three quiet rebellions for honoring the body
if the body once carried the record of our living, perhaps it can again
before we begin, arrive.
feel the weight of yourself in the chair, the ground beneath your feet, the breath moving in and out without you having to remember. let your hands rest, unclenched. notice the quiet ways your body is already keeping you alive — the pulse in your wrists, the steady work of your lungs, the unseen labor of your cells. you do not have to earn this moment. you only have to enter it.
witness your body
once a week, write down not how your body looks, but what it carried. the miles it walked for you. the weight it held — be it groceries or grief. the times it asked for rest and you listened. start to see your life in verbs, not measurements.
let the page remember what you forget in the mirror: you walked back into a hard room. you held a child through a fever. you stood when sitting would have been easier. write it down so your future self has proof: you were here. you moved the world a little.choose a season instead of a deadline
choose one season — three months — and make a quiet pact with your body: no alterations, only nourishment. feed it for steadiness. move it for joy. rest it without guilt. watch what changes when there’s no “before-and-after” day looming.
a season is a gentler promise. it says, i’ll be with you long enough to know you. let fruit ripen in its own time. let muscles wake without being startled. let sleep come like a tide, not like a clock. step into your next chapter not smaller, but truer.wear your story
show the proof: the ridge of the scar, the strength in your grip, the softness that came with time. when someone’s gaze lingers, tell them the truth: this is where life pressed against me, and i pressed back.
every mark is a love letter your body has written to you. each one is a postcard from a moment you survived. when you choose not to edit the proof, you teach the room a new way to see — and you teach your own nervous system a new way to breathe: unhidden, unhurried, unharmed by everyone’s gaze.
before you go, unclench your jaw. let your shoulders soften. let your spine remember what it feels like to stand in its own ease. breathe in as though you’re gathering yourself back from all the places you’ve been scattered today. breathe out as though you’re making more room inside. when you’re ready, name one thing your body is asking for. water. sunlight. rest. movement. touch. a pause.
write it somewhere (in your journal, on a scrap of paper, here) and let it be your quiet vow for the week ahead. honoring your body isn’t about preservation, it’s about partnership. the question is not how do i fix it? but how do i live in it, fully enough, that it remembers me?
read the full letter: the forgotten art of honoring the body. from carving to facetune — what happened?
i’ll hold each word as if it were a candle in the stillroom, lighting the path back to your own keeping. thank you for meeting me here. let the next seven days be embodied, honest, and unhurried.
x
cibelle
from the stillroom, where devotion feels like breathing and the smallest gestures become medicine.