What My Body Knows: A love letter to the vessel that has carried me through it all.

Dear Body,

You and I have been through a lifetime of chapters, haven’t we?

In my twenties, you carried the weight of new life three times over. You stretched and shifted, making room for tiny hearts to beat beneath my own. You endured hours of labor - natural in spirit, though softened by an epidural’s mercy. You nursed three babies, nourishing them with strength I didn’t yet know I had. You even followed me across the world, adapting to another country, another rhythm, another way of being.

In my thirties, you became my armor. You rose with me at 4 a.m. for workouts. You ran two USMC mud runs, tackling thirty-six Marine-style obstacles like you had something to prove - and maybe you did. You were the body of a working mom, hustling from conference rooms to bleachers, from office deadlines to dance recitals and football practices. You were always on call, always carrying more than your fair share.

But, oh, you’ve also held the weight of sorrow. You’ve known the hollow ache of grief - the loss of my grandmother, the slow unraveling of a marriage. You’ve known the heaviness of depression, the days when I could barely rise, when the bed felt like the only place you could survive. You’ve carried the invisible scars of anxiety and the exhaustion of simply holding it all together.

Now, in my forties, you are changing again. Perimenopause crept in like an uninvited guest, stirring up heat and restlessness. My joints whisper complaints, my fingers cramp from arthritis. Lines have etched themselves on my face, soft and sudden, like tiny roadmaps of time. My back stiffens in the mornings, a reminder that you are not invincible.

And yet - despite all of this - what a life you’ve given me.

You’ve danced in laughter. You’ve held the warmth of love, the thrill of joy. You’ve climbed mountains and walked quiet trails. You’ve felt the ocean breeze, the kiss of rain, the squeeze of tiny hands and the embrace of people I love most. You’ve survived every single thing that was meant to break you.

You are softer now, slower in some ways. But you are wise. You carry the story of me - not just in the stretch marks and scars, but in the resilience, in the way you’ve always shown up for me, even when I didn’t always honor you in return.

So today, I don’t just see the wrinkles or the stiffness or the weight of age. I see a map of survival. I see strength disguised as imperfection. I see beauty that has nothing to do with the mirror and everything to do with endurance.

You, my dear body, are not my enemy. You are my greatest companion.

Thank you for carrying me - through birth and heartbreak, through mud and milestones, through grief and growth, through almost forty-eight years of living.

With love,

Me