The Body I Live In

I learned my body through mirrors,

through numbers whispered like verdicts,

through the way praise arrived

only when I took up less space.

I learned to negotiate with hunger,

to call it discipline,

to mistake silence for strength

and absence for control.

But this body—

it carried me through classrooms and kitchens,

held my breath when I cried in bathrooms,

showed up every day

even when I wanted to disappear.

I blamed it for changing,

for softness, for need,

for not staying small enough

to be lovable.

No one told me

bodies are supposed to change,

that survival looks messy,

that healing is not symmetrical.

Now I am trying to speak to my reflection

like it is not an enemy.

I am learning that worth

does not shrink or stretch,

that my body is not a problem to solve

but a place I am allowed to live.

Some days I believe this.

Some days I don’t.

But I am still here,

and so is my body—

and for now,

that is enough.