The Discipline Diaries

Six weeks after having my second baby, I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself.

Well, maybe that’s not totally true.

The truth is, I had been avoiding looking at myself for months.

No pictures. No mirrors. No lingering glances at my reflection. I had mastered the art of looking away.

After an overwhelming pregnancy, and months of telling myself, I’ll get back on track after this baby, and finally, after one particularly devastating fight with my husband; it was finally time to actually do the work.

A little background.

My husband met me when I was someone I was really proud to be. I was 24 years old. I had my own house on eight acres in the country, with two horses. I was fit, unnaturally blonde, and fun. I drove a little blue pickup truck and had just completed my electrical apprenticeship after five years. I was finally licensed. 

I was independent. Capable. Strong. Confident.

So, eight years into being together, I guess it is somewhat understandable that he didn’t really recognize the current me either.

My body had carried life again. Given us two stunning young sons. It had stretched, softened, changed, and survived pregnancy, birth, sleepless nights, nursing, healing, and the emotional weight that comes with becoming a mother of two.

But even knowing all of that, I still felt uncomfortable in my own skin.

I had gained 80 pounds during pregnancy.

Eighty pounds.

That number felt heavy in every possible way. Physically, emotionally, mentally.

My clothes didn’t fit. My confidence was gone. I was exhausted. I was caring for a newborn while also chasing after a busy toddler son who seemed to have endless energy from the moment he woke up until the moment he finally crashed.

And in the middle of all of that, my marriage felt heavy too.

My husband resented the weight gain. Whether he said it directly or showed it in small ways, I felt it. I felt the distance. I felt the disappointment. I felt the pressure.

Even though I was barely sleeping, still healing, and trying to keep two tiny humans alive, the elephant sitting on my chest was the weight.

That kind of pain is hard to explain.

Because on one hand, you want to be seen as beautiful and desirable by your partner. And the honest, painful part is that I knew I was falling short of the version of myself he had met and first fell for.

By a lot.

But on the other hand, you want someone to understand what your body has just been through. You want compassion, not criticism. Support, not resentment. You want someone to see the sacrifice, not just the size.

It was my love for my sons that finally moved the needle. I craved a motherhood of fun excursions, millions of happy pictures, and raising sons who did as I did, not just as I said. So I started my journey this time for me.

So at six weeks postpartum, after being cleared to move my body again, I started 75 Hard.

Not because I hated myself.

Not because I wanted to punish my body.

Not because I wanted to prove my worth to my husband.

I started because I needed to find myself again.

And 75 Hard was not easy.

In fact, doing it postpartum with a newborn and a toddler was one of the hardest things I have ever done.

Every single day, sleep was sacrificed for discipline. Most days, the workouts were interrupted multiple times. Many days, I was burnt out, touched out, and running on fumes. There were days I made myself sick from pushing through. There were days my kids and husband demanded patience I did not think I possessed.

There were days when I cried before a workout.

There were lots of days when I had to simply walk to conserve energy.

There were days when my “progress” looked like nothing more than keeping a promise to myself, even if the workout was slow, messy, interrupted, and far from impressive.

But I kept going.

I drank the water. I followed the plan. I read the pages. I moved my body twice a day. I took the picture, even when I hated taking it.

Especially when I hated taking it.

And slowly, something started to shift.

I remember walking outside one day with the boys. My baby was in the wrap, and my toddler was on his bike. My husband was working on our new fence.

We were talking about sports my son might start playing. My 6’2″, naturally athletic husband commented that he hoped our boys don’t learn any of my unhealthy habits. 

It stung.

After such a long season of putting my own health last, my husband had forgotten who I was when we meet. He saw only as I appeared to him now, undisciplined, weak, and unfit.

But inside, I knew I was something else entirely.

Because I have known myself for a long time.

I have known the Amanda who raised and trained horses for years. The Amanda who lifted weights. The Amanda who played rugby. The Amanda who did CrossFit. The Amanda who found running in different seasons of life. The Amanda who worked very physical jobs and did hard things long before anyone was watching.

That woman was not gone.

She was buried under exhaustion, pregnancy, postpartum recovery, stress, survival mode, and 80 extra pounds.

But she was still there.

I was still a woman with discipline, strength, and fire inside me.

The weight did not disappear overnight. My body did not magically become what it used to be. But I changed.

I became stronger.

I became more confident.

I became more patient.

I became more proud of myself.

Completing 75 Hard postpartum taught me that strength does not always look like six-pack abs or a perfect transformation photo.

Sometimes strength looks like lacing up your shoes when you really should be sleeping. 

Sometimes it looks like walking with a stroller while your toddler asks a hundred questions.

Sometimes it looks like choosing water when you want comfort food.

Sometimes it looks like reading ten pages with one eye open because you are exhausted.

Sometimes it looks like taking the picture even when you do not want proof of where you are starting.

Sometimes it looks like refusing to give up on yourself, even when you feel invisible.

I wish I could say the hardest part was the workouts, but it wasn’t.

The hardest part was doing something for myself during a season where everyone needed me.

The hardest part was fighting the voice in my head that said I had let myself go and maybe I was not coming back.

The hardest part was learning not to measure my worth through my husband’s reaction, the scale, or the size of my clothes.

I had grown two babies.

I had survived the fourth trimester.

I had carried 80 extra pounds and still showed up.

And then I completed 75 Hard.

So too the mom who feels overweight, overwhelmed, unattractive, resentful, exhausted, or forgotten: I see you.

You are allowed to want change and still love your body.

You are allowed to be grateful for motherhood and still miss the woman you used to be.

You are allowed to want your confidence back.

You are allowed to start small.

You are allowed to do hard things, even if your hard looks different from someone else’s.

But please remember this: your body is not the enemy.

It is the body that carried your babies.

It is the body that gets up in the night.

It is the body that rocks, feeds, holds, cleans, carries, comforts, and keeps going.

Do not begin because someone made you feel unworthy.

Begin because you are worthy already.

I started 75 Hard six weeks postpartum after gaining 80 pounds, with a newborn, a toddler, a hurting marriage, and almost no confidence.

And I finished.

Not as a punishment.

As a promise.

This blog is here to commemorate the journey, document the next one, and hopefully offer insight, honesty, and encouragement to any mama who needs it along the way.

So here’s to 75 Hard.

And beyond.