When a baby cries, the mother starts tapping the back, and in time the baby goes back to sleep.
When a kid gets bruised because he was trying to attempt stunts on his little bicycle, the friend who knows he’s the one who’s going to get scolded for asking him to come play blows air to soothe the friend’s bruise.
In 2020, when I first lived out of my house and among other living beings than my dad and my dog, being shy that later on I realised was reserved—reserved seats for people who were good for my nervous system—I took a lot of jabs and a lot of self-guilt for sometimes having my body go so firm in some girls’ company.
Having issues speaking out, as if someone’s two hands were clenched over my neck stopping me from speaking.
At the same time, the other girls I met, where my nervous system felt safe with, heard my life stories and my enthralling lore as I sat on a park bench like a little kid.
But I gave more importance to where I lacked than to where I was free.
By the start of 2021, I realised I was energetically a sensitive person. My body dictated and was the dictator of my whole being. It dictated wrong company and the right ones, almost as though I was only a personality that kept switching channels, but the remote was not with me, but my subconscious.
One has understood the lesson of hearing your body giving out signals about the atmosphere, people, and energy around you by now. But when you’ve consumed and absorbed everything, now just a human standing with fear, my body has dictated the enemy—but it’s the person that lives in it.
With suppressed emotions, to let it go or let it in completely.
At first, mostly body symptoms would be a sign of health issues, is your first instinct. I obsessively look through symptoms on Google, checking every disease like a maniac, and fear I have everything. Every thought takes one-day-a-week shift to tell me “I got this,” and then Instagram’s algorithm picks up on my Google search and confirms my fears by suddenly showing me ads of the exact thing.
And then nothing happens, as it shouldn’t.
I’ve started taking my vitamins. I’m told kimchi is great for your gut. I hyper look after my health. A therapist would adore this when I say—it’s gruesome that you don’t pay attention to your heart as much as you give attention to the other parts of your body.
The hold back of the heart department is so bottled up, the heart asks the rest of the body for help. A tiny miniature army, like in Toy Story, gathers together and starts punching your gut. It looks over and asks your heart if it’s been heard already.
When you don’t, it just pulls all the strings, asking you to release it, listen to it. Because it’s not you that’s sick, it’s your heart.
I think the body just doesn’t contain health but everything that you’ve ever experienced.
In 2020, when everyone could’ve been an enemy but me, I woke my heart up with tenderness and put it off to sleep singing lullabies. In my sweet innocence and unraveling naive soul, my body swung and partied every day, telling me it was just fine.
Even when life was cruel, I had in me to listen to my heart, and it healed despite.
Lately, when life is just normal, nice, and you don’t have to wear your blessing-in-disguise costume, I’ve told my heart to stop troubling me, to stop going in directions the map app has always crashed my car.
It quietly listens to me, goes to bed listening to my uncertain thoughts, and wakes up beating really fast. Sometimes when it can’t take it, it revolts to my body. My body makes some attempts, as I get the wrong clue of what must be the reason, rather than what I know the reason really is.
My heart and my body have been better and more loyal to each other, while me and my mind have been in a toxic relationship.