Today was my first day back at work. Only a few hours, since we weren’t open all day because of the long weekend. I thought a short shift would be fine, my dumbass brain figured, “It’s only a few hours, how bad could it be?”
Turns out… rough. Really rough.
Wearing jeans again feels like punishment. Sitting, moving, even just existing in them had me wincing more times than I’d like to admit. Every stretch of fabric pressed against healing wounds, every step was a reminder that my body isn’t ready to bounce back just yet.
But here’s the thing: even with the pain, it still felt good to be back. To be out of the house. To feel a little bit like myself again, even if only in pieces.
I’ll be honest… it’s harder than I anticipated. Recovery has this way of humbling you, reminding you that healing takes time whether you like it or not. Today was proof of that. But it was also proof that I’m slowly, stubbornly making my way back.
One step, one painful pair of jeans at a time.
The War Inside My Womb 
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