Everyone talks about bouncing back.
No one talks about what it really takes to return to the air after childbirth. Physically, emotionally, and mentally. This is my story: a raw, honest look at postpartum recovery as an aerialist, a mother, and a woman trying to find her way back to herself.
Pregnancy in a Pandemic & Learning to Surrender
I found out I was pregnant with my daughter in 2021, while COVID was still hitting hard. There was excitement, but also fear. The world felt uncertain. I taught my last aerial class at five months pregnant, still able to get off the ground, demo basic shapes, and hold space for my students. But I started noticing more pressure, more fatigue, and limitations that were not just about strength. I had to listen closely to my body. If something hurt more than it usually did, I backed off. I avoided compressions around my stomach and pelvis.
I kept teaching as long as I could, even having a student demo for me when needed. That part did not hurt my pride, it felt right to lead from a place of safety.
Letting go wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. Once I stepped back, I missed being in the air immediately. But that pause gave me a deeper love for aerial. It made me respect the intricacies of my body and the bond I was forming with my baby. I stayed connected by stretching and doing small movements, but even foot locks became a challenge. All that extra weight made everything harder.
Pregnancy didn’t take aerial away from me. it reminded me how deeply it was woven into who I am.
Then, just after my due date, my water broke. A long, painful 27 hours later, I delivered my daughter; Monitored closely, exhausted, and forever changed. I had torn in four places during her entrance to this world. Healing felt like someone had surgically attached a new, swollen body part between my legs. Sitting was excruciating. I lived in a fog of witch hazel pads, ice packs, and inflammation.
The Shock of Postpartum
Then came day three…the morning my milk came in.
They tell you it will hurt, but they never tell you how much. My breasts grew to five times their original size, hard as rocks. The engorgement was unbearable. My chest felt so tight I could barely lift my arms, and my mother had to help me get dressed that morning.
I wanted to nourish my daughter with everything I had. That was supposed to be the beautiful part. The bonding, the miracle, the mother-and-baby connection everyone talks about. But in those first weeks, it didn’t feel like a miracle. It felt like a full-time responsibility I couldn’t take a break from.
“Every feeding felt like both love and exhaustion tangled together.”
I worried constantly. Was she eating enough, am I switching sides, is she getting full? The leaking, the pressure, the sleepless nights. Every feeding felt like both love and exhaustion tangled together.
I loved that she needed me so completely, but I also longed for a moment to just breathe. To not be needed for a few minutes. To simply exist in my own body again.
Postpartum Low Points
My postpartum depression didn’t hit right away. It crept in slowly after my two-week follow-up appointment. I sat there, exhausted but hopeful, only to hear that my daughter hadn’t gained back her birth weight. Two weeks of waking up every two hours to feed her, and it still wasn’t enough. The doctor told me to keep going for another two weeks.
It broke me.
I left the office feeling like I had failed my baby. My body had already carried her, birthed her, and was now supposed to feed her, and somehow, I still wasn’t doing enough.
I was tired down to my bones. I love my sleep. I need my sleep. And now I was being told I couldn’t have it. For another two weeks.
My husband, trying to lift my spirits, asked if I wanted ice cream. I said, “yes, Dairy Queen, please”. Something simple. Something sweet to make the news sting a little less.
We stopped at the grocery store first. I stayed in the car with our newborn while he ran in. That’s when I saw a family of four sitting on the curb. The dad was playing an accordion. The mom held a sign asking for groceries.
I remember staring at them, realizing how desperate things must have been for them to sit there asking for food. Here I was, crushed by exhaustion and self-pity, wanting ice cream to take the edge off my fatigue, while this family couldn’t even have a meal. My heart sank. I felt guilty, humbled, and small all at once.
We forgot to stop at Dairy Queen. When we got home and my husband asked if I still wanted it, I said no. I couldn’t do it. I laid on the couch and cried for hours while my husband cared for our daughter.
That’s when the depression hit me in full force. The guilt. The exhaustion. The loss of control.
I felt trapped, like my body had gone from baby-making factory to milk-making factory all while trying to heal and be present. My worth felt tied to what I could produce. First, a baby. Now, milk. It wasn’t about strength or creativity or movement anymore. It was about output. I was still me, but every part of me was being used for someone else’s survival.
Everything revolved around her feedings. I was at the mercy of a clock that didn’t care if I was hungry, sore, or human. My body was doing incredible things, but I couldn’t feel proud of it yet. I just felt… used up.
I love being independent, but there’s a difference between choosing to give your energy and being required to. I didn’t have a choice anymore. My baby’s life depended on me, and that weight was crushing. I loved her with everything I had, but I also missed the version of me who could just step away for a moment.
I wasn’t living. I was surviving.
The Second Delivery
When I got pregnant again, I thought I knew what to expect. I didn’t.
My son’s labor lasted about twelve hours total, but the last part was life changing. I went from eight centimeters dilated to fully dilated and holding him in my arms, all within just ten minutes. There was no epidural. I felt everything. Every surge, every tear. It was fast and brutal and beautiful all at once. I tore in three places. The pain was intense, primal, and unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
Right after giving birth, the nurse told me to try walking to the bathroom. I made it to the toilet but started feeling nauseous. I told her I didn’t feel good, and she suggested we quickly head back to bed. I stood up to wash my hands, and the world went dark. I passed out. The nurse caught me, but my cheek still hit the counter. That was my first postpartum walk.
Recovery & Rediscovery
Both recoveries were hard in different ways. After my daughter, I lost so much blood that I started shivering uncontrollably. My body was cold, weak, and in shock. This was a clear reminder that even strength has limits. After my son, it was the sudden blackout and the fall against the counter. Both experiences showed me how quickly control can disappear, how fragile healing really is. It reminded me that my body can only handle so much, and surprises can happen at any time.
Four months after my second delivery, I started training again, if you can even call it that. Light stretching, breath work, isometric holds. Even one single push-up felt like a full workout. My grip was gone. My abs were gone. My strength, the thing that made me feel like me, was gone.
At first, the wins were tiny. Holding a plank for ten seconds. Lifting my legs an inch higher. Reaching for the fabric and feeling my hands closed around it without slipping. Each of those moments reminded me that my body was still in there somewhere, waiting to come back online.
Some days, I didn’t have the energy. I’d look at the fabric and just sigh, feeling the weight of motherhood sitting right on my chest. But other days, I surprised myself. I climbed a couple feet higher. I held a pose a few seconds longer. Slowly, I started remembering who I was before the diapers and sleepless nights — and who I was becoming because of them.
Where I Am Now
A year later, after all the tears, slow training sessions, and constant balancing acts, I finally landed a dream role. Not just a post-pregnancy dream, but a career dream. Since moving to Florida, I’d always wanted to perform in a major theme park show. That’s been on my bucket list since day one.
“A year later, I didn’t just return to the air — I reclaimed it.”
And now, I am Celeste, the Quidditch Sorceress of the Sky, performing in the new Universal EPIC Universe– The Wizarding World of Harry Potter™ – Ministry of Magic™, in the show “Le Cirque Arcanus”.
Rehearsals were fast-paced and mentally intense, especially balancing child care, exhaustion, and mom brain. But every time I step onto that broom, I feel the magic of it all. I survived pregnancy, birth, depression, and two recoveries. I am here. I am flying again.
And none of it would have been possible without my husband. Truly. He has been my anchor through every contraction, every meltdown, every late-night feeding, every rehearsal. He is the reason I can still chase my dreams while raising our babies. He lifts me up when I can’t lift myself. I wouldn’t be doing any of this without him.
I also have an incredible support system that holds me up when I’m barely standing. They remind me to eat, take the kids when I need a breather, cheer when I hit a goal, and love me when I’m too tired to love myself. They’re my safety net, the reason I can keep climbing when it would be easier to let go.
My body is still catching up, and my brain is sharper from experience, but let’s be real — the mom brain is strong. Half the time, I forget why I walked into a room, but my brain is still running full routines of schedules, meals, naps, and who needs me next.
Motherhood didn’t take away who I was. It rebuilt me.
It made me tougher, wiser, and more grateful for every climb, every bruise, every breath.
I don’t bounce back anymore. I rise, even if it’s slow.
Till next time,
Daniela
Mastering Meaningful Movements with OT Aerialist
OT Aerialist 
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