For so long, I thought my body was something I had to fix. Like it was wrong until proven worthy—too soft, too big, too different. I’d stand in front of the mirror and zero in on every part that didn’t match what I’d been taught to admire. And somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing my body as mine. It became a project, a burden, a thing to manage or hide or punish.
But my body isn’t broken. It’s not a mistake. It’s a living, breathing part of nature.
I’m learning to see it that way now. The way the trees grow in all their crooked beauty. The way rivers curve and stretch in their own rhythm. The way animals rest, eat, stretch, survive—without shame. My body is no different. It’s doing its best, adapting, carrying me, holding memories I’ve lived through. It is not here to please the world’s impossible standards. It’s here to carry me. To be me.
I’ve stopped trying to make it smaller. I’ve stopped punishing it for being tired. I’ve started listening—to hunger, to pain, to tension, to joy. And in doing so, I’ve started coming home to myself. This body has held grief, carried babies, survived loss, laughed until it hurt. This body is not a problem. It’s proof that I’m still here.
I don’t need to “fix” what was never broken. I need to honour it. Care for it. Be kind to it. My body is nature, and nature doesn’t apologise for taking up space. Neither do I.