I used to run—I’d just decide, on a whim, to toss in my earbuds and run down my street, anytime I wanted.
Even after I had kids, I’d load up the jogging stroller, pack snacks, layer them head-to-toe if it was freezing outside—and I’d still run. I still loved it. It was one of those things I clung to from my pre-kid life, a little piece of who I was before everything changed.
Until last week.
A doctor looked me in the eye and said, “It’s best not to run anymore.”
Just like that, I gave up another piece of myself. Without a word, I let it go. I got a firm no to something I truly loved.
I could explain the joint issue that started during pregnancy, the aches and warnings, but this isn’t really about me. It’s about the tiny sacrifices no one talks about, the quiet ways we give parts of ourselves away.
We celebrate the big losses—the career changes, the physical transformations—but the little things, the pieces that make us us, often disappear silently.
I’ve said goodbye to plenty: opportunities I dreamed of, my perky breasts, stretch mark-free legs. But this? This running? It was one of my things, one of those personal anchors. And now, it’s gone too.
It’s invisible, but it matters. The pieces we hand over when no one’s watching. The bits of ourselves we quietly surrender because the world insists someone else has it worse.
“You’ll be fine without XYZ,” they say. And it feels dismissive. Because yes, I am blessed beyond measure—but that doesn’t make this loss hurt any less.
Would I give up this thing I love to carry my babies again? Absolutely. A thousand times over.
But can I still mourn it? Can I still feel the sting of letting go? Also yes.
Tonight, like countless parents out there, I handed over another piece of myself. Another quiet sacrifice.
And tonight, I give myself permission to feel it, to mourn it, to honor it—because it was mine, and because giving it up made room for something far greater: the joy, love, and life of my children.
Even in loss, we find the pieces that truly matter.
