Then the nurse calls my name.
I stand, smooth down my shirt out of habit, and follow her down the hallway. The appointment itself starts like every other one so far—blood pressure, weight, a few routine questions about symptoms. I answer automatically, the same way I do when clients ask how many reps they have left.
“Any dizziness?” she asks.
“Not really.”
“Headaches?”
“Sometimes,” I admit.
She gives me a small, knowing smile and makes a note on the tablet. A minute later, she wraps the cuff around my arm again and watches the numbers with a little more focus this time. “Hm.”
That is not a sound you want from a medical professional.
“What?”
“Your blood pressure is a little elevated,” she says carefully. “Nothing alarming, but we’ll have the doctor take a look.”
A little elevated.
I latch onto the phrase like it’s something manageable. I’m healthy. I work out for a living. I eat better than most people, current toast obsession aside.Elevatedis not a word that should apply to me.
The doctor comes in a few minutes later, chart in hand, and gives me a warm but slightly more serious smile than usual. “How have you been feeling?”
“Fine,” I say automatically. “A little nauseous. Tired. But I figured that’s normal.”
“It is,” she agrees. “But your blood pressure is higher than we’d like to see this early.”
I blink at her. “That doesn’t make sense.”
She sits on the stool across from me, calm and unbothered in a way that feels very intentional. “It actually does. Pregnancy can trigger something called gestational hypertension.”
“I’m in better shape than most of the population,” I point out, because apparently I’ve decided this is the hill I’m going to die on.
“And that’s great,” she says, completely unfazed. “But pregnancy changes how your body regulates everything. Blood pressure included. If you weren’t as healthy as you are, it would likely be worse by now.”
I stare at her for a second, trying to reconcile that with the version of my body I’ve spent years building and understanding. “So what does that mean?”
“It means we keep an eye on it. And make a few adjustments to reduce anything that could raise it further.”
“Like what?”
She gives me a look that already tells me I’m not going to like the answer. “High-intensity workouts. Heavy lifting. Anything that spikes your heart rate too aggressively.”
I let out a short laugh that isn’t funny at all. “That’s my job.”
“I understand that,” she says gently. “But right now, your priority has to be keeping both you and the baby safe.”
I lean back against the exam table, staring at the ceiling. “So what am I supposed to do? Sit still for the next six months?”
“Not at all,” she says. “You can still stay active. I’d recommend shifting toward lower-impact exercise—yoga, walking, mobility work, anything that keeps you moving without putting too much strain on your cardiovascular system.”
Yoga. I close my eyes for a second. “That’s… not exactly my brand.”
Her expression softens slightly. “Then maybe it’s time to expand your brand.”
I let out a long breath, the reality of what she’s saying settling over me in a slow, uncomfortable wave. She’s not wrong. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
