I don't know what you look like when you come home from church, but this is what I look like when I come home from mine. I'm a sweaty hot mess and, if everything went well, I have trouble with stairs and raising my arms above my head to wash my hair. So this morning, when I woke up and waited on pins and needles to hear from Tim if Fiona was going to be discharged today, I did what all the faithful do. I went to Church.

I've always been a gym-person in order to maintain my fit-ish lifestyle (I like to be fit but I also like to drink wine and eat food so….it's a fine balance) Add to that my genetic vanity and the gym is definitely the place for me! Plus going to the gym involves having a gym wardrobe, variety of shoes, etc.

I first got into fitness from a pure vanity angle. I was young, married and had no kids so had the precious resources of almost unlimited TIME and, while not unlimited, MONEY. So I decided to take up running and started signing up for races. I just decided I was gonna be a runner - it was trendy AF and I was like "okay, I'll do that!" I also went out and purchased any and all necessary running gear to which my husband then muttered "All the gear, and no idea…" only to be firmly rebuked by my "Dress for the job you want!" I strutted our for my first run in $500 worth of gear only to discover running is SUPER hard and was almost impossible for me to do for more than 2 consecutive minutes for the first month of my new 'hobby'. That said, I pursued it for a few reasons. First, I sure as shit wasn’t' going to admit my husband might have been right. Secondly, I felt pot-committed given the financial investment I had made in the gear, the race fees, etc. But most importantly, I persevered because I started to feel good running. I started to get in a cadence where my body knew what to do and my mind could wander - I solved work problems while I ran, I made lists and I generally had some quiet time to myself without noise or distractions.

Needless to say, once I had kids and I began to understand what REAL noise and distractions were, running continued to be an important part of my overall physical and mental health. I've always said that Running is, for me at least, the cheapest form of therapy out there. Still is.

When Fiona relapsed, the gym was a place for me to run and to run-to. Nights were often long and days were even longer. While we had amazing support from friends and family and were lucky enough to be able to escape from the hospital room for a day or an evening at a time, escaping home was sometimes more harm than good for me. The house was often empty and quiet and there was a very empty room at the top of the stairs - sometimes it was too much to manage. At the same time, I had little interest, energy or ability to be with other people - I didn't want to talk about my sad story or talk about my feelings or any other such shit. So I went to group fitness classes that kicked my ass so thoroughly that talking was not only unlikely it was often impossible. Breathing was usually my only priority and often required all my focus.

BodyAttack - a class that lives up to it's name - became my church. On Saturday mornings at 9am, I would drag myself from a sleepless night on an uncomfortable hospital bed or away from my very comfortable bed at home and would, for an hour, lose myself in the music and blindly follow the instructions being given. I would run and tuck-jump (often peeing a little bit…or a lot), I would burpee and do push-ups (on my knees) and generally feel like my heart was going to explode out of my chest. Over the course of the first few months of her relapse, this time of day and this group of people - and it takes a special and dedicated group of people to get up and subject themselves to this at 9AM on a Saturday - somehow became my tribe. It turned into a community who would quietly accept me to work out and leave when I couldn't handle anything else. These people went from being strangers to being a kind of community who would celebrate with me when things were going well and would cheer me on; a community who would share their energy when I didn't have any of my own; A community who would quietly accept a shake of the head when things were going pear-shaped and let me have my space.

I am not a 'religious' person. I don't subscribe to a specific doctrine or faith - but somehow I had stumbled into my church. It somehow just appeared around me when I needed it the most. The value of a faith is really in the community and the stability and the security it creates. It provides a bedrock that feels firm even when everything else is in question. I had always seen my friends and family as this for me and somehow, these people, these random , sweaty strangers had become part of that foundation.

Today I walked into my church and they did what they do best - they lifted me up and distracted me and made me work out so hard I almost barfed (and I definitely peed a bit) and gave me the energy - some of their energy - to be able to deal with whatever today brought.

And today brings Fiona home - just in the nick of time. She's cut it close before … but December 24th is the closest we've ever come. We have yet to have to spend a Christmas apart, not all under the same roof. This year will not be the year we break that streak.

So as we settle in to our Christmas celebrations here, I send all my good energy back out to you and those around you for the happiest of holidays filled with family and friends. And I hope you get to your church, wherever you go to fill up with energy and find solace and comfort, and I hope your welcome is as amazing as mine always is.

Maybe a bit less smelly, but just as warm.