It doesn’t get easier, but it’s still there
If I had only waited one more day, the run would have been completely different. (Or, so I told myself.) It was one of those VERY DC summer weekends—by which I mean, suffocatingly humid and oppressively hot. These are things a pregnant body—well, my pregnant body—does not agree with.
I had a handheld water bottle. Those 10 ounces of hydration were emptied in the first 20 minutes. I wore shorts that were starting to feel tight. I had on a tank top that stretched far enough, with some room to spare, because something has to give.
For no logical reason, I thought I could (should?) run five miles, but after two, I was walking. My heart rate high, morale very low.
Last summer, I was training for a marathon.
This summer, I’m growing a tiny human.
These are different kinds of hard.
They say, “Run through the summer to reap the benefits in the fall!” But I spent my summer months running (sort of), slowing WAY down, and coming to the realization that as (or, if) the weather got cooler, and my tiny human got bigger, this would actually only get harder.
