If I’m honest, I don’t have the most honest relationship with my body.
I have a lot of stories I’ve made up that I’ve told my body again and again.
You never look good in pictures. Your forearms are pudgy. You can’t wear red.
But bit by bit, I’ve begun to interrupt these stories. They are so limiting, they can’t lead anywhere worthwhile.
The interruption takes one form: some little act of compassion. And since these stories are in my mind, it helps to have these interruptions be in my body. I stretch. I rub lotion on gently. I get up from where I am and move until I feel air in my face.
There’s something honest about these acts. They are simple motions, simple gestures of kindness towards myself.
These stories that get in the way of an honest relationship don’t just curl up and roll away. I’ve been telling them too long for that.
But I’m finding they do start to lose their grip and their power. One small compassionate act towards my body at a time. And compassion, I do believe, always leads to somewhere worthwhile.