As the summer days came to an end and my 35th birthday approached, I found myself searching for something big, as I usually do. Something that would challenge me, push me beyond my comfort zone, and remind me of what I was capable of. I wanted to accomplish something that required both mental and physical strength. Something I could look back on years from now and say, I did that. I thought maybe I’d climb the Manitou Incline. Or I’d find another half marathon to run. Maybe I’d find some other seemingly impossible challenge to conquer. I wanted a milestone. Something that would prove to myself that I am still able to do hard things. But as the weeks passed, so did my opportunity to train. Between raising two little ones, settling into our new home, and simply keeping up with everyday life, there just wasn’t enough time. Eventually, I had to accept that it wasn’t going to happen. Not for this birthday. Not right now.
And just as disappointment started creeping in, I caught myself. What exactly was I trying to prove? Here I was, searching for some extraordinary physical challenge to demonstrate my strength, completely overlooking everything I had already endured, accomplished, and overcome. The truth is, the last six months had already been a marathon of their own.
This time last year, I was living in Pennsylvania. I had a running toddler and a baby growing in my belly. And now, today, I’m living back in Colorado with a yapping toddler and a crawling baby. So much life has happened between those two moments.
If I was looking for proof of emotional strength, I could find it in how I overcame the disappointment of realizing that the expectations I carried with me when moving across the country to be closer to family didn’t line up with reality. Instead, I learned a few life lessons: relational distance isn’t measured in miles. It’s measured by whether or not you exist in someone else’s world – and they in yours. That proximity doesn’t always create connection. And true connection isn’t weakened by the miles in between. I also learned that there are way more factors to consider when choosing where to raise your family. Things I didn’t even know were important to me until it was too late. But emotional strength wasn’t just found in learning to let go of expectations. I could also find it in the transition from being a mother of one to a mother of two. In learning how to divide my time and attention between two little girls who need so much of me. In navigating the guilt of not always being able to give each of them everything they need at the exact moment they need it. I could find it in learning to give myself grace. In realizing that I couldn’t be everything to everyone all the time, and that being a good mother didn’t mean being a perfect one. Sometimes emotional strength is about learning to accept what you can’t control, letting go of what you thought life would look like, and finding peace in the beautiful, imperfect life unfolding right in front of you.
If I was looking for proof of courage, I could find it in the decision my husband and I made to change the direction of our lives once again. We had already uprooted our lives once with the hope of creating something better for our family. And when things didn’t turn out the way we had imagined, we faced another difficult decision. We could stay because leaving would be hard. Because starting over again sounded absurd. Or we could accept that something wasn’t working and have the courage to change it. We chose the latter. We knew the journey from where we were to where we wanted to be would take us up and over mountains without a clear path. Only this time, we’d be navigating them with a newborn and a toddler. And when I looked at the entire journey ahead of us it felt overwhelming. There were so many moving pieces, so many unknowns and so many opportunities to question whether we were making the right decision – again. But we did it. By focusing on one step at a time. I think there’s a certain kind of courage that comes with admitting that something you once wanted is no longer what you want. That changing your mind doesn’t mean you’ve failed. Sometimes it simply means you’ve learned enough to choose differently.
If I was looking for proof of physical strength, I could find it in how I carried my second baby and brought her into this world. Unmedicated. Trusting my body. Surrendering to the process and discovering a kind of strength that I don’t think I could ever fully put into words. I could find it in the recovery that followed. Not just the assumed six weeks. But the first three months. Or the first six. Or maybe even now, as my body continues to find its way back to itself. I could find it in the countless hours I’ve spent carrying my babies. Sometimes both at the same time, up and down the stairs in our home. Their little bodies in my arms, all of their needs resting on my shoulders. And I can find that same strength in the hours I now spend each week improving my physical health. In showing up consistently, even when I’m tired. Even when there are a hundred other things demanding my attention. Of course, there’s a part of me that wants to look the way I did before having children. But my motivation has grown into something much bigger than that. I want to be strong for my children. I want to be able to pick them up for as long as they’ll let me. To run alongside them, climb mountains with them, and keep up with their adventures. I want to be healthy enough to experience as much of their lives as God allows me to. I want to add more life to my years, not just more years to my life. I would die for my children without hesitation. But perhaps one of the greatest ways I can demonstrate my strength is by doing everything I can to stay alive for them.
If I was looking for proof of mental fortitude, I could find it in the first months of my second daughters’ life. I could find it in the struggles I faced trying to breastfeed, in the long sleepless nights. I could find it in the chaos of juggling a newborn and a toddler in the middle of so many changes. It was hidden between towers of moving boxes and boxes of diapers. There were days when I felt like I was barely keeping my head above water. Days when my life felt harder than it was enjoyable. Not because I wasn’t grateful for the beautiful family I had been blessed with. But because I was exhausted in a way that sleep alone couldn’t fix. I couldn’t find rest. I couldn’t find peace. And for what felt like months, I couldn’t find a moment when someone or something didn’t need me. Every day felt like a series of challenges I simply had to survive. Day after day. There were moments when I felt like I had nothing left to give, but the demands of motherhood didn’t stop simply because I had reached my limit. So, I kept going. Not always gracefully. Not always patiently. And certainly not always with a positive attitude. Some days, getting through the day was the accomplishment. Although those months made me stronger, they first broke me. And maybe that’s the part of strength we don’t talk about enough. We celebrate the person who makes it to the other side. But we don’t always acknowledge what happens in between. The moments of doubt. The tears. The exhaustion. And I don’t think we have to pretend those seasons were beautiful simply because something beautiful eventually came from them.
I’m now beginning to realize that perhaps I’ve been measuring strength all wrong. I was looking for something extraordinary to accomplish. Some physical feat that would allow me to stand proudly at the end and say, Look what I did. But I had been so focused on finding my next challenge that I hadn’t stopped to acknowledge the ones I’d already overcome.
I had carried and delivered a baby. I had navigated the heartbreak of unmet expectations. I had found the courage to start over. I had pushed through some of the most mentally and physically exhausting months of my life.
Maybe that doesn’t come with a medal or a finish line. But that doesn’t make those accomplishments any less significant. I still want to climb the Manitou Incline. I still want to run another marathon. I still want to challenge myself in ways that remind me of what my body and mind are capable of. And one day, I will. But this year, I don’t need to prove anything else to myself. I just need to recognize the things I’ve already done. Because sometimes the greatest measure of strength isn’t how high you can climb or how far you can run. Sometimes it’s how many times life can bring you to your knees, and how you find the courage to stand back up.
