This is the story of how exercise saved me - how setting goals made me focus on something else and how endorphins helped me get out of the dark.
When I first moved to Australia I was excited, I had escaped the rat race and my life as a corporate lawyer (the job I loved, the hours I did not) and I had everything to look forward to, a new baby on the way, a loving relationship and gorgeous 3 year old daughter, a house with a POOL and most importantly chance at being the best stay at home mum ever...... As the weeks turned into months, the honeymoon period wore off, the daily drudgery of life with a new born set it and full realisation that I was on the other side of the world with very young children, little support, no close family or friends- and reality began to hit. Food had become my comfort and I had piled on the weight, which headed into triple figures during my second pregnancy. The chocolate muffin or chai latte was a quick fix to a life seemingly devoid of pleasure. I say "seemingly" because it was there (everyday has its pleasures and treasures) except then post-natal depression had reared its ugly head again. It warps ones perception of life- placing a dark cloud over everything in its path. Although I did not mourn the hours or the stress of corporate lawyering - I did mourn having a job. A job with a title, office, clients a purpose and a nice salary.
I had studied for years to become a solicitor and I worked my butt off and although at the time my butt didn't fit into much, I could go into a shop and pick an outfit, any outfit and buy it. I wasn't dependent on anyone, I was self sufficient and professionally successful.
Queue the Australian dream a new life which involved going out to make new friends. This wasn't like networking in legal circles, this involved chit chat I knew little about. My public face was a mask of confidence and happiness, but, privately, I was defeated. I had left material success for more time with my family and was resenting the nappy changing, washing, cooking, cleaning and attending social groups and play dates where discussions revolved around kids, poop and where no one admitted to reading the papers and showed little or no interest politics, religion, culture or in knowing what was going on in the world.
I felt overweight, geeky, frumpy and extremely unhappy with my tired, bloated, sluggish self. I would go to social gatherings feeling inept at the tanned and toned bodies around me and small talk, consistent with people who had things like hobbies and had watched Sex in the City (I hadn't had time for that), all I knew was debate, debauchery and keeping a distance. I was unable to concentrate on anything apart from my persistent grief and self-loathing. My days were filled with crushing anxiety and heavy sadness. I couldn’t sleep, and it wasn't bubba's fault but she was a perfect scape goat. All I seemed to be capable of achieving each day was mourning lost opportunities, both personal and professional.
Doctors, pills and therapy had done nothing to remove the daily darkness that hung over me like a rain cloud. A friend from back at home encouraged me to try exercise, but their advice had fallen on deaf ears. When you lack the energy even to get out of bed in the morning, the last thing you need to hear is that you should "pull yourself together and go to the gym". I found it hard enough to walk around the block never mind up the pace and incorporate a trot, or go to an establishment catering specifically for exercise. The Gym : the thought of it petrified me.
One day I was reading inspiring quotes (or better put I was sitting around trying to make myself feel better drinking a latte, eating copious chocolate biscuits (I had discovered Tim Tams) and surfing the internet. I happened across the 7 Rules of Life. Number 6 stood out: No one is in charge of your own happiness, except you. Something clicked. I had to have authorship of my own destiny. "The pen that writes your life story must be held in your own hand". That was it - it was up to me, nil excuses, no more blaming motherhood, my partner working long hours, lethargy, lack of time or money, cold weather, hot weather, any-excuse-you-like weather. If I was going to to change, I needed to change. I joined weight watchers, I joined the gym, I joined a 5:30 am running club and with that I re-joined life and the desire to move – to put one foot in front of the other and to go forwards.
So that was how I found myself on this trajectory of fun runs and mud runs which evolved into into marathons and triathlons, a PT course and finally my own business coaching others.
My first step into exercise was a "jog" on a warm summers evening with a screaming baby in a pram. I remember running along the road pushing the pram with my wobbly bits jiggling everywhere surrounded by flies feasting on my sweat. As I jogged, walked, panted, sweated some more , stopped (to nearly thrown up), sat down (for feeling dizzy), stood up and repeated, I kept thinking: “Chantal, if you can do this, if you can make it through this horrible torture, you can make it through anything.”
My second was stepping into the pool to do aqua aerobics with a jovial bunch of retired ladies. I was the youngest by 30 years . I was also the slowest and most out of breath, I had a pink swim cap on, I felt and I looked like Mrs Bobbly. I was spotted by other people in a swimming costume that I vaguely knew. I died of embarrassment. But I did it.
I know it to be true: I have not just made it through, I have survived and funny enough now I enjoy it.
When I first moved to Australia I was excited, I had escaped the rat race and my life as a corporate lawyer (the job I loved, the hours I did not) and I had everything to look forward to, a new baby on the way, a loving relationship and gorgeous 3 year old daughter, a house with a POOL and most importantly chance at being the best stay at home mum ever...... As the weeks turned into months, the honeymoon period wore off, the daily drudgery of life with a new born set it and full realisation that I was on the other side of the world with very young children, little support, no close family or friends- and reality began to hit. Food had become my comfort and I had piled on the weight, which headed into triple figures during my second pregnancy. The chocolate muffin or chai latte was a quick fix to a life seemingly devoid of pleasure. I say "seemingly" because it was there (everyday has its pleasures and treasures) except then post-natal depression had reared its ugly head again. It warps ones perception of life- placing a dark cloud over everything in its path. Although I did not mourn the hours or the stress of corporate lawyering - I did mourn having a job. A job with a title, office, clients a purpose and a nice salary.
I had studied for years to become a solicitor and I worked my butt off and although at the time my butt didn't fit into much, I could go into a shop and pick an outfit, any outfit and buy it. I wasn't dependent on anyone, I was self sufficient and professionally successful.
Queue the Australian dream a new life which involved going out to make new friends. This wasn't like networking in legal circles, this involved chit chat I knew little about. My public face was a mask of confidence and happiness, but, privately, I was defeated. I had left material success for more time with my family and was resenting the nappy changing, washing, cooking, cleaning and attending social groups and play dates where discussions revolved around kids, poop and where no one admitted to reading the papers and showed little or no interest politics, religion, culture or in knowing what was going on in the world.
I felt overweight, geeky, frumpy and extremely unhappy with my tired, bloated, sluggish self. I would go to social gatherings feeling inept at the tanned and toned bodies around me and small talk, consistent with people who had things like hobbies and had watched Sex in the City (I hadn't had time for that), all I knew was debate, debauchery and keeping a distance. I was unable to concentrate on anything apart from my persistent grief and self-loathing. My days were filled with crushing anxiety and heavy sadness. I couldn’t sleep, and it wasn't bubba's fault but she was a perfect scape goat. All I seemed to be capable of achieving each day was mourning lost opportunities, both personal and professional.
Doctors, pills and therapy had done nothing to remove the daily darkness that hung over me like a rain cloud. A friend from back at home encouraged me to try exercise, but their advice had fallen on deaf ears. When you lack the energy even to get out of bed in the morning, the last thing you need to hear is that you should "pull yourself together and go to the gym". I found it hard enough to walk around the block never mind up the pace and incorporate a trot, or go to an establishment catering specifically for exercise. The Gym : the thought of it petrified me.
One day I was reading inspiring quotes (or better put I was sitting around trying to make myself feel better drinking a latte, eating copious chocolate biscuits (I had discovered Tim Tams) and surfing the internet. I happened across the 7 Rules of Life. Number 6 stood out: No one is in charge of your own happiness, except you. Something clicked. I had to have authorship of my own destiny. "The pen that writes your life story must be held in your own hand". That was it - it was up to me, nil excuses, no more blaming motherhood, my partner working long hours, lethargy, lack of time or money, cold weather, hot weather, any-excuse-you-like weather. If I was going to to change, I needed to change. I joined weight watchers, I joined the gym, I joined a 5:30 am running club and with that I re-joined life and the desire to move – to put one foot in front of the other and to go forwards.
So that was how I found myself on this trajectory of fun runs and mud runs which evolved into into marathons and triathlons, a PT course and finally my own business coaching others.
My first step into exercise was a "jog" on a warm summers evening with a screaming baby in a pram. I remember running along the road pushing the pram with my wobbly bits jiggling everywhere surrounded by flies feasting on my sweat. As I jogged, walked, panted, sweated some more , stopped (to nearly thrown up), sat down (for feeling dizzy), stood up and repeated, I kept thinking: “Chantal, if you can do this, if you can make it through this horrible torture, you can make it through anything.”
My second was stepping into the pool to do aqua aerobics with a jovial bunch of retired ladies. I was the youngest by 30 years . I was also the slowest and most out of breath, I had a pink swim cap on, I felt and I looked like Mrs Bobbly. I was spotted by other people in a swimming costume that I vaguely knew. I died of embarrassment. But I did it.
I know it to be true: I have not just made it through, I have survived and funny enough now I enjoy it.