Photo Credit Apostolos Vamvouras
BY TAMMI PICKLE
Now we are at a stage of parenting where I’m getting back a little room on the edges. My boys don’t need me like they used to. I am a recovering perfectionist and care less about many things (shoutout to @justbeingmelani for creating the We Do Not Care Club on IG, IYKYK). At the same time, I’m starting to reclaim time, and I’m fiercely protective of it. Most mornings, before anyone else is awake, I sneak downstairs to the basement to exercise and lift weights. It’s not glamorous. But it’s quiet. It’s mine. And more than anything, it’s enough.
Lifting has become more than a workout. It’s a form of meditation. A way to feel strong, steady, and rooted in a body that has carried so much joy, anxiety, babies, grief. I’m not chasing a new version of myself. I’m trying to take care of the one who’s already here.
There was a time when I worked out to change how I looked. Now I move because it reminds me I’m still here, still strong, still allowed to take up space, even in a life filled with people I love deeply. I also find it a time to be grateful for my body, with all its perceived flaws. There are several people I love who are facing medical crises, and while I pray for successful treatments and their full recoveries, I know my health is something I shouldn’t take for granted.