The Body
There are days lately when I find myself navigating through new shades of despair—flavors of depression that seem to shift and mutate like smoke in the air. I feel time stretching, each moment a heavy, lingering note, and all I want is to escape—to shift my being to a different plane where this stasis doesn’t suffocate me. Sometimes, in my darkest musings, I ponder the idea that I could do more good in the world by donating my organs, all of them, to anyone who needs them. This thought is, of course, absurd, but it stems from a profound sense of entrapment; a reluctance to sleep because there is nothing waiting for me upon waking.
In moments of solitude, I search for beauty in misery and loneliness. I despise romanticizing suffering, yet the annoyances and pains that pepper my existence often feel beyond my control. I question my very existence, wondering if I were to confine myself to a wardrobe, a box, would anyone even notice my absence?
Within me reside two opposing forces: one that longs to embrace a healthy environment, to fight for my well-being, and the other that has succumbed to the weight of despair. I often find that when my thoughts dip into darkness, it’s tied to medication adjustments or hormonal shifts. Our bodies, our thoughts, our emotions—they are merely a sum of chemical reactions, an intricate dance of neurotransmitters and hormones. Sometimes, a little more happiness shifts everything, transforming how we perceive our world.
Are you your body? Or is there a soul distinct from it? Do you remember the moment you first became aware of your physical self? I can recall the day vividly when I first realized I disliked my body. I was fourteen, awkwardly trying on a white and turquoise striped bikini before summer camp. As I examined myself in the mirror, I couldn’t help but scrutinize the unflattering way the top clung to my still-developing shape.
“Mom!” I called out from behind the curtain, a plea for reassurance. “I don’t like this swimsuit.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it? It fits you perfectly,” she replied, peeking in with a bemused expression.
“It’s just... I don’t like the bra,” I murmured, embarrassed by my own vulnerability.
“Ehhh, here we go, it’s about to happen,” she sighed, rolling her eyes, a moment etched in my memory, marking a pivotal point in my life.
From that moment onward, I began to develop a separate relationship with my body. No longer was it “us”; it became me versus my body. I loathed my skinniness, the way my ribs protruded, as if my very existence was a skeletal outline. I would suck in my belly, hoping to appear even thinner, like a caricature of a person. My friends, who developed faster, became the objects of admiration and interest. I felt invisible, perpetually slow to catch the eye of those around me.
Puberty is a treacherous beast—weight gain, acne, emotional upheaval. I experienced my moment of transformation, like the ugly duckling who suddenly blossoms into something more. Until I wasn’t. The day my classmates laughed at the sudden fullness of my newly shaped body, I felt marked, trapped in a skin that invited scrutiny and unwanted attention. Boys began to vie for my affection as if I emitted an aroma, signaling, “Yes, come closer.” I was overwhelmed by this sudden wave of attention; the notes and texts flooded in, surrounding me like predators.
The day I became a woman, I ceased to be the invisible child; I became a piece of meat.
From that point, it was no longer a matter of my relationship with my body. It morphed into society versus my body: “You’ve gained weight,” “You can’t dress like that,” “You’re too ugly,” “You look too provocative,” “You’re so hot,” “She’s so fuckable,” “You think you’re so pretty, don’t you?”
I felt disconnected, a ghost in my own skin. The way I looked didn’t reflect how I felt inside, yet I was acutely aware of the perceptions I elicited in others. The term “sexy” became a label, a burden, and I wondered what it truly meant. If being called sexy stemmed from my intelligence, I would embrace it; but when it was merely a euphemism for desire, it felt hollow. Fourteen-year-old me longed to be desired, while nineteen-year-old me wished for the cloak of invisibility once more.
I was deemed worthy of pursuit, but not of love. I became a plaything, to be toyed with, gossiped about, and ultimately cast aside like refuse.
“Her ass is so big,” “She’s too confident,” “She’s a whore,” “She has such a pretty face, but her body doesn’t match,” “You brought it upon yourself.”
The day I resolved to change my body marked yet another chapter in my life. I counted calories obsessively, measuring myself against an impossible standard. I was at war with my own flesh. “You’re working out so much, yet you look the same—how is that possible?” “You’ve lost weight; you look good.” “You’re not eating—eat something.” I despised my fuller breasts and thighs, the curves that seemed to trap me in a paradox of praise and mockery. My body became a prison, and I yearned for respect and love.
As the weight refused to budge, I turned to starvation. It felt like an epiphany, the ultimate act of control, a reassurance that kept my life from unraveling. “You really slimmed down—how did you do that?” “You look amazing; you’re doing so well.”
During that time, I limited myself to a mere 500 calories a day. I stopped exercising, fearing it would ignite a hunger I sought to suppress. Finally, I was taken seriously; I was no longer a whore. As my clothes grew larger, I grappled with sleep problems, my nights a blur of binge eating—a trance-like state of indulgence and regret. Food became a paradoxical embrace, an association with love and comfort that ultimately betrayed me.
Then, I would find myself sprawled on the cold bathroom floor, engulfed in shame and self-loathing.
I withdrew, ignoring friends, spending weeks cocooned in my bed. The spiral deepened until, driven by an unknown force, I decided to attend a yoga class. In that dim, warm room, as I practiced unfamiliar asanas, I realized my body was weak, an admission that stirred something within me. During savasana, the instructor gently adjusted my shoulder, and I began to cry—my first experience of being touched without judgment.
This marked another chapter of my life. I returned to the studio daily, nurturing my body with regular, healthy meals to support my practice. For the first time, my body and I were allies, no longer separate but united.
At university, I encountered models in drawing classes, older individuals with sagging skin and soft curves—far from society’s narrow definition of beauty. I approached their bodies with respect, seeing in them what I had failed to recognize in myself. Each line and contour became an expression of life lived, rather than a flaw.
During yoga practice, when partnered with another, the act of touch transcended mere physicality. You felt the warmth of their skin, sensing the tensions and releases within. Age, smell, sweat—none of these mattered; it was a sacred connection, an acknowledgment of our shared humanity.
Months into my healing journey, I returned to a semblance of normalcy in eating. Inevitably, I noticed the weight creeping back. While on holiday in Spain, I reveled in the local cuisine, yet caught a glimpse of my belly protruding in the mirror, and despair surged. “Why do you have to do this to me?” I cried out in frustration, grappling with the discord between my internal feelings and external reality.
Yet, I persevered with my exercise routine. I loved it more than the insecurities that clung to me. During a class, my teacher praised my efforts, and I embraced the knowledge that I was strong, capable of running miles and lifting weights twice daily. My sleep improved, and the cycles of binging and starving began to dissipate.
I accepted my appearance; I ceased the battle. Still, the comments persisted. The same boys who once labeled me a whore began asking me out. “Yeah, you know, she was a whore, but she’s changed.” Suddenly, I was deemed worthy of a relationship. But I had no interest in that narrative. I was whole as I was; my fat ass propelled me back into classes I once nearly failed due to my absence. I weathered one of the most difficult episodes of depression I had ever faced, emerging on the other side, grounded in my being.
The body is our home. Its shape, size, and color are something that is given to us and predetermined. It’s a relationship we are bound to have forever.
Everything in the universe, including humans and the planet, is made up of atoms. Atoms are the basic building blocks of matter, consisting of a nucleus (made of protons and neutrons) surrounded by electrons. These atoms combine to form molecules, which make up the substances and materials we see around us. So, from the smallest living cells to the largest geological formations, it’s all constructed from atoms. There’s a fundamental unity that binds all matter. This concept aligns with both science and many philosophical or spiritual perspectives, which often speak of interconnectedness.
The atoms that make up our bodies aren’t static—they come from the food we eat, the air we breathe, and the water we drink. Over time, those atoms move through us and back into the environment, cycling through living and non-living things. In that sense, we share the same basic building blocks as the planet and all other life forms. This ongoing exchange of atoms blurs the boundaries between “us” and the world around us, reinforcing the notion that we are all part of the same whole. It echoes the idea that nothing is truly separate, and on a deeper level, we are all intertwined, not just with each other but with the entire universe.
No other creature in this universe grapples with the conflict between self and form; their forms are coherent with their selves. The moment you separate self from form creates a biblical Adam and Eve moment, when they realize they are naked. This consciousness is both a curse and a blessing. A blessing because you get to make your own decisions; a curse because you don’t know what is the truth anymore.
As I navigate this intricate dance of existence, I find myself grappling with the notion of body positivity. I recognize that I am the only one I will have forever—this body is my lifelong companion. So why shouldn’t I strive to become friends with it? Yet, in my personal journey, I’ve reached a place where depression has shrunk me to the smallest version of myself. My clothes are now three sizes down, but when I look in the mirror, all I see is me.
There are days when I catch a glimpse of someone I barely recognize—a figure that seems diminutive, bones jutting out sharply against skin. In my mind, I feel like a heavy elephant, swollen and cumbersome, my legs weighed down. I search for every imperfection, amplifying each flaw tenfold. On these days, the world feels unbearably heavy, as if every object around me has conspired to reinforce my sense of fragility.
Are you your emotions, or are you your body? As I contemplate this, I find myself in a dance with my own body—sometimes feeling as if I’ve shrunk to the smallest version of myself, with clothes that hang loosely and mirrors that reflect a stranger. On days when I look in the mirror, I see someone diminutive, bones jutting out sharply against skin, and I feel like a heavy elephant, swollen and cumbersome. I search for every imperfection, amplifying each flaw tenfold.
And yet, despite this struggle, I wonder: if this journey is inevitably intertwined with both body and soul, can we find a way to coexist harmoniously? Can we evolve this relationship into one of understanding, rather than conflict?
In those moments of reflection, I hear echoes of Tyler, the Creator, asking, “Are we still friends?” It’s a question that lingers, inviting me to explore the complexities of this connection—not necessarily to love my body but to understand it, to navigate the intricacies of existence alongside it. Perhaps the journey isn’t about achieving a singular truth, but rather about embracing the multifaceted nature of our existence, questioning and redefining our relationship with ourselves and the world around us.
