"My baby was 3 weeks old when I stuffed myself into pre-pregnancy jeans and pulled on the maternity flannel I’d worn right up to the end.

It was a feat, getting dressed after my second cesarean section in 17 months, and I gripped my midsection as I made my way down the front steps and slid into the car I’d just been cleared to drive. For days, I’d wept spontaneously--standing at the kitchen sink, sitting on the couch and staring at a TV I didn’t see. Nights had been worse. I could not sleep, not even as my baby blessedly dozed for four and five-hour stretches, and in that muddled state of insomnia and plunging pregnancy hormones, I was sure I would never sleep again. I don’t think I realized what I needed then: Something to pull me outside of myself, an obligation beyond caring for two children under 2. But my husband knew. This outing was his idea. It was not, I assure you, an insinuation on his part. I’d watched my sister transform under the guidance of a personal trainer, and I’d talked about wanting the same for myself. Whether it was the act of putting on real clothes or the idea of a new challenge or something else altogether, I can’t say. All I know is that as we pulled onto the highway, I felt a flicker of my old self.

STARTS AND STOPS

Pregnancy had packed on the recommended 25 pounds, but by the time I sat down with Sarah Binette, a stunning, sculpted brunette with two children of her own, I’d lost most of it. Still, I was about as out of shape as I’d ever been. Not that I’d ever been in very good shape. Multiple attempts at fitness had been half-hearted and short-lived. A year before the birth of my daughter, I’d trained for, and staggered through, a half-marathon, running for two miles a few mornings a week and going on long runs on Saturdays. My running partner and I worked our way up from six miles to 11 in the early morning dampness of summer; afterwards, we’d haul our dripping bodies into the booth of a nearby Friendly’s and order the greasiest thing on the menu. In the last decade, I’d signed up for two gym memberships. When I actually went, I usually ordered a pizza after. I had a pile of workout videos at home, some still in plastic, plus a pair of dumbbells and a stability ball. Once, I’d enrolled in a kickboxing studio, which I gave up after a month or two because I never could quite catch on. I also didn’t like to sweat. What I hadn’t done was consult a professional, or articulated with any precision what I was working towards, but now I knew. Mostly, I wanted to exhaust my body to the point that sleep would come on its own. I also wanted to stop crying every day, and for years, I’d heard about. the effects of exercise on mental health. I’d never stuck with it long enough to see any permanent or marked improvement, although I could recall not feeling wound quite so tightly on those mornings I’d run for half an hour before work. I wanted to lift a decent amount of weight, lose my stomach, shed five to 10 more pounds. All of these things went on a questionnaire Binette handed me. “How is your eating?” she asked me. “Mostly good,” I said. “But sometimes not.” “What did you have for breakfast?” “A Coke,” I told her. “And two chocolate donuts. Mini donuts.” I added one more item to my growing list of goals that morning in April: Look good in a two-piece come July. I hadn’t worn a two-piece for going on 20 years. “Is it possible to get rid of this?” I asked her, easily grabbing hold of my midsection. “Oh, yeah,” she said, without hesitation. “Can you switch to Diet Coke?”

A SWEATY TRIUMPH

Three weeks later, my doctor examined my c-section incision and declared me ready to resume all normal activity. I celebrated with an M&M McFlurry. The next morning, I stood awkwardly in Binette’s home gym, wearing my running shoes and the obnoxious pink running shorts I dug out of my dresser, stashed there going on two years before. I told her about the McFlurry. “A lot of people do that,” she said. “Go ahead and warm up.” I eyed the various contraptions spread across her basement and wondered whether there was a proper way to warm up. Like, way back in gym class we’d made circles with our arms and done jumping jacks, but that was the '90s. Maybe things had changed since then. “How do I warm up?” She looked up. “Oh.” If she was judging me, she didn’t show it, and before long, I was making use of those contraptions that I would soon learn the names for: A Bosu ball, a Kettlebell, medicine balls, battle ropes and Sandbells. There were squats with a barbell on my back and lunges with a pair of weights in my hands and box jumps on a step. It lasted for an hour. By the time I was done, I was tired and sore and dripping sweat. I felt triumphant.

BABY STEPS

That night, I fell into a hard sleep and slept for eight hours. So did my baby. Two days later, I was back at Binette’s, where I went a couple of mornings a week as long as my finances allowed it. Then I joined her group sessions three times a week. Then I joined a gym, paying extra for a month-to-month membership so I could cancel the moment I realized again I no longer had the motivation to go. I plucked a brochure from a rack that included a list of classes and detailed description of them, marking through the ones with “advanced” written next to them and circling the “family-friendly” ones. I figured I could handle cycling, a step class, maybe Zumba. I decided there was no way I could keep up in a weightlifting class, or something called Tabata, which included bursts of extreme cardio exercises. But then something happened. I showed up for my first workout later than I planned. Weightlifting was my only option, since I wasn’t about to go near the equipment. The studio was already packed when I walked in. Painfully self-conscious, I spoke to no one. Instead, I watched everybody else put together their barbells and felt disproportionately proud of myself when I managed to do it, too. The music thundered on. The hour breezed by. I shook my head as I walked out of class to pick my baby up from the gym’s child care center. I liked lifting weights. Who the heck was I?

WORKING IT OUT

And so it went. Emboldened, I tried almost everything on the schedule over the next few weeks. Zumba, it turns out, wasn’t for me at all; if not for the white haired lady in pink sweatpants at the back of the room, or the gray-haired men up front, all of whom stuck it out, I’d have walked out after 10 minutes. When a cycling instructor shouted, “Keep up or get out!” I did. Get out. And I didn’t come back for months. One Sunday afternoon, after a schedule change, I slid into a barre class against my will and loved it so much I started taking it twice a week. One day after a weightlifting class, I finally felt brazen enough to try Tabata. I was, after all, no longer a beginner. The instructor led us through 20 seconds of high-intensity exercises followed by 10 seconds of rest. This went on for half an hour--long enough to catch a runner’s high for the first time since I’d actually run. I fell into a schedule; six mornings a week, I worked out for at least an hour and a half. I left the McFlurries and the chocolate donuts alone. I gave up Coke. For breakfast, I ate turkey bacon and protein pancakes I bought at a nutrition store. For lunch, I made a salad that spilled off a dinner plate, raking on tuna and sprinkling it with almond slivers and raisins and goat cheese. For dinner, I ate chicken breast and a sweet potato and usually another salad, and I snacked on protein bars and hummus and, okay, ice cream. I lost five pounds. Then five more. I bought new jeans, a size smaller than before. When they started sliding off my hips, I sized down again. I was sitting on my living room floor, my baby in my lap, when I reached for something on the coffee table. That’s when I saw it: a little mound between my shoulder and elbow. By God, I had sprouted a bicep. There were other changes. Most nights, I drifted easily into sleep, and I woke up feeling shockingly refreshed. I was more patient, more energetic. I stopped crying. Most days, I just felt good all over. Even my skin looked better. All were benefits of regular exercise. I no longer scooted into the gym, eyes averted. I walked in like I owned the place. I bought a two-piece, and I wore it. Just once. But I wore it.

Epilogue

Summer ended. I’d started my journey at 27 percent body fat. Four months later, I was down to 19, which, according to most, put me squarely in the “fit” level. And though I was down 20 pounds from my pre-pregnancy weight, I’d actually gained muscle, which I could now clearly see in my back and shoulders and quadriceps. I was, quite literally, in the best shape of my life... (visit website for full article)