There was a time I didn’t know where I ended and the trauma began.
My body didn’t feel like mine. It felt like a thing that had been used, taken, shamed, and silenced. I learned to disconnect—to float above myself, to shut down, to pretend I was fine. That disconnection kept me alive. But over time, it also kept me from truly living.
I’ve spent years slowly returning to the places inside me that I once had to abandon. It hasn’t been quick. It hasn’t been easy. And sometimes, I still feel like I’m learning what it means to feel safe inside my own skin.
There’s grief in this journey—grief for what was taken, and also for what I never got to know: innocence, ease, full ownership of my body without flinching, second-guessing, or apologizing.
But there’s also strength here. I’ve found it in whispers at first—through grounding exercises, tears in therapy, support circles, and quiet prayers I wasn’t even sure would be heard. And I found it in moments like this, sharing with others who understand what I don’t have to explain.
Reclaiming my body has been less about forcing healing and more about listening to myself with compassion. Learning that “no” is sacred. That boundaries are holy. That I deserve to feel good, to feel free, and to feel whole—even when I’m still in process.
If no one told you this today: what happened to you was not your fault. Your body didn’t fail you—someone violated your trust. But you’re still here. And that, in itself, is powerful.
This is my space to heal now.
This body is mine again.
And I’m learning to love her back to life.