My body doesn’t feel like my home lately

My body doesn’t feel like my home lately.

I spent years running from her. Then I finally summoned enough courage to start listening to her and for the next ten years, she told me everything. She whispered when she was afraid. She told me what made her giggle. She dreamed and cried and danced and felt confused. 

After decades of running, the last ten years felt like a deep exhale. 

Finally, I was home. 

Then, she changed.

I don’t recognize her anymore. I notice how I’m turning away from her again. I don’t understand. 

We had a deal. I found my courage and we got to know each other. I naively thought I had arrived at some forever space of ease. 

I’m learning again that ease and tranquility are not a forever home. My nervous system lives there more than it used to but there’s plenty of good healthy activation in my body. Moments of panic. Moments of shutdown. Moments of ease. 

All of it housed in a body that pulled the rug out from under me. 

The number on the scale started changing a year or two ago. I’d been in autistic shutdown for a number of years and struggled with my relationship to food. Throw in my ADHD and I sometimes flat-out forgot to eat. As I moved through my vocational transition last year, I noticed my nervous system felt more safe to eat nourishing and fuller meals. This felt good. 

The scale crept up. And I felt better than ever.

That tension really messed up my internalized beauty standards. 

I worked to make peace with the larger number, knowing this was possibly the body composition I should have been all along.

But somewhere in the midst of this growing evolution, perimenopause arrived. My body is changing shape. My skin is changing. My mood swings are different. The brain fog is real.

She doesn’t feel like home anymore. 

I feel sad about this. 

Just when I stepped into my dream vocational chapter and food finally feels nourishing and movement feels good, my body is morphing into something I don’t recognize anymore. 

This morning, I sense her whispering, Hey, I’m still here. I’m still the one who loves swimming and playing on the playground. We love ice skating and volleyball. We love dancing in the kitchen and snuggling on the couch. I’m still here.

A tear winds down my freckled cheek. 

But you feel so different now. You changed. It feels like I can’t trust you. More tears join the parade. 

She’s quiet. 

Yeah, I get that. I think it’s okay that we don’t understand each other right now. But as cheesy as it sounds — love can carry us through. One day at a time, we can play and be present. Move and celebrate. Make peace with what’s changing, even when we don’t understand it.

The parade turns into a flood of grief and goodness.

Our bodies are our homes. 

Sometimes we love them. 
Sometimes they confuse us. 
Sometimes they don’t follow our rules. 
Sometimes they surprise us.

Here’s to making room to feel what we feel while we live inside these glorious and confusing homes.

A small note before you go:

If you're wanting a little more of The Gentle Way in your everyday life, my Gentle Way Card Deck is here. Fifty questions, reminders, and invitations to help you listen inward, get curious, and meet yourself with a little more tenderness.

And this winter, I'm creating something new: The Fireplace. A small bit of warmth and companionship delivered to your phone each morning, for the days when life feels like a lot and you could use a gentle reminder that you're not alone.

I'll tell you more soon. ❤️

Jenny