Do you remember your first real breakup, when you went from knowing everything about someone’s existence to suddenly not knowing whether they were even alive? That bottomless pit in your stomach where your entire body felt wrong? Now combine that with my very rational and not at all problematic anxiety that if I can’t physically see the people I love, they have probably died, and you have a pretty accurate picture of my week.
Adina is at sleepaway camp.
My Instagram feed is currently flooded with mothers who have sent their children away for the entire summer. We’re talking seven weeks, and they’re calmly posting thoughtful reflections about how difficult it is.
I keep staring at them in disbelief, wondering how they are composed enough to form sentences, which is admittedly ridiculous because I am currently forming sentences about the same thing.
But I digress.
I am an attachment parent through and through. I love my kiddo so much that it borders on “I might eat you just to keep you inside my body forever” territory.
Too much?
Yes, ok. Too much.
But we do everything together. We travel together, make each other laugh, and have inside jokes that no one else would find remotely funny. Sometimes I can give her one look from across a room and she immediately knows exactly what I’m thinking and bursts into laughter.
We also say completely ridiculous things to each other. “I love you so much, Jeeves. It comes out like butt cheese” is somehow an actual expression of affection between us. (Don’t even try to understand it. It's ridiculous.)
She gets my weird. This kid is my full copy/paste, which is probably why I find her so delightful. What’s not to love? Haha!
So I have spent the week coping in extremely healthy and balanced ways. I’ve been writing her a manifesto of a letter every day, spending an unhealthy amount of time on the internet, obsessively refreshing the camp photo finder even though I know perfectly well they only release photos on Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday, and developing a new business venture involving chickens and a “Rooster Hunk of the Year” contest. (I bet that one came completely out of left field for ya?) It's not a joke. My older sister loves chickens as much as I love my kid and I'm here to support every part of that.
The part I wasn’t expecting was how physically out of sorts I would feel. I can’t sleep. My concentration is crap. I feel restless and heavy at the same time, and my nervous system seems to be wandering around asking, “Excuse me, where is the tiny human who is usually attached to me and laughing at everything I say?” I know logically that she is safe, cared for, and probably having the time of her life. (Although yesterday I received a letter from her saying she didn't have enough blankets and was cold at night.) My body does not seem particularly interested in logic.
And that’s when I realized this is another one of those in-between body transitions that I did not see coming. I don’t want this stage of motherhood to change. I would prefer to crawl under the covers, and wait for her to come home.
Unfortunately, transitions don’t tend to ask permission.
Our nervous systems love familiarity because familiarity is predictable, and predictability feels safe. That doesn’t mean the familiar situation is always the best one; it simply means the body already knows how to operate there.
When something changes: pregnancy, postpartum, perimenopause, menopause, an injury, a new job, a child leaving home for a week—the nervous system has to build a new map. Before that new map feels normal, the body may respond with tension, poor sleep, shallow breathing, irritability, fatigue, pain, or the vague feeling that you are simply not yourself.
That is a big part of corrective exercise too. People often assume the work I do is about strengthening a weak muscle or stretching a tight one. But a big part of my job is about helping the nervous system feel safe while moving or breathing in ways that feel unfamiliar.
A new breathing pattern may feel strange. Loading an area that has been protected for years can feel scary. Moving without gripping, bracing, or anticipating pain can feel almost wrong at first, even though logically, we know that old movement pattern isn't working.
The body usually prefers the pattern it knows over the option that might be more efficient. Growth involves asking the body to loosen its grip and experiment with something new. That process can be awkward, frustrating, and wildly inconvenient. It can also open the door to a stronger, more capable version of you.
Which, annoyingly, is also true of parenting.
Obviously, I cannot lock my daughter in a box for the rest of her life and only allow her to speak to her parents. She needs to grow, have adventures that I don’t hover over, solve problems without me, and become her own person. The more she does that, the more I love the person she is becoming—which only makes me more obsessed with her. Can you see the unhealthy little circle we have going here?
The freedom to grow is good, even when I fight it tooth and nail. Every new stage has brought me a version of my kiddo I love even more than the one before. I know that will happen again. But man, the growing pains are brutal.
If your body feels unfamiliar right now, you may be in one of those transitions too. Maybe you’re pregnant, newly postpartum, navigating perimenopause, recovering from an injury, or simply realizing that the movement strategies you’ve relied on for years no longer work the way they used to. My job isn’t to force you back into an old version of yourself. It’s to help your body build a new map so you can feel strong, capable, and at home in it again.
If you’re in NYC this coming week, I’m subbing one final class at Freya Movement Studio on Monday, July 27 at 12:00 PM. It will be my last for this trip. Come move with me, ask questions, and give me something productive to do besides obsess over my kid.
—Corrective Exercise Specialist, women’s wellness coach, and your go-to guide through every phase of womanhood. Because fitness, hormones, and real life aren’t always neat and tidy. Sign up for my weekly checks ins of expert tips, laugh-out-loud truths, and the kind of coaching that reminds you you’re not alone in this stage of life.
