Embodiment as Healing

Lately, I’ve been feeling triggered in ways that caught me off guard. A familiar ache rose in my chest when I noticed old connections resurfacing. These were people who saw me at my lowest, people who disappeared when I needed gentleness, people whose judgment still lingers in the corners of my memory.

It hit me. They witnessed a version of me that wasn’t my truth. They saw me in survival mode: overwhelmed, grieving, unraveling. They mistook that moment for who I was.

And that hurt.

Not because I want them back. Not because their opinions matter now. But because a part of me remembers how alone I felt during a season where I needed softness the most.

I realized I wasn’t just sad about what they thought of me. I was grieving the girl I was back then. The girl who didn’t feel seen, protected, or understood.

People left.

People judged.

People said things like, “I see the light behind your scars,” then vanished as if none of it mattered.

All of that abandonment lived quietly in my heart and shoulders, waiting for a moment like this.

And then something shifted.

When the sadness rose, I didn’t run from it. I didn’t numb it. I didn’t bury it. I turned toward myself instead.

I lit candles in my living room and let the room soften. I turned on my Embodiment Playlist, the songs that remind me of my power and softness -- the woman I am becoming. I made hot tea, slipped into white lingerie, and stood in the mirror ready to pour life back into myself. I looked myself in the eyes and said:

“I’m here for you.

I see you.

I love you.

You will get through this.

You are more than who you had to become in survival.

You didn’t deserve the pain your parents caused you.

You are radiant and deserving of love, especially from yourself.”

After that, I danced.

Slow and upbeat intentional movements that helped my heart open. My shoulders relaxed. My breath deepened. It felt like I was returning to myself in real time.

For the first time in a long time, I felt held. By me.

This time, I didn’t abandon myself. This time, I stayed even when it was tough.

Maybe that is what healing truly is.

Not pretending the past didn’t hurt, but recognizing that the person you are now has the strength, compassion, and clarity that the old version of you deserved.

A version who stays.

A version who comforts.

A version who reclaims the story.

I’m learning that old wounds resurface when you’re finally strong enough to release them. This sadness is not regression. It is cleansing.

It is my spirit saying, “We can let this go now.” And I am.

Slowly. Tenderly. With my whole heart.