Not A War

I used to wake like a soldier—
bracing,
armoring my breath
against the ambush of my own bones.

Every ache was an enemy,
every flare a betrayal,
my body a battlefield
I was determined to win.

But war is exhausting
when you live inside both sides.

So I set down my weapons—
not in defeat,
but in something softer,
something braver.

Now I listen.

Not for silence—
I’ve stopped asking for that—
but for language.

The low hum in my spine says slow.
The sharp spark in my joints says enough.
The deep, heavy ache says
stay, rest, be held by stillness.

And I answer.

Not perfectly—
I still forget,
still push,
still mourn the version of me
who could run without asking permission.

But more often now,
I move like a conversation
instead of a command.

I pace my steps
like I’m walking beside someone I love.
I rest
like it matters—because it does.
I soften
when my body tightens in fear.

We are learning each other again,
my body and I—
not as enemies,
not even as strangers,
but as partners
in a life that asks for tenderness.

There are still storms.
There are still days
when pain roars louder than reason.

But even then,
I try to remember—

this body is not the cage,
not the cause,
not the thing to conquer.

It is the home
that stayed
when everything else changed.

So I stay too.

And together,
we find a way forward—
not by force,
but by listening.