Quench'd: Weekly stories for cyclists
May 9th, 2026 | by Caroline Weaver
Caroline Weaver is a mother, artist, children’s book illustrator, and former Olympic-trial athlete. For this week’s Quench’d story, Caroline details the complex emotions she faced with motherhood that often go unspoken about. Her writing is honest, vulnerable and critical in a way many mothers may understand. We hope you enjoy and send to someone in your life this might resonate with.
Motherhood in the media—I know you’ve seen it: hair styled in beachy waves, flowing prairie dresses, effortless breastfeeding. The mother gazes adoringly at a peacefully sleeping child. She is radiant holding her baby aloft against the softly striped wallpaper of a pristine nursery. It may be the hardest job she’ll ever have, but can it really be considered work if she loves every minute of it? She smiles. Baby smiles. Everyone smiles.
When I see these images, all I can think is, “Give. Me. A. Break.”
Caroline Weaver is a mother, artist, children’s book illustrator, and former Olympic-trial athlete. For this week’s Quench’d story, Caroline details the complex emotions she faced with motherhood that often go unspoken about. Her writing is honest, vulnerable and critical in a way many mothers may understand. We hope you enjoy and send to someone in your life this might resonate with.
Motherhood in the media—I know you’ve seen it: hair styled in beachy waves, flowing prairie dresses, effortless breastfeeding. The mother gazes adoringly at a peacefully sleeping child. She is radiant holding her baby aloft against the softly striped wallpaper of a pristine nursery. It may be the hardest job she’ll ever have, but can it really be considered work if she loves every minute of it? She smiles. Baby smiles. Everyone smiles.
When I see these images, all I can think is, “Give. Me. A. Break.”
Pictured above: 1. Bike path shakeout 24 hours before I went into labor 2. Vermont winters are LONG. Friend walks make it tolerable.
Pictured above: 1. Bike path shakeout 24 hours before I went into labor 2. Vermont winters are LONG. Friend walks make it tolerable.
As I approached motherhood I grew skeptical of this “ease and satisfaction” narrative, but when I had my first child I was forced to reconcile the years of marketing fictions I’d passively absorbed with the bloodier, sweatier, tear-streaked, heavy metal reality of true motherhood. The discrepancy was, at best, comical—and at worst, damaging. I felt extreme tension between my own parenting desires and the cultural portrayal of mother as saintly martyr.
My path to motherhood was characterized by years of losses, procedures, unlucky complications, and medical interventions. They were dark and lonely times and nothing like the promise I’d been sold. And so, with the pregnancy lie revealed, I knew—I knew—motherhood could not be the monostory our culture suggested. But somehow, the trials of pregnancy made me feel more entitled to serene motherhood. When I finally held my son in my arms, I was awash in relief; I had weathered the storm, surely smooth waters would follow.
Two years later, I am still gathering up the atomized shards of myself and attempting to assemble them into something externally similar yet molecularly altered: A mother.
As I approached motherhood I grew skeptical of this “ease and satisfaction” narrative, but when I had my first child I was forced to reconcile the years of marketing fictions I’d passively absorbed with the bloodier, sweatier, tear-streaked, heavy metal reality of true motherhood. The discrepancy was, at best, comical—and at worst, damaging. I felt extreme tension between my own parenting desires and the cultural portrayal of mother as saintly martyr.
My path to motherhood was characterized by years of losses, procedures, unlucky complications, and medical interventions. They were dark and lonely times and nothing like the promise I’d been sold. And so, with the pregnancy lie revealed, I knew—I knew—motherhood could not be the monostory our culture suggested. But somehow, the trials of pregnancy made me feel more entitled to serene motherhood. When I finally held my son in my arms, I was awash in relief; I had weathered the storm, surely smooth waters would follow.
Two years later, I am still gathering up the atomized shards of myself and attempting to assemble them into something externally similar yet molecularly altered: A mother.
“W. is two weeks old today. He is still sleeping in two hour blocks. I can’t handle the sleep deprivation anymore.”
“W. is three weeks old. He’s still not sleeping more than two hours at a time. I’m having extremely dark, negative thoughts. Today I looked at him and thought, ‘would I even miss you if you were gone?’ Afterwards I cried and couldn’t put him down.”
“W. is five weeks old. He’s throwing up more after feeds. He is still sleeping in two hour intervals overnight. I can’t get him to latch. He is inconsolable at night.”
“W. is six weeks old. I’m still having huge emotional swings. I love him, but I am so overwhelmed by his lack of progress with sleep. I’m pumping more and breastfeeding less.”
“W. is eight weeks old. I cried at the gym today when I arrived for my workout. I was so relieved to be out of the house. I didn’t want to go home. I’m struggling with breastfeeding and am doing nearly 100% bottles now.
“W. is two weeks old today. He is still sleeping in two hour blocks. I can’t handle the sleep deprivation anymore.”
“W. is three weeks old. He’s still not sleeping more than two hours at a time. I’m having extremely dark, negative thoughts. Today I looked at him and thought, ‘would I even miss you if you were gone?’ Afterwards I cried and couldn’t put him down.”
“W. is five weeks old. He’s throwing up more after feeds. He is still sleeping in two hour intervals overnight. I can’t get him to latch. He is inconsolable at night.”
“W. is six weeks old. I’m still having huge emotional swings. I love him, but I am so overwhelmed by his lack of progress with sleep. I’m pumping more and breastfeeding less.”
“W. is eight weeks old. I cried at the gym today when I arrived for my workout. I was so relieved to be out of the house. I didn’t want to go home. I’m struggling with breastfeeding and am doing nearly 100% bottles now.
Pictured above: Mother's Day 2024.
Pictured above: Mother's Day 2024.
I am still haunted by the journal entry from week three of my son’s life. And also, I know now that these feelings are entirely common. In hindsight I was lucky—my postpartum recovery was typical and free from the range of health disorders that (according to the Policy Center for Maternal Mental Health) burden at least 20% of women in the U.S. But in the moment I felt entirely betrayed. This is motherhood? Where is the satisfaction? The fulfillment? The peace? I felt like a tea kettle set to just below boil. Constantly rising pressure, in desperate need of a release valve.
I am still haunted by the journal entry from week three of my son’s life. And also, I know now that these feelings are entirely common. In hindsight I was lucky—my postpartum recovery was typical and free from the range of health disorders that (according to the Policy Center for Maternal Mental Health) burden at least 20% of women in the U.S. But in the moment I felt entirely betrayed. This is motherhood? Where is the satisfaction? The fulfillment? The peace? I felt like a tea kettle set to just below boil. Constantly rising pressure, in desperate need of a release valve.
With time, the pressure incrementally decreased. My son eventually learned to sleep, our part-time childcare began. I devoured books on honest motherhood, seeking validation for the transition I now know to be called “matrescence.” I physically healed, I crept back towards the type of fitness that is inherent to my wellbeing. The boiling over tension of the early weeks eased, but I felt out of touch with the hard charging version of myself from before. I was also deeply lonely. That’s one thing our media sells honestly about motherhood—those images of mom alone with baby are accurate. Craving more interaction, I started seeking out conversations with strangers in coffee shops and grocery stores. When the inevitable “enjoy every minute” mandates were bestowed, I regretted speaking at all.
With time, the pressure incrementally decreased. My son eventually learned to sleep, our part-time childcare began. I devoured books on honest motherhood, seeking validation for the transition I now know to be called “matrescence.” I physically healed, I crept back towards the type of fitness that is inherent to my wellbeing. The boiling over tension of the early weeks eased, but I felt out of touch with the hard charging version of myself from before. I was also deeply lonely. That’s one thing our media sells honestly about motherhood—those images of mom alone with baby are accurate. Craving more interaction, I started seeking out conversations with strangers in coffee shops and grocery stores. When the inevitable “enjoy every minute” mandates were bestowed, I regretted speaking at all.
Pictured above: Evening bike rides as a family.
Pictured above: Evening bike rides as a family.
Up until this point I have neglected to mention the importance of athletics to my identity. This feels rather fitting given the way fitness fights for space in daily life now. I am a former Olympic-trial level swimmer turned marathoner, Ironman athlete, and ultra-adventure gravel rider. Endurance athletics and punishing workouts are central to how I understand myself. In the years since retiring from swimming I have eschewed time goals and gravitated towards suffer-fest activities that emphasize mental toughness. I’m a professional leisure athlete who replenishes by pushing my body hard and communing with nature. This identity was severely challenged during my difficult pregnancy with my son and I was desperate to return to it post-birth. I knew early that motherhood alone was not going to sustain my sense of self-worth, but I lacked a roadmap for how to reconcile the two people I had now become: Caroline the person and Caroline the mother.
Up until this point I have neglected to mention the importance of athletics to my identity. This feels rather fitting given the way fitness fights for space in daily life now. I am a former Olympic-trial level swimmer turned marathoner, Ironman athlete, and ultra-adventure gravel rider. Endurance athletics and punishing workouts are central to how I understand myself. In the years since retiring from swimming I have eschewed time goals and gravitated towards suffer-fest activities that emphasize mental toughness. I’m a professional leisure athlete who replenishes by pushing my body hard and communing with nature. This identity was severely challenged during my difficult pregnancy with my son and I was desperate to return to it post-birth. I knew early that motherhood alone was not going to sustain my sense of self-worth, but I lacked a roadmap for how to reconcile the two people I had now become: Caroline the person and Caroline the mother.
Fortunately, I live in a community rich with examples of athletic women living more balanced motherhood narratives. As I exited the “fourth trimester” (how I wish I had known of this concept at the time!) I both leaned into and looked for more friendships with mom-athletes who modeled parenting in a way that looked not only palatable, but inspiring. My affectionately named “Gravel Gals” training group has, over the years, become a “Gravel Moms” group. It took becoming a mother myself to fully appreciate how these women were working overtime to prioritize their wellbeing amidst demanding parenting and professional responsibilities. They were a continual source of support and advice as I worked to stitch together the new dueling identities of self and mother. I also made new friendships through baby groups and sheer force of will (those who know me can attest to my unique style of “aggressive friendship”). I clung to these women like a life raft and together they towed me, some quite literally (on long rides), from the depths of overwhelm.
These women provided meals, company, commiseration, and concrete examples for how to keep motherhood from eclipsing self. They signed up for races knowing they would need to feed a child at the aid stations. They had recommendations for which breast pumps fit in a bike bag. They didn’t bat an eye at hiring a sitter for a long ride and they continued to pursue big athletic goals. They designed routes with intentional pump breaks. They provided step-by-step text instructions for singlehandedly getting baby from the Nordic Center parking lot to the ski chariot in 5-degree weather. Then they showed up for the first attempt to make sure it was a success. They carried screaming kids up mountains and flexed nap times. They showed me that it would be much (much) harder, but that it could be done. Raising a child may take a village, but so does maintaining the wellbeing of a mother.
Fortunately, I live in a community rich with examples of athletic women living more balanced motherhood narratives. As I exited the “fourth trimester” (how I wish I had known of this concept at the time!) I both leaned into and looked for more friendships with mom-athletes who modeled parenting in a way that looked not only palatable, but inspiring. My affectionately named “Gravel Gals” training group has, over the years, become a “Gravel Moms” group. It took becoming a mother myself to fully appreciate how these women were working overtime to prioritize their wellbeing amidst demanding parenting and professional responsibilities. They were a continual source of support and advice as I worked to stitch together the new dueling identities of self and mother. I also made new friendships through baby groups and sheer force of will (those who know me can attest to my unique style of “aggressive friendship”). I clung to these women like a life raft and together they towed me, some quite literally (on long rides), from the depths of overwhelm.
These women provided meals, company, commiseration, and concrete examples for how to keep motherhood from eclipsing self. They signed up for races knowing they would need to feed a child at the aid stations. They had recommendations for which breast pumps fit in a bike bag. They didn’t bat an eye at hiring a sitter for a long ride and they continued to pursue big athletic goals. They designed routes with intentional pump breaks. They provided step-by-step text instructions for singlehandedly getting baby from the Nordic Center parking lot to the ski chariot in 5-degree weather. Then they showed up for the first attempt to make sure it was a success. They carried screaming kids up mountains and flexed nap times. They showed me that it would be much (much) harder, but that it could be done. Raising a child may take a village, but so does maintaining the wellbeing of a mother.
Pictured above: 1. Towing my son up Whiteface Mountain in NY. I've done this ride every October for six years. Why stop? 2. My first 100 mile ride 6 months postpartum. My friend designed the route with a halfway stop at her house so I could pump. 3. Dawn Patrol hike up Camel's Hump. 4. My mom, the original model for squeezing in the workout no matter how little time you have
Pictured above: 1. Towing my son up Whiteface Mountain in NY. I've done this ride every October for six years. Why stop? 2. My first 100 mile ride 6 months postpartum. My friend designed the route with a halfway stop at her house so I could pump. 3. Dawn Patrol hike up Camel's Hump. 4. My mom, the original model for squeezing in the workout no matter how little time you have
When I am feeling more lighthearted about the act of reproduction I convince myself there must be a biological conspiracy at work. Children are a joy (at times) and parenthood is a profound(ly difficult) experience. But to enter motherhood with a full understanding of reality would be utter insanity. And so perhaps the collective “We” spins a false tale to preserve the level of naiveté required to blindly undertake the herculean feat. Let’s not be too honest about the tough bits lest we fail to propagate.
I know the reality to be more sinister. When we think back to our opening imagery—the effortless, fulfilled mother—the capitalist machine and our patriarchal culture are hard at work here.
When I am feeling more lighthearted about the act of reproduction I convince myself there must be a biological conspiracy at work. Children are a joy (at times) and parenthood is a profound(ly difficult) experience. But to enter motherhood with a full understanding of reality would be utter insanity. And so perhaps the collective “We” spins a false tale to preserve the level of naiveté required to blindly undertake the herculean feat. Let’s not be too honest about the tough bits lest we fail to propagate.
I know the reality to be more sinister. When we think back to our opening imagery—the effortless, fulfilled mother—the capitalist machine and our patriarchal culture are hard at work here.
Our culture promotes motherhood then does infuriatingly little to support the work. Motherhood is dirt-in-your-cassette-gritty. It is mind-numbingly boring and indescribably profound. It is perpetual frustration punctuated by moments of tenderness. It is interminable days and finite seasons. It is captivity and freedom, heartbreak and joy. Motherhood is contradiction after contradiction and cannot be captured by a single narrative. Our economic system wants you to believe these tensions are eased with $4,300 handwash-only cashmere baby carriers, but true relief comes from women who provide what our society fails to: honest and raw accounts of motherhood and the permission to parent in whatever way works best for you.
I am deeply grateful to the moms in my community who model motherhood as work and sacrifice, not martyrdom. As I continue down this motherhood path, I will not enjoy every moment, but I will cherish the moments that are enjoyable.
Our culture promotes motherhood then does infuriatingly little to support the work. Motherhood is dirt-in-your-cassette-gritty. It is mind-numbingly boring and indescribably profound. It is perpetual frustration punctuated by moments of tenderness. It is interminable days and finite seasons. It is captivity and freedom, heartbreak and joy. Motherhood is contradiction after contradiction and cannot be captured by a single narrative. Our economic system wants you to believe these tensions are eased with $4,300 handwash-only cashmere baby carriers, but true relief comes from women who provide what our society fails to: honest and raw accounts of motherhood and the permission to parent in whatever way works best for you.
I am deeply grateful to the moms in my community who model motherhood as work and sacrifice, not martyrdom. As I continue down this motherhood path, I will not enjoy every moment, but I will cherish the moments that are enjoyable.
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