The consequences of my emotions
have always been collected
by my body.
Every rejection
left its fingerprint somewhere—
my chest,
my stomach,
my nervous system,
keeping score
long after my mind
pretended it had moved on.
Somewhere along the way,
I mistook acceptance
for love.
I convinced myself
that being chosen
was worth more
than choosing myself.
What a devastating trade.
To let another human’s judgment
echo louder
than my own.
To abandon myself
before anyone else
ever had the chance.
No wonder
my body learned
to brace for impact.
But there comes a moment—
quiet,
almost unremarkable—
when you realize
you’ve been searching
for yourself
in the mouths of people
who never knew your language.
And something shifts.
The grip loosens.
The nervous system
takes its first full breath.
The woman beneath
all the pleasing,
performing,
proving,
finally clears her throat.
In other words—
she remembers
who the fuck she is.
And what a sacred thing,
to return home
after wandering so far
from yourself.
Maybe this is all life
has ever asked of us
That we lose ourselves
just long enough
to recognize
our own reflection
when we finally return.
Love him.
Love him not.
Either way,
the greatest love story
was always the one
that brought me back to myself.
