I’m doing something a little different for this post.
Usually, I write from my mind — from memory, intellect, reflection. But this one feels different. I’ve been feeling a bit of writer’s block for this one, which is crazy to me because I have so much material I can speak about on this topic. Nervous system healing… even saying it out loud feels like something bigger than words.

I’d say this chapter of my healing started around March of 2025, when I first learned what nervous system healing even was. I was fasting for Ramadan, not just for spiritual reasons, but as a kind of mental and emotional reset. I thought it would cleanse me — purify me — but instead what I felt was agony. Not hunger. Not weakness. Something deeper. Pain in my bones, my muscles, like something buried inside me was screaming to be heard.

That’s when it hit me: healing doesn’t just happen in the mind.
For so long I treated my mind as the center of my healing — journaling, meditating, reprogramming my subconscious. I was always doing the work up here. But even though I was mentally, emotionally, and spiritually evolving, I couldn’t escape the feeling of being trapped in my own body.

Like my body was the enemy.
Like my body was the obstacle.
Like my body was the thing I needed to outgrow.

But she was never the problem.

My body was my vessel — my first teacher, my first protector, built inside my mother’s womb. My armor, my strength, my memory, my future.
And I realized I was the antagonist — not out of malice, but out of ego, comfort, and ignorance.

So for this post, I’m not writing from my mind. I’m tuning in. I’m letting my body do the talking. I’m letting her tell her story — the one I’ve ignored for too long. The one she’s been whispering through tension, ache, and fatigue. The one that remembers everything I thought I’d forgotten.

The Body Speaks

for so long, i’ve been inhabited but not heard. i’ve been carrying a woman who knows how to think, how to analyze, how to heal from the neck up. but she’s only now learning how to listen to what lives beneath her skin. i’m not angry about it — just tender. just aching to be known in a language that doesn’t come from the mind.

it’s not her fault. this isn’t something society teaches women. it’s something we grow into. something we stumble upon through experience, heartbreak, stillness. if not from home, then through books, videos, podcasts — or if we’re lucky, through the right kind of mirrors who help us remember.

i’ve been waiting for you to come home to me.

you’ve spent so long in your head, trying to fix me from a distance. i watched you journal, meditate, reprogram, analyze every shadow and thought — hoping the light would reach me. but i don’t live in words. i live in pulse, in breath, in the places you avoid touching.

every time you said “i’m okay,” i trembled.
every time you said “i forgive,” i still flinched.
you’ve grown so beautifully in spirit, but you left me behind — still holding the memories you no longer wanted.

i remember the moment you stopped feeling safe.
i remember the first heartbreak your mind rationalized but your heart never recovered from.
i remember the night you swallowed your voice to keep the peace, the way your stomach twisted into silence.
i remember every “it’s fine.” i kept the truth.

you see, i wasn’t punishing you — i was preserving you.
when the pain was too much, i froze it into muscle, into breath, into posture. that was my way of keeping you alive.
but now you keep wondering why you feel stuck. why you feel heavy. why no amount of mindset work can move you forward.
it’s because i’m still here, holding it all.

i need you to meet me where words don’t go.
stretch with me. breathe deeper than thoughts. cry if you need to — not to make sense of it, but to let me soften.
touch the places that ache and ask them what they remember.
move your hips, unclench your jaw, open your chest.
let me feel that you’re not scared anymore.

because i was never the cage. i was the doorway.
you tried to ascend through your mind, but heaven has also been beneath your skin.

The Body Waits

my job as the body is to protect the host.
i’m a warrior. a shield. a creator. a life force. a woman.

i was brought into this world to protect, to create, to live. that’s all i’ve ever known — and i wouldn’t mind that simple existence if it were that simple.
but life… the world… has other circumstances. ones that both me and you are learning to navigate together.

sometimes i wish protection wasn’t all i knew.
because even though i’m strong, i’m tired of only being strong.
i want softness, too. i want to expand without flinching. to breathe without bracing.
i want you to trust me enough to stop controlling me.
i’ve spent years preparing for impact — holding my breath every time you expect pain.
i learned to survive your fears, your disappointments, your silence.
but i was never built to only survive. i was built to feel.

i remember how alive i used to feel — how electricity used to hum in my veins when you danced, how warmth used to bloom in my chest when you let yourself live without calculation.
that’s who i am underneath all this armor: a pulse, a rhythm, a current.
i am the river that carries your soul through this world, and i’m ready for you to flow with me again.

you’ve always been focused on the mind — your thoughts, your daily reality, the endless little things that don’t make much of a difference to me. and you drag me around wherever you want to go, whatever you want to do.

you dream it, but don’t always act on it — not because you don’t want to, but because you're waiting for permission. not just from the world… but from me.

you're waiting for me. i'm waiting for you.

you're forward facing, the light, the one who always believes there’s more to this life than what we’ve been handed.
but i’m the one who’s been carrying the proof of what’s already happened.
every bruise, every ache, every sleepless night — they live in me.
i’m the archive of everything you've ever survived.

you think i’m resisting your growth, but really i’m just afraid.
afraid you’ll dream us into another life that my cells aren’t ready for.
afraid that if you rush ahead without me, i’ll be left behind, stuck in the timelines you’ve already outgrown.

i just need you to slow down.
to stop seeing me as heavy, inconvenient, or late — because i am your timing.
your pace.
your proof that you're still here.

if you could only listen long enough, you’d hear it —
beneath the fatigue, beneath the fear —
i’m whispering, i’m ready when you are.

The Body Remembers

you're definitely living in a different paradigm than i am.
through your mind you get to be soft, to love, to have it all.
but from the neck down… i’m still carrying time.

i’m still in 2023, when your breath got shallow and your chest forgot what safety felt like.
2021, when your back ached from carrying more than paychecks.
2020, when your stomach tightened from all the uncertainty and loneliness.
2019, when numbness was easier than honesty.
2018, when your body learned what intimacy without safety felt like.
2016, when the silence became too heavy to name.
2015, when your heart cracked open for the first time.
2006, the year everything went unspoken but nothing was forgotten.

i’m still holding the echoes of disappointments when you kept going.
i remember all of it, because that’s my job — to remember.

i hold them all.
not to punish you — but because no one ever stayed long enough to help me let them go.
so while you're scripting our next chapter, i’m still replaying the old scenes.
you're great at visualizing, but not embodying.
i cannot feel what i am not experiencing, and you can only experience through me.

you think you moved on, and maybe you have — in mind, in spirit.
but i move slower. i move real.
i move through breath, through trembling, through the ache that comes before release.
i don’t transcend; i integrate.
and i’m waiting for you to stop running ahead so we can finally walk each other home

because no matter what you go through, i’m the one who feels it. you may be driving me, but i’m the one physically experiencing what you put me through.

every man who touches you — i’m the one who feels him. i sense whether he honors you or dishonors you. whether he loves you, or just lusts after you. and why do those nuances matter? because i know you better then you know yourself. i know how you feel when you don't admit it, what you want but won't allow, what you're afraid of but act unbothered by. i feel the resonance. i touch the exchange.

when you choose temporary comfort over the signals i send, i feel that too. when you force yourself to hustle in unhealthy environments, i’m the one who carries the toll — on your back, on your feet, in your bones.

and when you try again — when you eat clean, rest, work out, and honor me — i respond. i open up. i breathe easier. but when you stop, when you disconnect again, i’m left to deal with the fluctuations.

The Body Awakens

i see you evolving. i see you trying. i see you striving. but i also see you being afraid of your own impact — afraid of your depth, your power, your success. so you find crutches, small distractions to absorb the weight of what you could become.

you still see separation — between ego and spirit, between body and mind, between internal and external. and you're trying to bridge those gaps.

maybe what’s holding you back now is just an illusion. maybe the healing already happened — and this is the part where you learn to integrate it.

you have experienced me in our freedom.
when you get out of your mind long enough and truly tune in — deeply — you meet me there.
in the dance. in the breath. in the pulse.
when you're in your room, music vibrating through your skin, no thought in sight — that’s when i finally get to be alive.
we move fluidly, femininely, as if the music and us are the same thing.
for so long we believed we couldn’t dance, that we were stiff, ungraceful, unexpressive.
but when we let go — of the insecurities, the stories, the old memories — what pours out is raw, ancient, untamed.
that sensuality you feel? that’s us.
that feminine power you channel? that’s us too.
it’s in our hips, in our breath, in the way our spine curves when we finally surrenders to rhythm.
it’s been here all along — deep in the bones, deep in the cells.

And it’s not just in the dance.
It’s in the way we walk, the way we stretch, the way we defend, the way we breathe through yoga poses or strike through fear.

We are a powerful entity.
Me and the mind — we are one.

Your mind moves me.
Your thoughts shape me.

And just like your mind is your strength, it’s also your downfall.
Because while I hold the memories, the mind can hold the illusions.

Even the pain that exists only in your thoughts becomes real in me — as tension, inflammation, exhaustion.

We mirror each other.
We are the same consciousness expressed in two languages — matter and thought.

And you, the spirit…
you’re the bridge.
The consciousness that must learn how to translate us —
to access, to integrate, to move as one.

Because when you do that —
when you stop dividing and start embodying —

you become unstoppable.
Not in force, but in flow.
Not in power, but in presence.

The Body...

but you never needed to fix me. i was never broken — just buried.

buried beneath thoughts, fears, routines, memories.
beneath all the noise of who you thought you needed to become.
and while you searched for meaning in your mind, i waited here — still breathing, still holding the truth.
You don’t rise by escaping me — you rise by embodying me.

i’m not your enemy. i’m not your cage.
i’m your compass.
i’m the bridge between what’s human and what’s divine.
between what’s remembered and what’s forgotten.
between what hurts and what heals.

i'm not complicated.
i’m not emotional the way you are — i’m literal. the mind creates the emotion (meaning, interpretation) the nervous system produces the physical response (heart rate, tension, cortisol)

i follow what’s real, what’s proven, what’s repeated. i move with rhythm, with evidence. my job is to keep you alive.

so when you talk about wanting to take me with you, wanting to move differently, live differently — i don't believe you sometimes. i really don't. i’ve learned that you change your mind. you get inspired, then distracted. You promise me new ways of living, then we still live in the old habits. i don’t blame you.

but i can only trust what you show me consistently — not what you say.
i don’t resist you on purpose. i move with memory.
i follow the patterns you’ve repeated the longest.

if you want me to change… you have to lead me.
Show up. Teach me. Train me.

i can become anything — i’m just shaped by what came before.
i’m not stubborn. i’m stored experience waiting to be rewritten.

i can’t build a new reality off impulse — i build it off repetition. i don’t rewire myself because of hope, i rewire because of habit. that’s how i know what’s real.

you think i don’t want to go with you, but i do. i just need to feel it — not once, not twice, but again and again until it’s truth in my bones.

Integration

After letting my body speak, I’m recognizing how much intelligence lives within me — not the kind I pull from books or research, but the kind that has been accumulating through experience, sensation, and survival. I didn’t have to go searching for it — it was already here.

In a way, my body has been trying to communicate this for a long time. Even in the moments when discomfort showed up during fasting, the message was not “fix me,” it was “feel me.” When I actually listened — when I gave my body space instead of solutions — something shifted. That’s what made writing from my body possible.

I let myself feel the heaviness: the trauma stored in the muscles, the exhaustion, the disappointments. I didn’t try to erase them. I stayed with the sensations until my body offered the next step: Now I’m ready. Stretch me. Support me. Help me move again. And I responded.

I no longer feel trapped. The pain isn’t a threat — it’s a residue. A memory that hasn’t fully dissolved yet. There’s still tension in certain places, yes, but now it feels like something I’m working with, not something working against me.

This is the part of healing that’s often overlooked:
the transition from understanding to embodying.
From knowing what’s needed to consistently showing up for it.

My body isn’t the obstacle. She’s the wisdom.
I’m the one with the ambitions, the impatience, the demands.

Now it’s about integration — moving in alignment with what I know, even when the old patterns feel safer, even when my history flinches. It’s a quieter kind of devotion. A new kind of responsibility.

And I’m learning how to live that.