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I love my body because I am strong. I can lift heavy things and do the kind of work that fragility wouldn’t allow.

I love my body because I can dance. I love to let music travel up my spine and translate rhythms into closed eyes and moving hips.

I love my body because I can get out of bed every morning, and walk out of my home. This body takes me where I need to go.

And I love my body because it is the map of my 32 years, from scar to scar to freckle to every curve born of muscle or laziness.

But.

I hate that I don’t understand what goes on inside my body.

I hate that I don’t see beauty in my body, but a set of flaws I need to address.

I hate that I listened to the wrong voices when I was putting my physical self-image in place.

I hate that I cannot give my body what it aches for, what I believe will complete me somehow.

But.

I love that my body’s journey is not over yet.

I love that I can accept pain as a part of my life — but not as the defining element.

I love that someday I will give this body to someone who loves me more than the stars.

And I love that for all the hurt and frustration I bear, I still have the will to keep moving.

It’s a tenuous balance at times, but it’s what I have. And what I intend to keep.