I found out I had gestational diabetes at 27 weeks, sitting in my OB’s parking lot with a half-eaten granola bar in the cup holder, feeling like I’d somehow already messed this up. The nurse had called it in — she was kind about it, but “gestational diabetes” still landed like a gut punch. I
I was thirty-nine, sitting in a paper gown that didn’t quite close in the back, when the nurse looked at my chart and said, “Okay, so you’re one of our advanced maternal age patients.” I remember thinking, advanced? I still had a booster seat in my car and a toddler who called me “Mama-Mama” for
Six weeks pregnant, nobody told, standing in the middle of a WOD trying to decide if I should scale the box jumps or just quietly skip them and hope nobody noticed. That was me, staring at a whiteboard full of thrusters and pull-ups, doing math I had no training for. My coach thought I was
