Sudor, algas y autocuidado en el posparto

Strava is on running mode. Yet, when I try to run, I have to support my boobs with both hands. They’re in the active breast milk production stage. So, I’m mostly walking. Right now, I'm even squatting to write. If there’s a record for the slowest run on Strava, I’m probably holding it. There's a bit of shame trying to creep in—what would my runner friend think when she sees the pace?—but I’m actively suffocating that shame in the seaweed-filled water.

This Morning’s Plan: I didn’t want to stay in bed. So I put on a borrowed swimsuit, my jeans, a hoodie, a pair of panties stuffed into the pocket, and a t-shirt, and headed to the beach for a run and a swim.

The bathing suit scratching against my nipple is uncomfortable. The hoodie is clinging to me like a vacuum seal—I’m sweating before the run even begins. So, the bathing suit has to come halfway off. The t-shirt is already doing its job. But there's no one to hold my boobs, so that's how I end up running on the beach, hands full, holding them up. Two tiny dogs bark at me, probably confused by the scene.

The sea is pushing its shaved seaweed onto the shore, spreading the scent of natural omega-3. I used to find it disgusting. Small flies are snacking on the seaweed, greeting the morning sun. Nature at its best—cleansing itself of the mess left by people: a tire someone forgot on the beach or maybe lost at sea, possibly when a boat succumbed to mid-sea waves. Ironically, it’s the "clean" things—detergents full of benzoates, sulfates, alcohol, perfume, and a ton of other things I don’t remember and don’t understand even after a Google search—that feel more disgusting. Yet we’re trained to dismiss them.

I thought I wouldn’t swim this morning. But then I saw a grandpa wading through the waves. Challenge accepted. A small child was nearby too, though now they’ve vanished—hopefully by choice. But first, how do I cross this barrier of seaweed?

There’s a certain calmness to the sea, especially early in the morning when no one else is around. I get why people crave it—why it’s a “must” for vacations. But why only for vacations? Why not spend life near the sea?

The “swimmer” is chubby. All the more reason: challenge reaffirmed.

This morning, the two grandmas took Choshka for a walk. For the first time, Natasha used the carrier, and of course, Choshka loved it. At first, I felt uneasy—would she be hungry? Would she cry? Should I go with them? But I didn’t. Then came a sense of self. What do I do with myself now that I have the chance?

The plan formed before I could even question it—not that I wanted to. Caring for the self is vital to not losing the self. Now, there are many selves: the mother-self, the partner-self—those are my favorite.

Right now, I’m with the memory of self. I used to sit near the water, just listening, watching. It’s comforting to sit on the beach, to contemplate, and to write it all down in the ego-driven hope of sharing it with the world, thinking the world might care.

And now—it’s time for a swim.