Once upon a time, I was exempt…

We're gearing up to launch POP Up Pro within the next few weeks and we cannot tell you how excited we are! In anticipation, we want to tell you about more about why we created POP Up Pro. Here's a message from Haley about what she used to believe about POP, and how her views have changed over the last few years.

Once upon a time, I was exempt. 

I was exempt from pelvic organ prolapse. Prolapse didn't happen to me, it happened to other people. Prolapse wasn't something I needed to worry about; I was strong and resilient. Prolapse wasn't a commonly experienced phenomenon; prolapse was a rare occurrence that happened to people who were older, had connective tissue disorders, had twenty kids, didn't do the right things. Prolapse was devastating, a worst-case-scenario condition. Prolapse wasn't something you managed, it was something that managed you. 

And then, one day, I wasn't exempt anymore. 

In truth, :::spoiler alert::: I had never been exempt. 

In 2015, I was working as a perinatal exercise specialist. My entire client base was pregnant, newly postpartum, trying to conceive. I had acquired several perinatal exercise certifications. I was well-versed in absolute and relative contraindications to training during pregnancy; I could confidently assess for diastasis recti abdominis; I effortlessly modified for clients experiencing pregnancy-related pelvic girdle pain; I spoke with clients about the different degrees of perineal lacerations and the stages of wound healing that followed. 

But I knew very little about prolapse. 

At the time, information on managing or exercising with prolapse was - to put it generously - scarce. When I would train individuals who disclosed they were managing POP, my ability to program and problem solve dissolved. The confidence I'd earned through over a decade of experience halted like a deer frozen in the middle of the highway, eyes met with the glare of impending headlights. 

I was absolutely terrified to work with people with pelvic organ prolapse. 

You can imagine the terror I felt when I was diagnosed with pelvic organ prolapse.

Prior to a diagnosis of pelvic organ prolapse, I believed I was made invincible through movement. Strength training helped fill in the gaps of an identity that I had fervently attempted to starve through a decade of eating disorders. Exercise helped me connect with my evolving body during pregnancy, earning me self-appointed badges of honor.  Time in the gym taught me to take up space. Training fostered connection - with myself, and with others. 

Following the diagnosis of pelvic organ prolapse, I felt my perceived identity crumble into grains of sand that were swiftly siphoning out of my grasp. 

How could I have done this to myself? Why did I not appreciate what could happen? Why didn't anyone tell me? Would I have listened, if they had? How do I cope with working with a population that I wish I could erase myself from? How do I continue to demonstrate exercise, if I'm terrified to move? What will I do, now that I'll never be able to accomplish the physical feats that filled me with so much joy and strength? 

How could I be teaching others to safely navigate exercise during pregnancy and postpartum if I ended up like this? 

The early days following my POP diagnosis were spent Googling, frantically checking the status of the descent of my organs, avoiding any extraneous movement (including the complete shut-down of exercise), voraciously revisiting all of the decisions that I believed to have led me to this point, and checking out of my marriage, my role as a parent. I dove head-first, as I often do into new passions and fears, into the deep web of prolapse information. Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. 

A few months after my diagnosis, I attended a course taught by Antony Lo, a physio from Australia. In addition to the course, he was offering to meet with individuals that were interested in discussing their personal concerns more thoroughly. I scheduled a session. This session wasn't like the sessions I'd had before. It piqued my interest to see him conduct this interaction so differently than the physical therapy consultations I'd attended before. We moved a little, talked a lot, and he listened without judging my interests. I told him the type of exercise I liked to do and he didn't recoil in horror. He didn't reflexively recommend "swimming!" as soon as I told him I wanted to swing kettlebells. He was neither permissive nor dismissive. I didn't really know what to think - but I knew I was thinking, differently. 

I left the appointment with the recommendation to go to the gym, to begin to explore, to consider shifting my thinking and then my actions. I didn't receive a list of "acceptable" movements, or a prescription for a new way to breathe and stand and sit. I didn't leave with concrete answers or causal explanations. 

But I did leave with an inkling of hope. 

Hope turned into curiosity. Curiosity turned into trials. Trials turned into trust. Trust turned into the desire to talk. Talking turned into an evolving story told on social media. Social media led me to people who shared my experience. 

Those people led me to make this course. 

My story isn't unique. There are millions of people like me, up late at night, faces fraught with fear, lit by the bright screens of tireless Google searches and forum posts. People like me who met with well-meaning providers who told us not to walk down hills or pick up our children. People like me who sought care from someone who had never heard of what filled their consciousness every waking moment. 

And people like me need people like you. 

I have spent the last several years working with and hearing from thousands of people with POP. I have traded my frantic hours of Googling for (arguably-more-frantic) hours delving into research, collaborating with colleagues, educating myself on the factors that impact POP (and the myriad aspects of one's life that are impacted by it), and learning about the considerable management options that exist. 

My beliefs about POP have changed significantly. At diagnosis, I believed POP to be a worst-case scenario. 

As I learned more, I believed POP to be a manageable condition - only if you did the "right" things that had been heralded for years. 

My perspective then shifted to consider POP to be a minor nuisance that "shouldn't" impede a person's desires or abilities. 

And now, my beliefs about POP have evolved, yet again. 

I believe that POP is a manageable condition, but that "management" looks different for everyone. 

I believe that POP can be a consideration that impairs an individual's ability to perform and exist the way they wish they could, and that this can be a threat to one's quality of life. 

I believe that POP can challenge the well-established belief system to which so many of us have subscribed: that, if we work hard enough at doing the "right" thing, we'll be rewarded; that our value stems from the way our body functions; that we are invincible or fragile.

I believe that advocacy for POP is a huge responsibility and that no single experience, including/especially mine, can be used as an example for all. 

I believe that the most important consideration in POP management is not the pelvic floor, but the person with the pelvic floor. 

I hope this course challenges you. I hope it confuses you. I hope it affirms you. I hope it helps you feel supported. I hope it opens up possibilities. I hope it encourages you to connect. I hope it gives you confidence in the chaos. I hope it exceeds your expectations. I hope it brings you even 1% of the satisfaction (ideally, more!) it has given me to help create it.