It’s taken me a long time to come home to my body. Whoosh. Even writing that makes my heart drop.
It’s hard — so hard — to stop treating my body like a project. To stop apologizing for the parts that jiggle, or ache, or change. I just had to close my eyes for a moment to let that sink in. Because I mean it. It’s hard to stop seeing this beautiful, miraculous body as something to be fixed, managed, improved.
But this body has carried me. Through exhaustion and heartbreak and joy and hunger. Through dancing and doubt. It has walked me out of rooms I should never have been in. It has curled in grief and mourned the separation of spirit and form. It has stretched toward light. It has stayed with me for every win — every small and significant triumph. It has survived, even when I wasn’t sure I wanted it to.
And still, for years, I judged myself by how I looked in photos. By how much external validation I received. I compared myself to other, seemingly “perfect” bodies. I’ve had too many conversations in front of mirrors — debating how flat my stomach should be, how tight my clothes were, how I might shrink myself just enough to disappear in the right way. The weighing scale used to terrorize me. And the real shame? I let numbers and mirrors and strangers speak louder than the voice inside me that was simply saying, “Thank you.”
But I’m learning. Oh, the blessed gift of age. I’ve learned how fragile our bodies are, and how easily their gifts can be taken for granted. I’ve learned that this body is not for display. That my existence is not for consumption. As I’ve settled more into my heart, I’ve found myself settling into my skin, too.
I’ve learned to listen when I’m tired, and to rest without guilt. I’ve learned to feed myself like someone I love. I’ve learned to dress with joy, to wear my style with expression — and to say “screw the scrutiny.” I walk with gratitude now. I’ve made peace with movement and stillness alike. And I can never go back to the time when my body felt like a punishment.
What a joy to know now that this body is not an inconvenience. It owes no one — not even me — a before-and-after. I am not a warning sign. Not a billboard. I’m not here to prove anything with inches or numbers.
And this self — this wild, wondering, word-spinning self — she doesn’t need to be edited down to be worthy of love. She doesn’t need to be quieter, or neater, or thinner, or more productive. She just needs to be. To exist, and be seen, exactly as she is.
This body.
This self.
This moment.
All of it is worthy.