I don’t write this to you—because you already know.
Our story is written in every scar, every stretch, every sensation.
This letter is for those who might read it.
For the countless humans who hate the best friend they’ll ever have.
Who despise their closest confidant.
You, dear body, are the only one who has felt every failure, celebrated every high, and shed every tear with me. In return for your unconditional love, I passed harsh judgment on you. I did it in the name of holiness, righteousness, and goodness.
From childhood, I was programmed to distrust you.
My religion taught that you—my flesh—were evil, at war with the Spirit of God.
To choose you was to betray Him.
But if I shrank you, starved you, subdued you—God would be pleased.
So I listened to them.
In 5th grade, I walked home in pink corduroy pants, my chubby thighs rubbing together.
You expressed your discomfort with a rash.
But I didn’t listen. I just wished you were smaller.
In 7th grade, you grew taller, developed breasts, and slimmed down.
Was I grateful? No.
I was warned you were a snare to men, a threat to women.
But still, I was instructed.
Keep it tight. Keep it small.
So I obeyed—starvation was my weapon of choice.
You responded not with words, but with care.
As the scale dropped, your survival instincts rose.
Faithful and wise, you stored energy when you could.
While I was actively trying to destroy you, you were quietly preserving my life.
Still, I wouldn’t listen.
I was told your worth was in your purity. So I waited.
But on my wedding night at age 20, when that purity was “lost,”
You became—according to them—soiled, used, and less beautiful.
But still, you showed up with devotion.
You became a sacred container. You grew life—
Not once, not twice, but five times.
You nourished each child with your own reserves,
patiently giving, asking for nothing in return.
Did I finally love you? No.
The programming ran too deep.
Even when you met the standard, you were never enough.
Too soft. Too stretched. Too old. Too human.
But today, I am intentionally choosing to reprogram that lie.
Because you are enough. And you deserve to hear me say it.
I refuse to spend the second half of my life listening to voices that hold contempt for you.
You are allowed to take up space.
You are allowed to age.
You are allowed to simply exist.
Today, I choose to listen to you.
What does that look like?
When you tighten in fear, I’ll stretch and soothe you.
When you feel restless, I’ll move with you.
When you feel hungry, I’ll nourish you with care.
When you whisper for rest, I’ll give it.
When you speak through cravings, I’ll respond with curiosity—not shame.
I’ll pause. I’ll ask what you need.
And I will honor the answer.
You are the only friend who will never leave me—until death do us part.
You’ve loved me when I saw you as an enemy.
You’ve carried me through it all.
Now, I will carry you with love.
You are a friend who loves at all times.
And today, I vow to love you in return.
With love,
Candi D. 💕
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