My body was once a promise.
An uncertain map of a blooming path,
the silence between two words.
It was mine,
until I was told how it should look,
how much it should weigh,
how much it should hide,
how much it should endure.
They called it “shame” before I even knew how to name it.
They covered my knees and shoulders
and left my soul bare.
And they didn’t know that shame clings to flesh
more tightly than wet clothes cling to skin.
I lived a life where my body was…
To be approved.
To be judged.
To be silenced.
I was flesh with other people’s opinions driven deep into it.
I hated it.
When it curved.
When it bled.
When it desired.
When it was touched.
When it was ignored.
When it was seen only as a machine meant to serve.
But one day, I looked in the mirror and I no longer saw flaws.
I saw a territory.
With traces of war and springs,
with stretch marks like rivers that have dried up
and breasts that have nourished life.
I saw skin that changed a thousand times
and still holds me.
My body took me everywhere.
To the office, to the doctor, to the wrong bed, to church, to the fields, on trains, across continents, through silent wars.
It was the backpack of my pain,
and at the same time the only witness to my rebirth.
Now, I caress it.
I ask it for forgiveness.
I wash it with warm water,
not with judgment.
I no longer want to lose weight to fit into others’ expectations.
I want to become more spacious for myself.
For all the shame.
For all the joy.
For all the people I’ve held in my arms
and for all the love I denied myself.
I no longer want to compare it.
But to sanctify it.
Because this body,
which was imposed on me, used, abandoned, judged,
is also the place where I laughed wholeheartedly,
where I breathed salty ocean air,
where I danced in the kitchen at 2 a.m.,
where I held children to my chest and women in my hands,
from where I said “I love you” thousands of times,
even if it wasn’t answered every time.
It is the place where God lives.
And if He chose to be here,
then there is something worthy in it
To dwell in and to sanctify.
Today, with a heavy hand from years of silence,
I write on it again, with living ink:
“I am here. I am whole. I am back.”
