My body tells a story. One of love and one of loss.

It tells a story of both tragedy and triumph.

My body tells the story of my greatest joys and my deepest pains.

My body tells the tale of a young, adventurous girl who rollerbladed without knee pads and played flag football with the boys. It tells of Saturday fishing trips with my father and not so smooth landings.

My body is a diary of sorts.

It tells stories of miracles and messes.

My body is a testament of resiliency.

At times, like a fairy tale, where my good things that came in three are marked with a scar and stretch marks that race to the “finish line.” Marked by more scars that remind me where my ovaries once resided.

Plot twists marked by port and mastectomy scars.

My body tells a story of survival.

Like all great stories, my body has taught me many lessons.

Lessons of love, of gratitude, of grace and patience.

I have learned how to love all my body, my story, because it’s mine.

I have not always understood, loved and cared for it the way I should have. Even when I felt like I would never get to the “good parts,” like chapters and pages were being torn and ripped out, there was always a happy ending.

I’ve learned how to appreciate the “hard parts.” My body tells a story that goes beyond the surface; it’s deep, complex, and powerful. I often remind myself that when you read things in the mirror, they’re reflected backward.

So, I’ve learned to read my story through the lens of its author whose pen has perfected all my imperfections.

My body is both a work in progress and a literary masterpiece.

My body tells a story.