It Was Never About the Body

I wasn’t born hating my body.
I learned to.

Somewhere along the way, I picked up the belief that to be lovable, I had to be different.
Smaller.
Prettier.
Less.

And for a long time, I really believed that if I could just fix enough things — lose the weight, smooth the lines, perfect the outside — then I'd finally feel good enough on the inside.

But the truth is, none of it ever really touched the place that hurt.

Not the diets.
Not the workouts.
Not even the compliments.

Because the hurt was never in my body.
It was in my thinking about my body.

It still creeps up sometimes — that old belief that if I just changed this or fixed that, I’d finally feel whole.

But now I see it for what it is:
Just thought.
Just old noise.

It’s not that I can't want to change or care for my body.
It’s that I don’t need to hate her to do it.

If I want to go to the gym, I go because I love myself, not because I’m trying to erase myself.
If I want to get Botox, I can — but it won't change who I am inside.

Because no amount of fixing out there can heal a belief in here.

This body has carried me through heartbreak, through grief, through rebirths I didn’t think I could survive.
She has loved me long before I knew how to love her back.

She isn’t my project.
She’s my home.

And the more I see that, the freer I feel.

Not perfect.
Not finished.
Just... freer.