Finding My Joy
Joy is not a sign of weakness, nor is it a cop out or necessary tradeoff with winning. To me, joy feels like enjoying the process, and celebrating the little moments by simply noticing them.
(Part 6 in my series about mom athletes and their appetites for risk. Read the series from the beginning here!)
Over the past 14 months since Wes was born, I’ve begun reconnecting with who I was before, while also discovering a new, softer side of myself. I’ve achieved many things I’m proud of, and found a way to feel present in my son’s day while also setting aside time to feel focused on who I continue to become. I’ve learned that there is no such thing as balance, to make the most of every moment (even when some moments just demand a nap!), and to set realistic expectations for each day. Charlie and I take turns fitting in big workouts, savor the little workouts, and continue to hike up mountains with Wes on our backs. Now our biggest goal is keeping Wes happy (with snacks and breaks for crawling).
I skied 15 days last winter and nordic skied a few more, then this summer I summited two 14,000-foot peaks, camped seven nights with Wes and our dog Banks, and competed in a local triathlon. That fear I had in pregnancy that everything would change was warranted. Everything did change. But along with the changing circumstances, I changed, too. I found joy in watching Wes discover and climb up a whole flight of stairs (his own personal 14er); seeing the look on his face when he feeds our dog his entire dinner; and reading bedtime stories with a little guy in pajamas cuddled on my lap.
Over the past year, I rarely pictured my life beyond year one. But celebrating the first year was a reminder that the baby phase is just a small fraction of the lifetime of parenting ahead. We can’t see what the next 20+ years will bring, but we can choose joy. Joy in our family time, and joy in our own adventures and challenges.
Thriving in the Early Days (Fall)
“Each day that I ventured outside, I returned home exhausted, sweaty, and grateful for my body which had carried this child inside for nine months, and then so quickly and easily transitioned to carrying him on the outside.”
There’s a narrative out there that pregnant and postpartum women are delicate. Just read “the first forty days” approach where a woman is supposed to stay home for the first month after giving birth—or ask one of several doulas who I didn't hire because they said I needed to recover in bed for a week after giving birth. While new dads are encouraged to get outside and take a break from the chaos of a new baby at home, moms who return to their sports or activities right away are sometimes criticized or viewed as an anomaly. But if something is a deeply-ingrained part of your identity, it's impossible not to get out there. I hiked with my dog until I gave birth at 41 weeks, and then I hiked with newborn Wes 10 days later. I remember getting confused looks from passing hikers. “How old is that baby?” They asked. “I can't believe you're already hiking.” “I never stopped,” I told them.
Hiking was the thing that made me feel like myself when so much around me was swirling and changing. Whether I slept for three hours or 30 minutes, I could always count on the trails to guide me. Getting outside became my singular goal. I learned to feed Wes and deal with the intense pain of breastfeeding under the shadows of glowing yellow aspen trees. I changed his diaper on the dirt and discovered the power of a pacifier while scaling a hill behind a juvenile moose. Each day that I ventured outside, I returned home exhausted, sweaty, and grateful for my body which had carried this child inside for nine months, and then so quickly and easily transitioned to carrying him on the outside. I chose easy hikes at first, then scaled up to bigger and steeper ones, finally venturing up to 9,000 feet when the pediatrician approved.
To silence the nagging voices that encouraged me to stay home, I reflected on centuries of mothers whose survival depended on long migrations on foot or horseback. Carrying Wes on me as I walked my favorite trails felt like the most natural part of parenting in those early weeks. It fulfilled his and my need for closeness, and built a deep bond between us. He also learned to nap on the go, a skill I have come to appreciate as he gets bigger and a bit more distracted by the views from our hikes.
I know we’re still a few (literal) steps away from hiking side by side, but showing him the world I love feels like one of the best gifts I can give us both.
Back on Skis (Winter)
I skinned up Steamboat Ski Resort early one Sunday last winter. Rising with the sun, I pulled on gear in the dark, stuck skins to skis and started up the quiet trail. The trees were white with a frozen layer from the previous night’s storm, and my breath caught in the frigid air. Up top, I transitioned quickly, hands shaking with the excitement of fresh tracks on a powder day. As my skis plowed through the pristine field of white, I found my smile taking over my entire face. Each turn was a powder packed delight, falling felt like floating, and I had the mountain to myself. Back at the lift, I shared enthusiastic nods with liftees and a few fellow early birds. Then it was up again for another lap, and a new line through this powder.
“In skiing they say you’re always recovering, constantly regaining balance, one step away from a total loss of control, a bit like parenting.”
I still hesitated when the grade got a bit too steep; I chose wider lines through the trees than I may have before having Wes. I didn’t worry about a snowplow turn in between two tight aspens, and I stopped before my shaky legs gave way to messy technique. In skiing they say you’re always recovering, constantly regaining balance, one step away from a total loss of control, a bit like parenting.
In my former life I would have stayed out on the mountain all day, only stopping when my thighs burned too much to support me, or my body was wet with snow and sweat and my stomach rumbles became impossible to ignore. But today, I finished that second lap and thought about baby Wes. I pictured him and Charlie cozy in our Airbnb, reading a book or playing with a toy while Wes giggled on the rug. So I pointed my skis down toward the freshly groomed access trail, the smile on my face growing again, this time in pursuit of my own little family, the best kind of joy I can imagine.
Triathlon Goals: Trading Pain for Joy (Spring & Summer)
“I found myself caring less about winning and more about the collective effort it took for each of us to reach the starting line.”
As a college track runner, my mantra was always: “The true measure of an athlete is the ability to endure physical pain.” And back then, as I neared the final 200 meters of the 800 race, I told myself, “Here comes that pain,” and it worked. I embraced pain in training and in racing, and became a two-time All-American, National Champion, and track captain. I put my body through intense workouts followed by intense partying; I ate what I wanted and slept less than I needed. While it felt easier at the time, after college I learned to slow down and treat my body right, to build in rest and recovery as an important part of training.
Fifty one weeks after giving birth to Wes, I competed in a local sprint triathlon. When I signed up for the race in early spring, I pictured a summer of luxurious runs and bike rides, long swims in the pool, and plenty of stretching. I imagined beating my best 5K time and winning my age group. Maybe that was the optimism I needed to pay the $90 entry fee.
As my training partner—and incredible mom of three girls under 6—Theresa and I tackled our training goals, we had to evolve. Sometimes bike rides and swims became venting sessions or discussions about our kids, a run once turned into a walk when the jogging stroller failed to soothe a baby, and I somehow always arrived at our hill workouts a little bit sleep deprived. But we showed up for each other, and that accountability kept me going.
Two weeks before the race, my achilles tendonitis flared up and I found myself limping through life. Then Wes got sick, I got sick, and our dog needed ear surgery. Work became busier than expected, and I had to work through naps and squeeze in 45-minute workouts in the heat of the day. Nothing was going as planned.
As I mentally prepared, I visualized the race ahead. The swim would be easy; that’s my comfort zone, but the bike could make or break the whole thing; I needed a plan. Just four days before the race, I doubted I would even be able to run on my injured foot.
On a pre-race bike ride I considered which mantra or word I should focus on. My first thought was “pain” or “embrace the pain.” Then I pedaled further and thought harder. What about joy? While happiness is temporary and often unattainable, I could surely hope for moments of joy, right? And while taking it easy or relaxing seemed like the wrong approach for my competitive self, joy felt right.
On race morning, the lake was wavy and dark, and a chilly wind made me question my choice of a bathing suit instead of a wetsuit, but it was go time. Normally the start line is the time for me to build adrenaline and elbow my way in front of the competition, but as I lined up alongside dozens of other women in pink swim caps, I found myself caring less about winning and more about the collective effort it took for each of us to reach this starting line. The woman beside me hadn’t competed in a triathlon since having her two young kids, so we wished each other good luck. Theresa and I hugged and pulled on our goggles.
As I battled the choppy water, I felt connected to the women in pink caps around me, especially as we passed the men who had started minutes ahead of us. After 17 minutes, I climbed up the slippery ramp and entered the transition zone, waving to Charlie and baby Wes on my way by.
The bike was the mental slog I had predicted, but I found myself cheering for other women and savoring the feeling of passing men on the uphills, even if they sped by me when the road inevitably turned downhill again.
Then it was time for the dreaded run. I hadn’t run in three weeks, aside from a mile shakeout the day before, so I wondered if I could even finish the 5K. I had set a goal of 9-minute-mile pace, promising myself I would speed up if possible in the second half. I took off sprinting (my usual style), passed a man in the transition zone, and didn’t look back. A glance at my watch revealed that I was on pace for a 6:40 mile—way too fast. “Settle in,” I told myself, “Keep it easy.” I hit the first mile in 7:40, still too fast, but better. But as the miles ticked by, I found that I couldn’t slow down. My legs carried me along as if floating above the road.
I love races. I love the energy of the competition and I love passing people, especially on a run. But more than that, on this day I loved seeing the other women out on the course.
Over the course of this year, I learned that joy is not a sign of weakness, nor is it a cop out or necessary tradeoff with winning. To me, joy feels like enjoying the process, and celebrating the little moments by simply noticing them.
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AFTER: So What About the “Mom” Label?
I used it myself throughout this series. Mom athlete, working mom, super mom, power mom. Are we now forever doomed to be only as impressive as marked by others’ perceptions of what we can do while still being a mom first? And are we limited to only accomplishments that we can achieve while first doing our mom duties?
My social media feeds are full of impressive outdoor athletes, environmental activists, and wilderness guides. They spend weeks in Antarctica (ski mountaineer, environmental activist, and endurance athlete Caroline Gleich), write beautiful stories about their mountain towns and skin up peaks every morning at sunrise (ski guide, mountain biker, and journalist Lani Bruntz), and travel the world while building thriving companies (Founder of Skida Corinne Prevot).
I recently saw “Wild Life,” the Chai Vasarhelyi and Jimmy Chin documentary chronicling Kris and Doug Tompkins’ quest to buy and preserve 10 million acres of land in Patagonia. The documentary chronicles more than 20 years devoted to saving these wild places, it recounts the death threats they received, the sleepless nights, and the necessary travel and flexibility. As a new mom it’s hard to imagine being able to do that.
Kris and Doug Tompkins never had children. Pro skier Lindsey Vonn hasn’t had any children yet, but the late ski mountaineer Hilaree Nelson had kids, and so did freestyle skier champion Lynsey Dyer, Serena Williams, Beyoncé, Michelle Obama, and countless other incredible, high achieving women.
This fall, a new ski documentary, “Advice for Girls” is touring the country. The all womxn-identifying cast and crewed film “puts a spotlight on the collective experience of women in the ski industry.” We are starting to see a shift in the conversation, and an increased celebration of all that women—including moms—are capable of.
It’s easy to think that I’ve traded ambition for the family path. To think that I’ve chosen carrot sticks and watermelon in the backyard instead of changing the world. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from these conversations with athletes, it’s that life is full of chapters. And while you can’t do everything at once, you can keep seeking joy at the playground, on the mountain, and everywhere in between!
