There was a time I believed my body was the problem. Too big. Too soft. Too different from what I was told it should be. I treated it like something to fix, to battle, to hide. But when I really started listening—when I stopped trying to punish it into submission—I saw something else. I saw a body that never gave up on me.
Through every heartbreak, it kept breathing. Through sleepless nights and long, aching days, it carried me. It learned how to survive grief, adapt to stress, recover from illness, even when I gave it nothing but criticism. Every stretch mark, every roll, every scar—these weren’t signs of failure. They were reminders of how hard my body has worked to protect me, to heal, to keep going.
This body has been my companion in every memory—walking into new beginnings, holding children close, dancing in my kitchen, crying on bathroom floors. It’s never been the enemy. It’s been the vessel of my becoming.
So I’ve stopped asking it to shrink. I’ve stopped demanding it look like someone else’s idea of worth. I honour it now. Feed it. Rest it. Move it not to punish, but to celebrate. I thank it, out loud, for sticking with me when I didn’t know how to be kind to it.
This body is mine. Not a project. Not a problem. An ally. Always.