Dear Body

I sat in my therapist’s office, plucking feathers from her pillow.

“I don’t know,” I told her for what must’ve been the 10th time that session.

“What do you think your body needs to hear from you?” she asked again, this time somehow softer.

I stared at her feet, tears welling up in my eyes. I felt the heavy words sitting in my chest, expanding with every breath, begging to be freed from my tongue-tie.

“Why don’t you think about it? Take some time. Maybe write a letter?” she finally said.

This is that letter:

Dear Body,………………………………………………………………………………….4/22/20

I’ve spent the last 3 days searching for the perfect words to say to you. I’ve wondered what you need to hear, what the perfect sentiment may be. I’ve stressed over saying the right thing. But I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps there is no “right” thing to say here.

Maybe it starts with I’m sorry. I’ve hurt you, I’ve ignored you, I’ve tried to change and “fix” you. But I don’t remember the last time I actually heard what you had to say. I’m sorry for that.

I’m sorry for all the times I pushed you too hard, too far, too fast. I’m sorry for the things I’ve said and done and put you through. You didn’t deserve that. You still don’t. Even today, as I’ve rested and eaten and have felt this overwhelming urge to push, to run, to fight — I’m reminding myself you don’t deserve that. You deserve love and kindness and compassion. You always have.

If I could tell you one thing — and believe it — it would be YOU ARE GOOD. You’ve always been good.

And you’ve always shown up for me. Thank you for showing up. You always show up as if you’re meant to be here — and I shut you up and do everything I can to minimize you. And yet, you still show up, because that’s what life is about. I think you inherently know that, and you have shown up for me every single day of my life. I love that about you.

I wonder what it would be like to hear you again — or perhaps to hear you for the first time. I wonder what you’d say. I wonder what it would feel like. I wonder what you could teach me.

I can’t promise I will love everything about you, every second of every day. But what I can offer you is kindness. I can commit to approaching you with curiosity instead of judgment.

And perhaps one day we will progress to love instead of hate. But for today, kindness and curiosity will have to do.

Please know I want to show up for you, like you’ve shown up for me. Not just with the “good” parts of me — my happy, my gratitude, my fun — but also with my sad, my messy, my longing and my doubt. I want to show up with my everything. I think we both deserve that. I think we’re both allowed to take up that space.

We may not be there today, but we will get there — together. We will learn to trust each other again. And perhaps one day we will even be at peace with each other.

I’m holding hope for that day.

💛 M

As I read this letter today, I’m reminded that these words still hold true. Even here, even today, even for me, even in my struggle, even in my victory.

And I wonder — what might your body be longing to hear from you? What words are sitting in your chest, begging to be spoken?

Are they words of kindness or compassion or curiosity? Words of apology or forgiveness? Is it a treaty or agreement you’re willing to make with your body?

What words does your body desperately need to hear from you?

I invite you to write them, speak them, share them. Leave a comment below, send me an email, tag me on social media. Or simply write them in your journal, in your phone, on a piece of scratch paper or junk mail.

Your body is longing to hear from you. And longing to speak to you, too.

Consider this your invitation to engage — with yourself, with your body.

Is it uncomfortable? Probably. But oh, my friend, it is worth it.