The Body Records What the Mind Refused to Hear
“The body always leads us home... if we can simply learn to trust the language it speaks.” — Bonnie Bainbridge Cohen
I taught my body to lower its voice
by pretending I didn’t hear it.
Pain became background music.
Fatigue, a badge.
The tightness in my chest
I named it responsibility.
I skipped meals
when the numbness
made me feel efficient.
Called it discipline.
Called it drive.
Called it “doing what had to be done.”
What I didn’t call it
was betrayal.
The moment I finally said sorry
I didn’t light a candle.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t even sit down.
I just ate.
And noticed I was hungry.
“The apology you give yourself after years of abandoning your own signals won’t be poetic. But it will be real.”
You don't betray yourself in one grand moment. You chip away at your knowing slowly. You keep saying yes after your stomach tightens. You explain away the headache. You give people the benefit of the doubt even while your body braces for impact. Eventually, your intuition stops raising its voice. It starts speaking softly. Then it just shuts the hell up.
The apology doesn’t come easy. You don’t light a candle and read a forgiveness meditation. It happens in the middle of the night. When you realize how many times you abandoned your own self just to avoid disappointing someone who would’ve left anyway. That kind of grief doesn’t weep. It tightens your chest and makes your throat dry. It shows up as anger. Then regret. Then exhaustion.
And if you’re lucky, it shows up as resolve.
That’s when the repair begins. Not through a performance. Through the slow re-earning of your own trust. You make decisions a little sooner. You leave a little earlier. You say less, but you mean it. The apology isn’t poetic. It’s behavioral. It’s paid in moments where you finally pick yourself, without explaining why.
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