Some Days My Body Weighs Like Stone, Yet I Carry It Close
This morning, I woke up with my body feeling heavy, the kind of heavy that makes you want to stay wrapped in blankets and pretend the world is a little quieter. My bones pressed into the mattress, and every part of me seemed to say, Not yet. I lay there, not rushing. Just breathing, letting my belly rise and fall under the soft old T-shirt I wore to bed. The shirt is faded, stretched at the collar, and smells a little like shea butter and last night’s lavender oil. It’s the one I reach for when I need to feel held, even if it’s just by cotton and memory.
Some days, my body feels like stone. Not in a bad way, exactly, but in a way that reminds me how real I am, how much space I take up. My thighs, my belly, the soft roundness under my chin—all of it has weight, and sometimes that weight feels like a secret I’m carrying. Other times, it’s just the truth of being alive in this skin. I think about how my grandma used to say, “Baby, you gotta love the flesh you’re in. It’s the only home you got.” I hear her voice when I’m pulling on my favorite sweatpants, the ones with the little hole by the knee, and I smile. I love the way they cling in all the right places and give in the ones that need it.
There’s a quiet joy in getting dressed slow. I run my hands over my arms, feeling softness and stretch marks, the gentle landscape of me. Some days, the mirror tries to tell me stories about not being enough, but I’ve learned to talk back. I say, “Look at you, carrying all that softness and still getting up.” I wiggle my toes into thick socks, laugh at how my belly peeks out when I reach for the kettle. I used to hide that, tuck it away under stiff jeans or long shirts. Now I let it show, let it breathe. Fat joy is real, and I find it in the smallest places—the way my body fits into a chair just right, the way my laughter shakes my chest.
There’s a quiet confidence that comes from knowing your body is yours, even when it feels like stone. I carry it close because it’s mine, because it’s held me through every day, every soft morning and every hard one too. I think about how my Black, queer body has always been a little bit of rebellion, a little bit of celebration. Some days I forget what a miracle that is, to be here and be soft and be loved.
So I pour my coffee, let it warm my hands, and sit by the window with my heavy, beautiful body. I watch the world wake up slow. Today, I’ll carry myself with care, stone and softness both. Some days that’s all I can do, and that’s more than enough.
I breathe out, grateful for the weight and the wonder of being here, in this body, right now.