A Study in Softness

Dimples lace my thighs and stretch marks frame my hips.

photographed in natural light against a minimal white background.
Courtesy of Bella Davis. Edit by Karlo Gomez.

A layer of softness sits at my stomach and along the curve of my back. These things are not imperfections. They are simply features of a living body. My body. A human body that has carried me through every year and every version of myself.

"These things are not imperfections. They are simply features of a living body that has carried me through every version of myself."

What you see here is not a flaw. It is texture and movement and softness. It is evidence of being alive.

Growing at Every Stage

I spent years shrinking myself. Covering softness. Avoiding mirrors. Waiting until I was smaller or tighter or more acceptable. I see now how much life I wasted in that holding pattern.

"I spent years thinking I needed to hide until I was smaller or more acceptable and I see now how much life I lost in the waiting."

You do not have to treat your body like a problem. Care for her. Feed her well. Move her. Let her breathe outside. Show up the way she has always carried you.

Learning the Body Instead of Fighting It

Taking care of the body is presence not control. When I run or stretch or dance she feels like mine again. The more I move the more I inhabit myself instead of hovering above my own skin.

"Taking care of the body is presence not punishment."

I touch the softness at my stomach with less urgency now. I see the texture of my thighs without critique. This relationship is slow but real. It is happening.

The Body Wants to Be Your Home

A soft body lying in profile with folds of skin along the waist and the curve of the hip, photographed unedited and close-framed against a plain white wall.
Courtesy of Bella Davis. Edit by Karlo Gomez.

I used to believe my body was something to fix. Something to manage. But she has been waiting for me. Not perfect. Not smaller. Just present.

"My body is not asking to be perfected. She is asking to be lived in."

She wants movement and sensation and breath. Not control. Not surveillance. When I return to her she meets me with softness instead of resistance. I think she always would have. I just wasn’t ready.

I love her. Not as performance. As truth. She is the only home I have ever had.

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