Who Am I When I Can’t Train the Way I Always Have?

When people ask me what it was like finding out I was pregnant for the first time, they often expect one simple answer.

The truth is, it was one of the happiest moments of my life and one of the most confusing.
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Tom and I have been trying to have a baby for over two years. Every month brought hope, followed by disappointment. Eventually, I stopped letting my life revolve around ovulation tests, pregnancy apps, and the constant “what if?” Instead, I poured my energy into something I could control: training.
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For the next nine months, I trained harder than I ever had before. Cycling became my focus. I was getting stronger, fitter, and faster, and I genuinely felt like I was in the best shape of my life. For the first time, I was excited to see what I could achieve as an athlete.
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Then I saw those two lines.
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After trying for so long, the overwhelming feeling was happiness. We had almost made peace with the possibility that becoming parents might never happen, so finding out I was pregnant felt like a dream.
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But there was another emotion that I wasn’t expecting.
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A small part of me was sad.
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Not because I wasn’t grateful, I absolutely was, but because I knew that the racing season I had imagined was about to change completely. I had worked so hard to reach this level of fitness, and I couldn’t help wondering what I might have achieved if I had been able to keep going.
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For a while, I felt guilty for even thinking about that. How could I be so happy to finally be pregnant while also mourning the season I wasn’t going to have?
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Eventually, I realised something important.
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Both feelings could exist at the same time.
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Being grateful for my pregnancy didn’t mean I had to ignore the loss I was experiencing as an athlete. I wasn’t choosing one dream over another; I was simply pressing pause on one to embrace the other.
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I reminded myself that cycling would still be there after pregnancy. There would be plenty of opportunities to race again. And maybe, once my baby arrived, my priorities would change completely. I didn’t know yet, and that was okay.
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The first trimester brought another challenge I wasn’t prepared for.
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From around week seven until week thirteen, my energy disappeared.
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As athletes, we’re taught to push through discomfort. We pride ourselves on discipline, consistency, and showing up even when motivation is low. For years, that mindset had served me well.
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Training wasn’t just exercise; it had become part of my identity. It was how I processed stress, managed my emotions, and stayed grounded. If too many days passed without moving my body, I started feeling unlike myself. I became irritable, less productive, and mentally unsettled. I even caught myself feeling lazy, despite knowing my body was working incredibly hard growing a baby.
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Learning to listen instead of pushing was one of the hardest lessons of my pregnancy.
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On days when I had energy, I trained. On days when I didn’t, I rested without trying to “make up” for it later. That sounds simple, but for someone whose instinct was always to do more, it required a complete shift in mindset.
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Looking back now, I don’t think I was losing my identity.
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I think I was learning that my identity had become too closely tied to my performance.

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Pregnancy forced me to ask a difficult question: Who am I when I can’t train the way I always have?
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It wasn’t an easy question to answer, but it was one of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned, not just as an athlete, but as a person.
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Because eventually I realised that I wasn’t defined by my FTP, my race results, or the hours I trained each week.
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I was still an athlete.

I was just becoming something else too.

And that didn’t make me less of either.
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Once Izzy was born, I realised something.

My love for cycling hadn't disappeared.

I still wanted to race. I still wanted to see how good I could become. That dream I had put on hold during pregnancy was still very much alive.

What had changed wasn't my motivation; it was my priority.
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Balancing being a mum, running a business, and training wasn't difficult just because of the physical demands. Emotionally, it was much harder than I expected.
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Every hour I spent training or working was an hour I wasn't watching my daughter grow up.
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That feeling took time to navigate.
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I quickly realised I couldn't train the way I used to. Not because my body couldn't handle it, but because I didn't want to sacrifice too much time with my family. After a lot of trials and errors, I found my sweet spot: around 8–10 hours of training each week.
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Most of those sessions happened during nap times. That way I could still pursue my own goals without feeling like I was constantly choosing my bike over my daughter.
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Breastfeeding added another layer of complexity.
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For the first six to eight months, Izzy depended almost entirely on me. Planning rides around feeds, pumping, and making sure she had enough milk often meant that a two-hour ride became a three or four-hour commitment. Training itself wasn't always the hardest part; it was everything around it.
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Once I stopped breastfeeding after a year, something shifted.
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I suddenly had a few extra hours each week. My appetite became easier to manage, my body composition gradually returned to where it had been before pregnancy, and training started to feel... normal again.
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Actually, better than normal.
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To my surprise, I wasn't just getting back to where I'd been before pregnancy; I was surpassing it.
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I was producing better numbers on the bike, feeling stronger than ever, and genuinely believed my best years as an athlete were still ahead of me.
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Then, almost overnight, everything changed again.

My recovery metrics stopped making sense.
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I felt fantastic, but my wearable was telling a different story. My resting heart rate climbed. My HRV dropped dramatically. At first, I assumed I was coming down with a virus. Normally, a couple of easier days would bring everything back to normal.
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This time, nothing changed.
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No matter how much I rested, my HRV stayed low and my resting heart rate remained elevated.
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There had only ever been one time I'd seen this pattern before.
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When I was pregnant.
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A few days later, I took a pregnancy test.
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Positive.
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Here we go again.
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This time, though, everything felt different.
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I wasn't saying goodbye to the athlete I'd worked so hard to become.
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I knew she would still be there waiting for me.

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About InnerFight

InnerFight is a premier fitness and endurance coaching company based in Dubai. Whether you’re a busy professional seeking peak performance or an athlete pursuing ambitious dreams, InnerFight offers a supportive community where hard work, honesty, and simplicity drive extraordinary results.

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