Zebra Seeking Spoons

I am learning

to speak to my body

like it is listening—

because it is.

Not a battlefield,

not a broken machine,

not something to fix

or fight into submission.

But a place

I live.

Some days,

it trembles under storms

I did not invite—

lightning in the joints,

rainclouds in the nerves,

a forecast that never quite clears.

And still—

it carries me.

Even when the steps are small,

even when “today” is measured

in breaths instead of miles,

in spoons instead of plans,

in survival instead of striving.

I am learning

to thank it

for what remains.

For the way my lungs

keep opening like quiet doors.

For the rhythm of a heart

that refuses to give up on me.

For hands that still reach,

even when they shake.

I am learning

to loosen the grip

of disappointment—

to stop asking

why it cannot be who it once was,

and start honoring

who it is now.

A body

that adapts.

That endures.

That whispers,

“Stay.”

So I stay.

I wrap myself in softer words.

I rest without apology.

I listen when it says enough,

even when the world says more.

This is not surrender—

this is care.

This is love

that does not depend

on strength or productivity,

but on presence.

And maybe

that is the bravest thing:

to live inside a hurting body

and choose,

again and again,

to call it home.