As someone who strength-trained, ellipticised, and stair-climbed her way through pregnancy, I knew I’d be itching to hit the gym as soon as my OB gave me the post-delivery go-ahead. Now to be clear, I wasn’t trying to go into labour with a visible six-pack or anything (though I have no problem with uber-fit pregnant people. You do you.), but I am someone who lives for the gratifying feeling of peeling a sweat-soaked sports bra over her head after a hard workout. And my desire to return to my regularly scheduled fitness program had little to do with “baby weight” or “getting my body back” or any of those other annoying-AF, problematic, pressure-ridden ideas, and almost everything to do with the exquisite stress relief I feel from working out. Plus, it gave me a chance to hand the baby over to my husband (or, with Baby #2, the mail carrier, the InstaCart delivery person, or whoever happened to be around) and enjoy some spit-up-free alone time.