I had a lot of expectations and hopes for parenthood.

Like with most things, many of these were probably unreasonable, even under the best of circumstances: that I would keep running all through pregnancy; that this would make coming back to running postpartum much smoother; that I would come back stronger, tougher, faster, crushing PRs like I hadn’t in years, because of that whole mama power I kept hearing about, particularly through the warped lens of social media. That I would run tons of stroller miles, and breastfeeding would be easy and wouldn’t get in the way of any of this. That I would get back to writing somehow (this, at least, was true—far more than I ever expected or even dared to hope, but even still has its own set of challenges). That I would find a balance point for all of it.

But life has a way of taking a sledgehammer to our expectations. Like a global pandemic hitting in the middle of my pregnancy. Like illness and injury compounding the very early parts of it so that running was pretty much a non-starter for most of that period. That the major abdominal surgery that brought my daughter into the world would make coming back to running that much harder. That the running burnout I was experiencing in the months before getting pregnant would compound that difficulty. That it wouldn’t just shake off and give me lightness and joy in running right away. That I would have to work and hunt for that joy, and some days it still seems outside my grasp.

I grew up thinking I would be a stay-at-home mom; now I’m a work-from-home writer with my daughter in daycare. I grew up thinking I would have my first child before I was 30 (because Society makes us feel like this is necessary, crucial even); I was, by choice, almost 33 when she was born. I grew up thinking I would have two kids, because that was what my house looked like. Now I have one—one amazing, hilarious, smart, strong, vivacious, sweet, sassy child—and…I’m done.

Nothing is set in stone. We have a few more years to think, to contemplate the possibility. But even as she gets older, even as friends and family have more sweet, snuggly babies, the feeling of doneness doesn’t abate. I don’t have baby fever. That is: I don’t hold or see someone else’s baby and long for another one of my own. If anything, I long to hold my own baby as a baby once more, for one more moment, one more day. To smell her sweet newborn smell. To nurse her again, to have her fall asleep in my arms, or against my chest. To witness her very first smile, her very first laugh, her first time rolling, and crawling, and pulling up. To savor one more moment of the quiet dark hours nursing through the night, knowing it won’t be forever. I want to press rewind, hit play, over and over. Not to change anything, but perhaps to see it through the lens of experience, of faith—knowing I did it, and I was always capable, even when it didn’t feel like I was.

But I don’t want another. I don’t want to start again. I don’t want to put my body through that again: through the deep discomfort of late pregnancy, when I got so big (so very, very big) and so swollen and stopped sleeping almost entirely; the gestational hypertension that would probably come back again, send me back to the ER, send me in for another induction when I inevitably go overdue again. When I, in all likelihood, need another c-section, because I can’t see history not repeating itself, with all those factors at play once more. Because I can’t imagine going through that agony again, when my body seemed unwilling or unable to cooperate with what it was supposedly built for, designed for. And all those weeks of recovery, of no running, while caring for not one child, but two.

I can’t imagine starting over again with running, when I still feel like I’m trying to keep the foothold I have had to work to regain over and over the past almost-three years.

That’s when I feel most selfish about this decision. Because it’s those pieces of myself that I lost in early motherhood—the pieces I’m still fighting to get back, the ones that feel so precarious, that slip my grasp on a daily or weekly basis—that I fear losing forever. It’s the part that feels hard, terrifying, to say out loud: that coming back to myself is more important to me than having another child. More important than “giving my daughter a sibling,” as if that is a guaranteed good in her life; as if that, too, is essential. As if I am depriving her by not giving her that. When, really, what I may very likely be depriving her of in that scenario is me: a healthy, happy mom. One who takes time for the things that she loves, that refill her cup, that make her healthy and happy in every sense—physically, emotionally, psychologically.

Parenthood is a lot about sacrifice. But where I’ve seen previous generations offer up all of themselves on the altar of parenthood, carving out pieces of themselves to give that time and energy to their children, I can’t see myself cutting up more pieces of myself. The scars I wear from becoming a mother will always be with me: the visible one, on my lower abdomen, cutting across my pelvis; and the invisible ones, in the form of a runner who is a lot slower, a lot more tired, a lot more afraid, a lot more timid. One who is still trying to find her strength—physical and mental—and may never get back to where she was, but is determined to try. To try to find joy in the process. To find peace in the solitude of the road, one of those rare moments for a mother to be totally alone with her thoughts (thoughts that continue to race anyway). To find companionship in runs with friends, trying hard not to spend all that time talking about my amazing daughter.

I wouldn’t trade her for anything. But neither will I trade myself for another child I am not at all sure I actually want. A child that feels necessary only in the sense that the world makes it seem so: that children “need” siblings; that grandparents are always hoping for more grandchildren; that being one-and-done makes me less of a mother, less of a woman. Selfish. Weak. Cowardly.

But isn’t there something brave in telling all those societal expectations to fuck off? Isn’t there something selfless about giving my daughter more of myself because I have more to give when she’s my only?

Maybe those miles I take alone are selfish. I feel it in my bones when a run is going badly: when it’s too hot and humid; when I’m walking more than I’m running; when it’s taking me so long to finish the miles, even when I shorten them, because I’m melting down. When I feel like I have to hurry home, get back and showered and clock back in as a parent, to give my husband some relief.

Except I know it isn’t—logically, I know this. Even when I need the reminder: when my husband tells me to not rush, to take my time. When he reminds me that this time is mine. Whether the run is good, or terrible, or somewhere in between, every one of those minutes belongs to me. Not to be rushed, not to feel guilty over. But to take to refill my cup, so I can be a better mom—and a better partner. So I can be a better version of me: for him, for her, for me.

Nothing in life is set in stone. Things change so fast, and time moves faster and faster these days. I have time to change my mind—for both of us to change our minds, because this is a decision between two partners (and absolutely no one else). But I don’t see that happening. What I see, instead, is this life, exactly how it is, only getting better and better over time. Not in a linear way. Nothing has been linear, not ever, but especially the last three-plus years. The peaks and valleys, the spirals where I seem to go nowhere…if I pull back, if I look at the long game, it’s going up. The journey is it. The climb is it. Her little hand in mine gets bigger all the time. And I have another hand, too: for her, for me, for whatever comes my way. I can keep pulling us higher, come what may.