Zebra Seeking Spoons

I used to speak to my body

like it was a problem to solve—

a puzzle with missing pieces,

a stubborn lock that refused my key.

I measured it in failures:

plans canceled,

stairs avoided,

the quiet math of spoons

spent before noon.

I called it unreliable.

I called it broken.

But my body never left me.

Even on the days it trembled,

even when pain stitched lightning

through bone and breath,

it stayed—

holding me together

in ways I did not know how to name.

So I am learning a different language now.

I am learning to say:

thank you

for the way my lungs keep rising,

soft and faithful.

I’m listening

when fatigue wraps me in its heavy

zebra-striped hush.

I’m sorry

for every time I demanded more

than survival.

This body—

this storm-weathered home—

is not my enemy.

It is the one

carrying me through the wreckage

of the life I thought I’d have,

through the sharp-edged hours,

through the long, aching nights

where even hope feels heavy.

And still, it stays.

So I will meet it here,

in the middle of the mess—

not with anger,

but with open hands.

I will soften

where I once clenched.

I will rest

without calling it defeat.

I will honor

the quiet, stubborn courage

of simply being alive

inside this body.

Because even in pain,

even in limitation,

it is still mine—

and it is still trying

to carry me home.