Climbing High

For the past two years, I’ve had a daily quest of climbing the stairs to my office on the 7th floor of the High Rise. Two years I’ve done this almost every day. This walk helps me start my day warm, both mentally and physically. Stairs seem unlovable, but I truly crave this daily hike.

When I found out I was pregnant, I made a few goals for the next nine months. One was to continue climbing the stairs to the 7th floor until there was just no way. My goal was to climb until labor. For me, this activity reassures me that I can still be active. Honestly, it reassures me that with every crazy, unexpected thing that happens to my body, I’m ok. I’m still me and my body is strong, not sick. Me and this little boy are just working hard.

When I fell last week, I was distressed for a number of reasons. It hurt like mad. It still hurts like mad. But it symbolized a lot of things for me. It made me feel weak, like my body was out of control. It made me feel that I’d never be able to do the things I love, like running or climbing the stairs or getting in and out of my car easily. And in this pregnant state, it made me believe that I’d never be able to do those things ever again in the whole world as long as I live (yup, I’m pregnant and I haven’t been for a run in two weeks. That’s what happens).

I am so excited for this baby – to put my best effort into being his mom and his dad’s wife. But I am also trying to remain me. I fell, and somehow I felt that I was lost.

Until today. I made a decision. I climbed the stairs, all of them. Slowly and painfully, but I did it. It felt amazing.

I felt like me.