Because Healing is Hard, and Pants with Buttons are Harder

So… last week I decided to ease back into work. By “ease”, I mean three clients and a back wax. I was casually stepping back into my old grooves. Truthfully? The three clients didn’t hurt me, they were just the warm-up act. A little pregame stretch before the real event: my first full work day back.

That, my friends? Kicked my ass.

By the end of the day, I was ” why-do-I-even-have-these-muscles” kind of sore. Not joint pain-just deep full-body, who-invented-core-strength-and-why-did-they-do-this-to-me sore. There was something good about it. Something familiar. Like stretching out old muscles that hadn’t danced in a while. I was getting my groove back, and even though I was wiped, it felt good.

I sat down to catch my breath (literally) while one of my clients was processing. I told her how sore I was. She was like “Oh, I totally get that. I was sore after my surgery too.” She’s a breast cancer survivor, little over 4 years in recovery now. It was like something clicked in my head when she said that.

Listening to her, hearing her experience, it helped everything click. It was one of those quiet, powerful moments where someone else’s story gives your body a little more context. Your brain a little more grace.

I’ve said it before: these little flashes change us. Heal us, and that one? That humbled me. It gave me a new layer of understanding. I’m not saying I can relate to everything a breast cancer warrior has gone through-not even close. But now, I know a sliver, a fraction, a tenth of what that healing feels like. That matters to me. It puts things into perspective.

Because for the first time, I didn’t just sympathize-I could truly empathize. Even just a little, and that’s humbling.

It also brought an annoying realization with it:

This might be as good as I feel for a while.

I’d been quietly waiting for the magical morning when I’d wake up totally fine. No back pain, no rib soreness, no stiffness. Just me, arms overhead, stretching like a yoga instructor in a tea commercial. But no. Not yet. Maybe not for a while.

So, naturally, I got irritated. Then determined. Yoga it is. Dog walks. Home workouts. Whatever it takes to feel like myself again. This was a major surgery, and I can’t expect to bounce back just because I want to.

Flashback: when I had my hysterectomy a few years ago? I was on it. Walking the hospital halls all night like it was a wellness retreat. Chris came and picked me up the next day, and we went straight to the grocery and for a walk. Within days, I was walking two miles twice a day. My friends came over to “take care” of me, but really I just needed walking and talking buddies.

But, this recovery? It’s a whole different beast.

I pretty much stayed in bed for two weeks straight, which is a record for me. Unless you count my knee surgery in 1997, when I just couldn’t walk. Even after I started getting energy back, I still needed afternoon naps. Like toddler-level, do-not-disturb naps.

And that just pissed me off.

If I’m anything, it’s determined-kinda like an aggressive trash panda after a bag of chips. You can knock me down, but I will pop back up with one eye twitching and snack in hand. I just thought this recovery would be like my others. I thought I’d bounce back, lace up my sneakers, and start hauling my friends on unnecessary walks again.

But, it isn’t like that. I’m just now realizing it, and… well, it sucks!

Which brings us to Monday.

I was feeling pretty good . I had my echocardiogram (which, came back perfect, thank you very much.) I got strapped into my new heart monitor, (because my heart rate likes to drop randomly just for sport), and thought: Let’s make a day of it.

TJ Max and lunch with my daughter. A quick Target run. You know something light and easy.

This is probably a good time to mention that over the weekend, we had an out-of town lacrosse tournament. Translation: hotel food, zero access to a kitchen, and me eating like a college freshman on a bender.

I packed fruit and brought the nuts like the health goddess I strive to be.. .but when the team went out for pizza Saturday night, I went too. Because you know, bonding and cheese! Enough said.

That glorious, gooey, traitorous cheese.

Then came the fast-food breakfast Sunday before the early game, because when you’re in a hotel, and it’s 7:30a.m., your options are limited to disappointment and regret.

So yeah. By Monday, my insides were already mad. My stomach had entered the chat with full passive-aggressive energy. I still decided to tempt fate and walk into Target like everything was fine.

It was not fine.

We were about halfway through the store when my gut started grumbling. Not a little nudge. Not a whisper. This was a full-blown “you’re going to regret all your life choices” situation. I leaved over to my daughter and said, “Hey babe.. we need to wrap this up. Things are .. happening.”

She nodded, then wanted to know if we were going to make it to the book section.

Of course. Of course we can. Because she’s 13 and she still loves to read. I will support that till the day I die. Even if that day might be today, in the middle of Target, clenching for my life.

So we head over.

There I am, trying to act casual, gripping the shelf like it might save me. Legs crossed, butt cheeks locked tighter than Fort Knox while she’s looking for the book she wants. Asking me what I’m look at, and I’m just… silently bargaining with my internal organs.

Eventually, I hand her my stuff, my debit card and say-calmly, motherly, lovingly- “Handle it. Mama’s gotta run.”

And run I did (maybe it was more of a speed-walk/run)

Now let’s talk logistics. I decided on jean shorts, you know with a button, and I’m hooked up to this heart monitor. Wires coming out from under my tank top, wrapping around my button, through my zipper like spaghetti with a grudge.

Trying to get into the bathroom, untangle wire, unhook a button, unzip, and sit. All while maintaining dignity and clenching like my life depended on it? I should get an award.

Like a medal, or a good parking spot, or at least a discount on wet wipes.

I made it. Just barely. Target’s bathroom and my reputation remains intact. I walked out a new woman. Humbled. Sweaty. And deeply committed to wearing stretchy pants for the rest of my natural life.

Lessons Learned:

1. Pizza is a smooth-talking liar
2. Stretchy pants are survival gear.
3. Public clenching is a full-body sport.
4. Never trust a clean gut and a dirty weekend.
5. If your teen still wants to look at books, you let them- just know where the bathroom is first.

Healing isn’t linear, or glamorous or predictable, but it’s mine. If it comes with sore muscles, Target runs, the occasional breakdown-so be it. I’ll just keep doing the work, walking the dog, wearing stretchy pants, and finding grace (and giggles) in the chaos.