My 8-year-old daughter said something that still haunts me: “Mommy, you always say you can’t do things because of your back. It’s like you don’t even try anymore.” She was right. I’d become the mom who couldn’t pick her up, couldn’t lean down for goodnight hugs, couldn’t chase her around the backyard.
The worst was her birthday party. All the other parents were running around playing tag with the kids, and I was sitting on a bench, watching my own daughter play alone because her mom was “broken.” She kept looking over at me with this confused, sad expression. I knew she didn’t understand why I couldn’t be like the other moms.
As my muscles got stronger and more resilient, I started testing boundaries. First just quick hugs. Then lifting her onto my shoulders. Now I can wrestle on the floor, give piggyback rides, even coach her soccer team without fear. She told me last week, “Mommy, you’re fun again.” That’s worth more than any amount of money I spent on failed treatments.