questions that run through your head can feel endless: What will my body look like when I’m old? Am I more predisposed to cancer? Will I die earlier than my peers? Is there something wrong with me genetically? How could I have missed this? What if I had known sooner?
For me, the list of questions went on and on. At some point, I couldn’t sit inside the grief anymore. I had to do something. If my body couldn’t do the thing I had been taught women’s bodies were supposed to do, then what could it do? And one day, I started running. 5Ks, 10Ks. Half marathons. Sundays became long-run days. I ran the NYC Marathon twice. My time was awful, but I did it. And I am proud of that accomplishment.
The specifics of that time are meaningful because they help me understand how I began to heal. I recently looked at a running app I had completely forgotten about and saw that I used it for 10 years. I ran the same streets of Jersey City almost every night with my pitbull, Parker. When I place myself back in time, I imagine sitting on a bench, watching my 34-year-old, grief-stricken body run down Newark Avenue with her dog. And I think: “Man, she looks tough. I wouldn’t mess with her. She’s strong.” Even though, on the inside, what I felt was something closer to, “let’s run away from this feeling. Look, I am strong too. Look, it’s 8 p.m., and here I am with my dog. I am protected.”
Then one day, there was just no more running I could do. After two knee injuries, I have realized my marathon days are probably over. I could still see myself doing a 10K one day. But I also realize now that my grief created a desire to run from my feelings, and to demonstrate protection, toughness, and control. To show that even though I wasn’t able to do what other women’s bodies could do, I could still portray this picture of: “Don’t pity me. I know my strength.”
I’m glad I am beginning to see that time in my life with more compassion. It was my best attempt, at the time, to regulate grief within a body I did not even want to acknowledge. Remember, your body is the only one you will ever have. We have to learn to love her. And maybe the first step is seeing her, and validating how hard she tried to do what she could with the tools she had. -Adriana Rodriguez-Baptiste
Subscriber Spotlight:
Self Care Tip: Think back to when you first found out you couldn’t have kids. What do you remember thinking about your body? How did those thoughts impact the way you felt about your body? Do you remember taking any actions to prove to yourself that you were still strong and capable? Whatever your answer is, even if it was subconscious, remember this may have been your attempt to gain back control of the narrative of your body. Please be curious about your answers. It is just information about how you processed this experience.
