For a long time, I felt betrayed by my body.
It seemed as though every year brought a new challenge. Pain. Bleeding. Scars. Procedures. Medications. Recovery.
I looked in the mirror and saw only what was wrong. I saw the surgery scars. I saw the weight changes. I saw the signs of illness.
I became critical of the very body that had carried me through life.
Then one day, a therapist asked me a question.
"What if your body isn't fighting against you? What if it's fighting for you?"
The question stopped me in my tracks.
My body had endured surgeries. My body had survived illness. My body had continued showing up every day despite everything it faced.
The symptoms I hated were often warnings. Signals that something needed attention.
My body wasn't the enemy. It was communicating. Protecting. Enduring. Healing.
For the first time, I began treating myself with compassion.
I stopped speaking harshly about my appearance. I stopped defining myself by my diagnosis. I stopped measuring my worth by what my body could or could not do.
Today, my scars remind me not of weakness, but of survival.
My body is not my enemy. It is my home.