I recently rode my bike. Not only was it my first bike ride in two years but it was also my first attempt at exercise, period, since I?d become pregnant. I strongly felt that growing an entire person in my loins entitled me to a couple of cheat years from the treadmill.
It was a family outing. My husband effortlessly pushed our 11-month-old son in a sleek jogging stroller, the two of them the picture of wholesome, balanced post-baby life. Then there was me, chugging along a few metres behind them, wobbling unsteadily and sweating through my sportiest nursing top, my spiky tufts of hair regrowth poking out around my helmet and my knees as creaky as the gears on my purple lowrider.

I?ve never been what you?d call ?athletic??unless creating and consuming elaborate cheese plates is a sport, in which case I?m a medalled athlete. After years of battling body image insecurities and one early miscarriage, pregnancy was a welcome chance for me to enjoy my healthy, growing body. At first, I hadn?t cared much about getting my figure back after the birth of my son. But at 11 months postpartum, with my mat leave running out and my return to society imminent, I suddenly felt pressured to look like the type of person who could wear pants other than grocery store leggings?you know, if she wanted to. Plus, a year of saying ?Of course I want fries with that?I?m breastfeeding? was finally starting to take its toll. So I asked my husband to take my bike down from the ra...