A Love Letter to My Body

 Dear Body,

   You have given me 42 years of life.  You have adapted, changed, sacrificed, stepped aside, and survived various forms of neglect, cruelty, and punishment.  Still, you kept me breathing.  You’ve kept me learning.  You are the reason I am able to write these very words.  Our childhood was filled with messages that we were inherently wrong, too loud, too fast, annoying, pesty, too sensitive, too much.  We were so bad that “god” allowed his own “son” to be murdered in order to save me from my sin. Save me from my humanity.  When our body changed from being petite and small, we began to take up too much space.  Our mother tried to correct this, aka- make us smaller- by taking us to Weight Watchers.  We were only eleven years old.

I wish we had had someone in our life to counteract all those messages.  Someone to tell us that we were perfect just the way we were.  A guide to show us how to listen to what we needed and nourish ourselves.  A coach that would show us that being human can be messy, but oh, so beautiful.  To teach us how to process our mistakes in a way that would make our character stronger.  A person who was older, wiser and had the power to make choices for us.  Choices we were unable to make for ourselves.  Choices that we needed.  At the same time, this person would have let us slowly make decisions for ourselves.  They would have celebrated our successes and shown us compassion in our failures.  Then, at just the right moment, they would have shown us how it was not a failure but an opportunity.  That our worth, value, and reason for being alive never budged.  It was there all the time.

We did not have that person then, but we have her now.  She is us.  You and me.  Our body, our mind, our emotions, our spirituality.  We’re all working as a team now.  I once tried to keep it all separate.  My emotions were pushed down.  It was best to not feel or express them.  Someone might experience discomfort because of me.  My mind was to be kept away from all the “dangers” in the world.  My spirituality had to follow a precise script that a man had written for me to follow.  My body was to carry the burden of it all and at the same time, it was to make itself as small as it could.  Just like the other parts of me.

Now, I will advocate for you.  I will listen to what you are trying to tell me.  Together, we’ll figure it out.  After all the ways you have contorted yourself to fit the ideals and expectations of others, this should be easy.  Free to be yourself.  Mind, body, spirit, emotions.  Yet, this feels like the hardest thing we have ever done.  To unlearn 42 years of conditioning and figure out who we are and what we need.  What we want.

   Thank you body for giving me vocal chords and a diaphragm to sing.  Thank you body for housing the brain that I use to learn, to remember, and to process all the sensory input that is coming in at lightning speed all day long.  Thank you for making decisions.  Thank you for telling me when I need to rest.  Thank you for arms to hug my children and hands to rub my dog’s belly.  Thank you for a nose that smells delicious food while it’s cooking and for allowing me to smell my husband’s bald head right after he shaves.  He knows I love the smell of his aftershave. Thank you for the intimacy we are able to share, physically and emotionally.  Thank you for the legs that allow me to hike.  For toenails that can be painted beautiful colors.  For ears to hear the laughter of my family.  To hear and feel the music that I and others create.  To be surrounded by the sounds of nature.  Ears that hear the alarm go off in the morning, telling me that I have the gift of another day.  Thank you for making me aware of my feelings.  I’m learning how to listen to you now.  I’m learning how to respond with care.

Thank you for healing from all the injuries we suffered from when we were 17.  For learning to walk again.  For learning to sing again.  Thank you for being strong enough so that we have the chance to grow older.  Thank you for not giving up on life when Will died.  You didn’t even know that it was possible to live a life with the loss of your baby.  To be sad.  To grieve.  To live.  To learn what happiness and joy feel like after such a great loss.  

Now we know.  

Thank you for not giving up.  Thank you for surviving Mom’s terminal illness.  All the regret and the shame?  Those are things that teach us about what we need and how to move through life according to our values.  It was a hard lesson, but again, I couldn’t have done it without you.  Thank you for taking part in the creation of new life.  The one we lost to SIDS and the other two that lay sleeping in their beds.  You grew three humans.  You are a rock star.

All the things we do.  All the adventures we’ve had.  All the heartache we’ve endured.  All the love that fills our being.  I could not have experienced them without you.  For all of my life and for what is yet to come, you have my eternal love and gratitude.  Take up space.  Try new things.  Be kind.  Be amazing.  Be unapologetically you.

Love, Wendy