Witness 12: Making Friends with The Body
Both excruciating and exhilarating
A QUIET JOY
FROM YOU
As a massage therapist, I pour my whole heart and soul into my work and recently I was treating an older lady who had stiff fingers. I took my time gently massaging each one, tending to each knuckle, bone, tendon, fascia, nail and wrist. Making small circles in the palm of her hands with loving care. After her treatment she came to me with tears in her eyes and held my hand. She thanked me for the care I took and said she could literally feel the love. She told me she hadn't had someone hold her hand for a very long time and how lovely it felt to be held in that way again.
Sarah, Brighton
A REFLECTION FROM ME
*TW: Mention of sexual assault.
My body would often shout at me to look after her, to listen, to protect. I didn't hear. It felt like there was a wall between us. I'm sure the shouts were loud, like a fire alarm screeching through our ears to say something needs our attention. I didn't hear.
I didn't hear because I didn't know what it meant to listen. I trusted my mind, spirit and emotions like life-long friends. I believed in their wisdom and even in the fluctuations. I knew I could rely on the depths of me, but not so much in the flesh of me.
I cried in spin classes, couldn't breathe doing push-ups, hands shaking in pilates. I thought that I was supposed to “push through”, “the sweat is fear leaving the body”, as the teachers at the front of the class would shout into the abyss of bodies laid on hardwood floors. I didn't know it was actually a trauma response. That my response wasn't something to push through or see as a sign of supposed weakness.
We have expectations of our bodies and instructions for their movement. But, what does it mean to connect to one that you never realised you couldn't hear? How does it feel to connect to a body that was sexually assaulted? That shut down to keep you safe.
A body that did everything it could to keep you alive.
I had to meet her again. I had to introduce myself to my skin. Say hello to my knees. Whisper into my chest. Forgive my arms for not fighting back. Cry in gratitude for my legs that kept still while the rest of me was violated. I had to learn my body as if for the first time.
It's been nearly four years of consciously understanding, deeply healing and reconciling with the fact that I was raped when I was fifteen. It has been nineteen years of making up for lost time in my new friendship with my physicality.
A journey both excruciating and exhilarating in equal measure. A journey of liberation. An education in being soft with myself. Trying new things. Living in them. The essence of embodiment.
Being with each part of me.
You already how I feel about strict New Year Resolutions. I don't do them. This year, I wanted to honour my body, to celebrate her with the one thing that has been the most difficult for me, in my relationship with her. Consistency. But, in a way that felt like pleasure rather than punishment.
Trauma is a hell of a thing and the body will sure damn keep that score. As soon as I'd find a consistent rhythm, my brain would name that as unsafe, with shouts of “girl, you've been hanging out with your body a lot, this is new for us, I don't like it, don't go for a walk today, even though it makes you feel good.” I obeyed that voice, it's what I know, I thought it was safe.
I had to unlearn what being safe in my body actually meant. So on January 1st, I committed to 365 days of nurturing my body. A daily promise to either love, move, connect, soften, gently challenge, listen or write to my body. Every single day.
That looks like yoga, hikes, body scan meditations, love letters to my thighs, self-massage, strength training, foot soaks, doing my nails, bath bomb-filled baths, writing gratitude notes to my body, mindful pleasure eating, breathwork and more.
Each morning (I'm sixteen days in) I ask my body what she needs today, and dive into my menu of practices, to do my best to meet those needs.
Ticking off each day has become a mark of trust in myself.
That with softness, grace and compassion we can do the things that previously escaped us.
It is not a challenge. No goal in mind. Zero outcome written.
Just a promise, one day at a time.
Softly and slowly.
*If you are moving through any of these themes and need some support or a space to talk, you can find some organisations and resources here.
2 Little Practices For…
QUIET JOY
TALK TO SOMEONE NEW
That's right. Slide into someone's DM's. Leave a comment. Say hello to someone in the supermarket. We learn so much from every new encounter and there's endless joy to be found within them. If you're really not up for the task, connect to someone that you do know on a playful level this week.
DANCE. DANCE. DANCE.
I've been loving my solo dance parties to this song. Let yourself go. Smile. Get wild.