You are more than you can see
my body changed faster than I could handle; here’s how she’s showing me strength
I wrote this last night, when the moon was full, and my body was too full of pain to finish. Today, pain is punctuating every moment, and yet I want to give voice to the vulnerability.
I want to share from the shadows of my story.
I want to let my words be a witness back to myself of who I am—and to you, of who you remain—because when weakness wrestles us to the ground for too long, the soul-amnesia just blocks out too much light. So, these are the maybe-too-honest, written-from-the-middle (unedited cuz I’m too sick to do more) words that I have today—told as true as I can tell em. Started last night, finished today. CW: medical trauma.
This is my survival: telling a better story.
May the children of our hearts who remain scared of the dark hear a kind voice in these words. May the advocates within us rise up to be heard, helped, and healed. May the jaded cynics in us hear someone undeniably kind calling our name. May the hopeless parts of us realize they are safe to come out of hiding and just be held. And may the fullness of the strange story of Love surround and soften every sharp storyline you and I are living today.
God, tell us a better story. We’ll repeat it until it feels true. But we need it to include you.
Light of the World, let these sentences be a shelter and candle to our shadows this night.
We believe there is a Light shining in the darkness—including in us—and the darkness cannot snuff it out.
August 31, 2023
Tonight, the moon is full. At her broadest, she brings the most light. The stars can shine, painting gilded shapes in the sky. But the full moon—it is her glow that can help us find.
Under her fullness, we can find our footing. We can wander longer through dark streets. We can step securely toward home with more safety, seeing both our feet and the way forward by her fullness—even if just a little more.
It is good, good, to be writing to you right now. Each time I’ve attempted to string together some sentences for you, I’ve been too woozy or too exhausted to hold my body up or too confused for the words to end up in your inboxes making much sense. So, I’ve waited. I’ve practiced what I preach—that productivity always takes a backseat to personhood.
Tonight, I am too full to not find the words. I am too cratered by the chaos in my body to not cry out. I am too angry at the audacity of Evil—or Satan or whatever spirit of darkness my oddly-deconstructed self still doesn’t comfortably know how to name—to chain so many of our lives to pain.
For those who are new here or have missed a few editions of Embodied, I’ve been in the hardest medical crisis of my life since, essentially, June 28th. I’m too traumatized to tell the story again here, but you can read older editions1 and recent Instagram posts.2 And I’ll share a tiny bit more towards the end of this letter, because, frankly, I need you to hold some of the weight of hope with me.
Today, I missed my face.
I more than missed my face; I misliked my face. To keep me alive through so many rounds of severe anaphylaxis and the storm that hasn’t stopped raging since, my doctors have me on high dose prednisone (steroids). This isn’t new territory for me—I even have a blessing in The Book of Common Courage aimed at acceptance of my own expanding face during a previous intense bout of illness—words for each of us that struggle to see the shape of our bodies as good.3
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Embodied to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.