In May 2021, when Achu turned one, I was at my heaviest—seventy-eight kilograms.
I avoided looking at mirrors.
Not because I hated myself, but because I didn’t want to accept how much my body had changed—after pregnancy, childbirth, and those exhausting early months of motherhood.
At the time, I was a second-year resident, surviving fragmented sleep and COVID scares. Exercise didn’t even make it onto my list of priorities.
Mothers of young children are often given the same worn- out advice:
“Just find time to exercise.”
As if we had more than twenty-four hours in a day.
As if there weren’t tiffins to pack, tears to wipe, and jobs waiting to be returned to.
As if it were that easy.
A friend of mine, Anne, had been working out consistently on a home workout app and looked energized and alive. I wanted to give it a try too. But I was overwhelmed with the array of options on my platter.
Strength training. Cardio. HIIT. Yoga. Dance.
I didn’t know where to begin.
So I started small.
Basic movements.
Learning how to squat again.
How to hop. How to bend.
Even twenty minutes left me breathless.
And just when I would begin to find a rhythm, Achu would wake up—grab my phone mid-workout or insist on joining me.
It tested my patience more than my muscles.
Couldn’t I have this small slice of the day to myself? Didn’t I deserve that?
I didn’t know what I was doing.
But I kept showing up.
Slowly, over months, things changed.
I could complete thirty-minute sessions.
My back pain—a constant companion since the third trimester—disappeared.
My energy returned.
And most importantly, I began to feel like myself again.
I noticed the real change not in the way I mothered Achu.
I had the energy, after a long day at the hospital, to answer Achu’s relentless questions.
“Why can’t one ant carry all the crumbs?”
I had the strength to lift him, run after him, and keep up with his world.
And I had the patience to sit with his emotions—to be the calm in his storm.
Our bond deepened in ways I hadn’t expected.
All because of thirty minutes of moving my body.
That made me curious.
What was actually happening here?
Here’s what I came to understand:
When a Mother Invests in Her Body, She Expands Her Capacity to Mother.
- She reacts less—and responds more
Regular movement reduces baseline stress and improves emotional regulation.
In real life, that looks like fewer snap reactions during tantrums.
A longer emotional fuse.
I realised I mothered more gently on days I felt physically stronger.
- She models self-respect—not just self-sacrifice
Children don’t learn self-care from what we say.
They learn from what we do.
When a mother prioritises her wellbeing,
she normalises caring for her body and quietly communicates: “I matter too.”
- More energy → more presence
Exercise improves stamina, sleep, and overall energy.
Not so you can do more—
but so you can be more present in what you do every day.
So conversations can be heartfelt and deep, even when it is late.
- It protects her mental health
Regular physical activity has well-established benefits for anxiety and mild to moderate depression.
And a regulated mother creates a more stable emotional environment at home.
Children don’t just experience what happens around them—
they absorb how it feels.
- She reconnects with herself beyond motherhood
Motherhood has a way of quietly shrinking identity.
Working out became a space where I wasn’t “Achu’s mother.”
I was just… me.
Moving. Breathing. Existing in my own body.
That space matters more than we acknowledge.
Because I knew that unaddressed resentment often shows up in unexpected ways.
What I’ve Come to Hold
I don’t work out to become a better mother.
I work out so I can return to my child as a more whole person.
And somewhere along the way,
that has made me a better mother.
Yeah, refill our own cup so that we can pour into our child’s.
Yes Yes Yes…..!!