To the Woman Who Feels Disconnected from Her Body

A letter for the quiet ache you’ve been carrying

Dear love,

I know you.

Not in the way of names or timelines,

but in the way your hands hesitate

before they land on your own skin.

In the way you go still, too still,

when touch starts to mean something.

In the hollow hum beneath the surface

that whispers, “I should feel more than this”.

I know how it feels to live just slightly outside yourself.

To move through the day like a performance,

while somewhere beneath the surface,

your body waits.

Watches.

Wonders if you’ll ever come back.

This isn’t your fault.

You learned, maybe early on,

that being in your body was not safe.

Too much, too fast, too confusing.

Or maybe just invisible.

You learned how to leave yourself to survive.

And that leaving became habit.

And that habit became disconnection.

And now here you are,

aware, awake, aching

and unsure of how to return.

But you can come back.

And not in one sudden wave of healing,

but in a thousand small moments of remembering.

The way warm water feels on your back,

the moment your breath slows and your shoulders drop.

The press of your own palm against your chest

just to feel.

Start there.

Not with a goal.

Not to “get somewhere.”

But to practice presence.

To learn the shape of your own aliveness again.

To speak to your body not like a stranger

but like a lover long missed.

Say:

“I’m listening”.

“I’m sorry I left”.

“I want to know you again”.

And then be willing to stay when nothing happens.

Because that is part of it too

The waiting

The softness

The allowing.

You don’t need to force your way back in.

You just need to make it safe to return.

Take your time.

Go slow.

Rest in the knowing that your body has never given up on you.

She is still here.

Still humming with wisdom.

Still aching to feel.

And when you’re ready

She’ll open.

She always does.

With you,

for you,

as you.

Come home, love.

It’s time.