Not too long ago, I ran into the guy who told me I should make sure I gave my husband a male baby, the guy who incited rage within me by telling me what sexual positions yield male babies. I didn’t recognize him at first when he approached me. It wasn’t until he began apologizing that I realized he was the guy from my previous post. I admire him for having the courage to talk to me, especially in light of my behavior that night. I was so damn angry when we argued. This time, we had a good conversation in which I also apologized for how I handled the conversation.  

He indicated he saw that I wrote about him in my blog, and it made me laugh. Then he asked why I hadn’t been writing. I didn’t have an answer in the moment. I thought about it more. I hadn’t been writing because I didn’t know what to say during a pandemic. He told me that was bullshit and that I should write what I want.

It is bullshit. I have lots to say. I’ve started countless blogs but never pressed publish because I felt as though my whining wasn’t relevant during a pandemic. I felt silenced. I also struggled to find the emotional or mental energy to shape my words and share them. 

I am in the same space so many people are—I am drowning in quarantine fatigue and exhaustion. I’m home all day most days. I exercise from here. I work from here. I take care of my kids here. I don’t do much; I don’t have much of a life outside this house. And I started to feel sorry for myself.  

I think many of us have struggled to see past ourselves during this pandemic. We see our struggles so clearly while being blind or confused about others’ experiences. At the start of Covid, I resented others with different circumstances than me who complained. I resented people who were enduring this pandemic without having the added difficulty of raising young children. I was angry when someone without kids said how hard this was.  But that isn’t fair, is it? Of course not. I could not see past myself. And I do recognize we all faced (and continue to face) different challenges. 

This Covid era has been pretty lonely for many. I’m not great about staying connected in general and this was abundantly clear during quarantine. I didn’t have many outlets, many friends to connect with, and this is completely my own doing. I tend to retreat, to prefer solitude during times of struggle. For someone who is devoted to words, I sure don’t like to speak them when life is hard. 

I tend to prefer the silent, implicit tribes–the ones with whom I possess shared experiences with without speaking a word. I’ve always been a runner, but I’ve gone through phases where I fall in and out of the habit for various reasons. But it’s one of my great loves and I know I’ll always be a runner or hiker/walker. It fuels my soul to move my body outside.  No matter how long it’s been since I’ve hit the trail, I am reminded of that tribe when I get back into it. 

Recently, I went for a trail run in the bitter cold. The path was covered with packed snow peppered with so many footprints. As I plodded my way down the trail, my heart soared. I felt immediate kinship to those whose footprints were laid before me–the ones who, like me, had felt compelled to move their bodies on that trail despite the snow and the cold and the wind.

There’s something so pure about running that I struggle to put into words. It’s the repetition of footfalls and breathing, the pumping of the heart, the purity of the air. It’s the trees and the snow and the colors and the crisp smell. It’s the rain or the sunshine or the falling leaves. It’s the sounds and smells and the birds. It’s the running water and the mud and the bridges. It’s a quick wave as I pass another runner. It’s seeing a hill and knowing I have to lean forward and push. It’s the downhill surge and the panting and the release. It’s the struggle, the tug-of-war of emotions, the exhilaration. For me, it’s the music and being able to write in my head, to be alone moving through space.  

I used to run races, and I’ll never forget becoming overcome with emotion during one of my first races when I turned off my music and listened to the sound of all the runners moving at the exact same time as me. When I run on a trail, I see the footprints and occasional runners or walkers, but they are few and far between. During the race, we’re all there together. I was so moved by the sound of all the feet hitting the ground–a constant patter patter of motion. Normally, that may not be the most pleasant sound, but it was to me then. I was so moved to be sharing that experience with so many others who had made the decision to run and to race and work on self improvement. It was the most glorious sound. 

Running is becoming more and more uncomfortable for me since I’m pregnant. Lately, I feel like I have a watermelon strapped to my lower abdomen that I’m trying to balance and not break while running. I thought about how many miles I’ve run with a baby inside me, and  I wondered how many other pregnant women had run the very same path I had, how many babies bounced around inside during those runs. It reminded me that I’m part of another silent tribe: mothers.

Like running, motherhood requires devotion and dedication. Some days are good and some are rough. And, in the end, I’m proud to be part of both tribes. 

Like many things in life, it is impossible to understand motherhood until you enter it. Though I tried, I couldn’t feel the shift in identity and psyche until I held my new baby in my arms, bewildered and unprepared for what was ahead. It requires sacrifice I could never have anticipated. I don’t need a support group to know we are in abundance. When I lose my temper with my kids, when I cry alone in the bathroom from the stress and the sacrifice, I know I’m not alone. I know in that moment another mother somewhere is doing the same thing. We go days or months or years without putting our needs first, and it’s a choice we made. A choice I would continue to make even though sometimes it’s so damn hard I feel like I’m splitting in half. 

I also know when I witnessed the pure joy of my children touching the ocean for the first time that other mothers have been there, too. We have felt our hearts swell with love and pride and gratitude. We nurture and grow human beings, we shape them and we give every aspect of ourselves. And the good, though often a small percentage of the time, outweighs the bad tenfold. I’ll take 50 bad days for every glorious moment that shakes me to my core in the best possible way. Quarantine has been harder than we anticipated, but we’ll make it though this. If there’s one thing I know with absolute certainty it’s this: mothers can endure anything. 

I love this tribe of mothers. Without needing to say a word, we share the same experiences. I feel them, the members of my tribe, during so many moments, good and bad.

I find beauty and solace in these tribes, these groups that I belong to without a signature. And when I’m lonely, I hit the trail or lean on the words or pictures of another mother. When I’m struggling, I turn to them; I turn to you.