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I thought my body was going crazy.
It was the summer of 2012 and I’d spent weeks googlingsore boobs,heart palpitationsanddizziness.
I saw a dermatologist for acne that had suddenly cropped up on my chin.
I scarfed down every single snack I brought to work by midmorning.
I wrote in my journal: “Feel gross, always hungry, unfocused, lethargic.
Am I depressed?”
Nope, just pregnant, as I finally discovered from an OTC test.
Hearing the heartbeat in the doctor’s office at eight weeks was a total shock.
My husband of four years and I hadn’t been trying.
I worked out six days a week and had the body to show for it.
I ran half marathons.
I ownedand usedboxing gloves.
So I wasn’t exactly blown away by the whole miracle-of-life-inside-me thing.
All I could think about was what this pregnancy was going to do to my body.
It felt awesome to lose the extra 10 pounds.
For the first time I could recall in a while, my stomach was flat, my arms defined.
Seeing my body respond so readily was empowering.
I loved feeling in control of my shape, and I liked the attention it attracted, too.
The thought of giving up my hard-won body and possibly never getting it back again consumed me.
I was terrified of getting a big stomach, stretch marks, fat thighs and saggy boobs.
Those pink lines on the pregnancy test didn’t just meanbabythey meant that my body was no longer mine.
After a weeklong pity party, I had a long discussion with my husband.
In his mind, we were definitely ready to have this baby.
I still wasn’t so sure.
But a term the doctor used haunted me: advanced maternal age.
By the time I gave birth, I’d be 35 years old.
This could be my last chance for a natural pregnancy.
I resigned myself to not beating my half marathon PR of 1:47 any time soon.
I kept up with my running, just at a slower pace.
Early in the second trimester, I was still doing 6 miles easily.
I tried thinking of the baby as my new running partner.
And yet meanwhile, I kept obsessing over my weight gain, tracking it daily on my calendar.
Still, my excitement was usually accompanied by fears that my body was going to hell.
The 5K Thanksgiving weekend run I did with my sister pretty much showed me who was boss.
The baby was pushing on my bladder from the moment we crossed the start line.
Midway through the run, I justhadto go and veered off course to use a church parking lot.
That was the end of my outdoor runs, and I started using the gym treadmill.
I rented a fancy hotel room for us in Las Vegas.
Five minutes after we checked in, I had a major meltdown.
I’d caught a sidelong glimpse of myself in the double-wide overlit mirror, and I lost it.
I detested everything about being pregnant except the thought of my baby growing inside.
I hid under the covers of the hotel bed and sobbed, unable to even speak.
My husband suggested I take a bath, but the idea of seeing myself naked was unbearable.
I calmed down…then went right back to feeling self-conscious as we checked out.
People used to admire my tight body, but now I was just a preggers lady.
I signed up for a 5K taking place six weeks later.
The run loomed in my mind throughout my 12-hour labor.
She was the sweetest thing ever.
Within a few days, we were slowly walking around the neighborhood.
In the end, I gained 25 pounds, and they were gone within three months.
That mommy marsupial pouch was no joke, but dropping pounds turned out to be the simple part.
Getting my abs back, not so much.
I adore her more and more every day.
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