Reclaiming Myself — One Mile at a Time

Last year changed me in ways I never saw coming…

I was in pain almost every single day — sharp, burning, relentless pain that no scan could explain. Tooth pain. Root-canal pain. The kind of pain you can’t breathe through or distract yourself from. The kind that scares you — and makes you feel hopeless.

I went from dentist to specialist to surgeon to another specialist. Everyone said everything looked “fine.” And slowly, I started wondering if maybe I was losing my mind.

I wasn’t.

Eventually, I was diagnosed with TMJ disorder and began treatment, but naming it didn’t make the pain disappear. Chronic pain takes more than comfort — it takes pieces of your life. For me, it took movement and connection to people.

As the months passed, my world shrank. I stayed home more. I canceled plans. Even taking the train to meet a friend in the city felt like a luxury I no longer had access to. Pain dictated my days; it decided what I could do and who I was able to be. I felt trapped in my own body, like life was moving outside my window and I was watching instead of living it. My laptop became my world, and the loneliness pressed harder each day.

It was loss — real loss.
The loss of ease.
The loss of being a person who moved without thinking about it.
The loss of spontaneous connection, friendship, and feeling part of the world instead of observing it from the sidelines. I wanted my old self back, and for a while, she felt unreachable.

Then came summer. One morning upstate, I decided to walk — slowly, gently, testing my body. Steps became miles. One day, without planning it, I jogged for a few minutes. For the first time in a long time, I ran.

Fall came. I kept going. Walking turned into running. Not fast, not far — but forward.

I downloaded Runkeeper and committed to one or two runs a week. My first run, I could barely breathe. My legs felt like strangers. But each week, something shifted. My endurance grew, my energy returned. Hope came back in tiny, sweaty, shaky doses — quiet, but real.

Eventually, I did something I’d never done:
I signed up for my first 5K in Prospect Park.

Not because I’m a runner.
Because I wanted to feel alive again.

Why I’m Running for PSI

As I kept running, I thought about my isolation last year — and how similar those emotions can be in early parenthood. The loneliness. The overwhelm of a new role. The physical exhaustion. The disorientation in your own body. The feeling that your old identity has vanished, and you don’t fully recognize the person you’ve become.

That parallel is what led me here.

I decided to dedicate my run to a cause that means so much to me as a mother and a perinatal therapist: perinatal mental health.
I am running and fundraising for Postpartum Support International (PSI).

Perinatal depression and anxiety are among the most common complications of childbirth, affecting up to 1 in 5 parents. Yet many struggle in silence — isolated, ashamed, overwhelmed. Early parenthood can feel like a private storm: full of love and gratitude, yes — but also fear, exhaustion, identity loss, and moments of deep doubt.

PSI provides free online support groups, a warmline, peer mentors, and a connection to trained perinatal specialists. They offer exactly what pain and new parenthood can steal: support, community, and a way back to oneself.

Because no one should rebuild alone.

During my runs, my Runkeeper coach kept saying:

“Stay with discomfort. Breathe. You're doing it. Don’t compare yourself. Just show up.”

Those words landed somewhere deep. I felt supported. I felt challenged. I felt myself again.

Slowly, life widened. I took the train again. I saw friends. I showed up. My pain didn’t disappear completely  — but I no longer lived under its command.

I ran through discomfort.
I stayed with discomfort.

And I remembered where I learned that strength.

From my parents, who never gave up.
From my father, who showed me that movement matters.
From my mother, whose strength is quiet and unshakeable.
From my grandparents, who survived war and rebuilt their lives — carrying nothing but endurance and hope.
From my parents again, who left everything familiar in their late forties to start over in a new country with no guarantees, so my brother and I could access opportunities they didn’t.

I come from people who do hard things.
I come from people who keep going.

Giving up was never our language.
Resilience is.

This run isn’t just a race.
It’s a return.
To my body.
To movement.
To hope.
To myself.
And now, to support others who are finding their way back, one step at a time. I

If my story resonates and you’d like to support parents during the postpartum journey, you can learn more or contribute to PSI here: 

https://give.postpartum.net/fundraiser/6807300. Every step counts. Thank you for being part of this journey.