By: Hannah Watson
As I write this I’m sitting in my rocking chair, the weight of my daughter’s cheek resting on my shoulder. In these quiet moments I often find myself wondering who she is going to grow up to be. Will she still love to watch the light and shadows of the sun coming through the trees when she’s older? When will she stop cackling with delight when she sees a pinecone? I don’t care if she grows up to be a climber. I hope that nature continues to nourish her and I hope she finds something that grounds her the way climbing grounds me.
This last year has been one of radical transformation. A year ago I was climbing in the Emeralds, trying to recover physically and psychologically from a trad fall in Joshua Tree (J Tree) a few months before. I didn’t know it yet, but I was four weeks pregnant.
When I fell in J Tree I did what I usually do. I pushed through it and tried to convince myself that the pain wasn’t too much, that I was fine, that I just needed to try harder. I pushed and pushed until suddenly climbing wasn’t fun anymore. When I saw myself falling out of love with this movement that brought me so much joy, I shifted my approach. I climbed with women again, and set my only goal as having as much fun as possible in a session. I climbed four grades below my max. I did fall practice because it felt good. And slowly but surely, the fear and weight of it all started to lift.
When I found out I was pregnant, everything shifted again. I had already separated from her father, so I was managing the transition solo. But the truth is, I was never alone. My climbing partners in the Women’s Lead Club (WLC) supported my drive to keep climbing. I felt strong enough to manage my fear and kept trying hard. When people at work told me not to lift anything heavy, I chuckled to myself because I was still doing back squats in my morning workout and climbing outside whenever I could. As my belly grew I thought about all the magical places I was sharing with my daughter—a thin roof on Eichorn, a small ledge on Cardinal Pinnacle, a delicate stem at the Leap. At some point I stopped leading, the fatigue mounted, and trying hard felt less important than enjoying the way the autumn sun lit up the rock. Climbing was fun again in all its forms—hard or easy, in the Eastern Sierra or inside on any given Tuesday—because I had a wonderful community, because I loved the movement, and because I loved showing the baby in my belly that we are capable of much more than we might think.
Birth was fast and furious. Just when I thought I couldn’t do it anymore, I pushed into the intensity and before I knew it her wiggly body was in my arms. I collapsed into relief and joy.
What followed was much harder. I felt dissociated and my body was no longer my own. I was lightheaded when I walked around the block. Slowly but surely (and with lots of attention to my pelvic floor) my body started to heal. I made it up Taylor Mountain. I went back to the gym. The first few months all I could think about was my baby, even though she was squirming or sleeping in the bassinet next to me. I wondered if I would ever feel like myself again.
They call this period matrescence—the process of becoming a mother. The truth is, I’m not exactly sure who I am now. I know I am Zoe’s mom. I know I am still a climber, but now a climber who balances time on the hangboard with the embrace of my baby breastfeeding. Soon, I am going to try to climb outside for the first time since she was born. I am more nervous about how much she hates her car seat than what I will be able to climb. If I can show her the joy of the mountains and I can touch a rock, it will all be worth it.
So who is my daughter going to grow up to be? If I have a wish for her, I hope she grows up to marvel at the natural world. I hope she has a community of strong women to support her. And I hope she finds something as grounding and challenging and joyful as climbing is for me.
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