I have a hard time accepting that I am lame.
I thought I was there. I really did. I thought I had wrapped my head around the idea that I have three holes in my spine, that a surgeon stuck a knife in there and stole bone away and that I wouldn’t, in wisdom, be able to stack a steel bar, loaded with metal plates on top of it ever again.
But I haven’t.
Day two of #powerrehab was a mild success. I took the girls to the playground to meet my one of my best friends and former trainer. At the end we dragged our screaming and exhausted children around the trail for 15 minutes and talked about the fate of my lifting career and how much I could get for my squat rack.
This type of mourning seems so trivial to most of you reading this blog. It seems irrelevant to bipolar disorder, faith, and motherhood, so I offer this short post from 2012 for some context:
The work of fear.
Fear is always evidence that I am going the right way. Fear shows up when I am stepping out of the boat, onto the water. I know it’s just water, I know it should not hold me.
The work of God is this: to believe in the one he has sent.
I always fear my work.
Some mornings I lay in bed before the sun comes up, fearing my first waking child. I am afraid of the day that stretches out in front of me, full of conflict, noise, and people touching me constantly. Everything will get dumped out, crushed, and sticky. There will be disappointment, heartache, and lots of body fluids.
I fear the phone call at the end of the day, the sound of my husband’s voice, so heavy with fatigue I think it will break the phone.
When I write out my training the night before, I know it will be good when the numbers scare me a little. How can I possibly put that weight over my head? That’s insane.
Sitting in front of a blank page, knowing something has to go on it, something from inside me, I am paralyzed by fear.
Sometimes, I just walk away. I do not pick it up, the kid, the phone, the first glimmer of an idea. I do not fill my belly with breath and stabilize my spine. I do not reach my calloused hands around it. I do not do the work. I choose to stay afraid.
But when I step up to the bar, yank up my tights, throw my shoulders back, my children are lighter, the weight of my husband’s stress is something I can move, the daily pain of relationships, mistakes, bad planning, and stupid choices is just a set of exercises that challenges every muscle, breaks me down just enough to build me up.
Fear becomes an invitation.
I am invited to feel real weight. I am invited to carry loads I was convinced I could never bear.