Zebra Seeking Spoons

There are days I look at my body
like a roadblock,
like a locked door standing between me
and the life I ache to reach.

The plans I penciled in,
the places I wanted to go,
the version of me that moved freely
without calculating cost in spoons and symptoms—
I grieve her still.

I grieve the canceled moments,
the empty chairs,
the promises whispered to myself
that pain unraveled by morning.

But I am learning
that my body is not a thief.

It did not wake up and choose storms.
It did not ask for aching joints,
burning nerves,
or exhaustion heavy enough
to make mountains out of ordinary things.

My body is not standing against me
on the battlefield.
It is standing beside me,
bloodied and exhausted,
still trying to carry me through.

Still breathing.
Still beating.
Still fighting battles
I cannot always see.

So today I will not call it broken.
I will not punish it
for the places it cannot go.

I will speak to it
the way I would speak to someone I love:

I know this is hard.
I know you are hurting.
Thank you for trying anyway.

Because compassion is not pretending
that loss does not hurt.

It is holding grief in one hand
and gentleness in the other,
and choosing to love the body
that carries you through the fire—
even when it cannot carry you
where you hoped to be.