6 - My Body is More Than a Temple

My body is a statue of light-colored flesh, draping with folds and creases that keep me alive, that keep me going, that keep me sane. My body is a machine, pumping blood in and out, over and around, spreading color into my veins, my lips, my mind. My body is a temple, some would say. But mine is more. My body is not a place I visit a few times a year, nor is it a place I come to worship some god in a faraway land. I am with my body all of the time. We’re friends. We like to tell each other secrets. Sometimes, I whisper sweet nothings into my ear. You are bare, you are bold, and you are alive. Be proud of that. Blood is pumping through my veins, and although I may not fit into that dress from seventh grade, I am still worthy of a slice of apple pie on Thanksgiving. I am still worthy of treating myself with respect. My body is more than a temple. My body is everything and more. My stretch marks are the scars of a warrior who struck down her enemies and those who said she couldn’t. But then she did. I am a warrior who lets herself bend and break so that she can push harder and go beyond the expectations her peers put in place. I look at the ripped-up pieces of my flesh, the slices in my skin now tugging back together, and see strength. I see tiger stripes zapping through my skin, lightning bolts charging my flesh with infinite energy. My body is more than a temple. My body is more than flesh and bone.