There are moments when you catch yourself in the mirror
and feel like a guest in your own skin.
Not because you’ve changed,
but because you’ve never really arrived.
Your body has always felt like a space that others enter—
with opinions, expectations, and entitlement.
A territory to be judged, touched, admired, corrected,
but never truly asked.
And somewhere along the way,
you learned how to let them in
before you even learned how to come home to yourself.
The Early Transfer of Ownership
The world starts claiming your body before you do.
“You’re so pretty.”
“Smile for me.”
“Don’t sit like that.”
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
“You’re developing early.”
“You’ll break hearts someday.”
Each comment—innocent or not—
etches itself into your understanding of value.
It says: Your body exists to be seen.
To be wanted. To be pleasing.
And it begins.
The slow disassociation.
The subtle shift from being in your body
to constantly monitoring how it appears to others.
You don’t get to explore your body as a place of comfort,
curiosity, or connection.
You learn it as a performance. A product. A projection.
The Myth of Choice
It’s easy to think you’re choosing when you say yes,
when you dress up, when you allow touch, when you flirt.
But what if your yes was trained?
What if your “choice” was survival?
You learn to anticipate the gaze.
To soften your voice.
To laugh even when it’s not funny.
To tolerate comments that make your skin crawl,
because rejecting them feels dangerous—
or worse, like you’ll disappear altogether.
And when you're always being seen but never consulted,
your body becomes something you manage, not something you inhabit.
Touched, But Not Considered
Being touched is not the same as being met.
Being wanted is not the same as being respected.
And yet, you are taught to feel grateful when someone desires you—
even if it’s hollow. Even if it erases you.
So you stay still.
You smile.
You go along with what’s expected.
And afterward, you wonder:
Why didn’t I say no?
Why did I let it happen again?
Why does my body feel like a place I abandoned the moment it needed me?
Because it was never truly yours to begin with.
The Hidden Cost
When your body belongs to everyone but you,
you become an expert in disconnection.
You eat when others do.
You deny hunger when it’s inconvenient.
You cover up your pain to remain attractive.
You exercise not to feel strong—but to stay small.
You have sex not because you want to—but because it feels easier than saying no.
And slowly, you forget what you like.
What feels good.
What brings you joy.
What brings you home.
You know how to dress for approval,
but not how to dress for comfort.
You know how to be looked at,
but not how to be in your body.
You become a shape.
A surface.
A costume that others find beautiful—
while you, the person underneath, slowly vanish.
Reclaiming What Was Always Yours
But here’s what no one tells you:
You can take it back.
You can reclaim your body—not as an object,
but as your origin.
Your shelter.
Your instrument.
Your self.
It begins not with defiance,
but with curiosity.
What does it feel like to touch your skin
without judgment?
To move your body not for aesthetics,
but for aliveness?
To dress for your own delight?
What does it mean to ask your body how it feels—
and actually listen?
Reclamation is not a single act.
It’s a series of tiny choices:
To eat when you’re hungry.
To rest when you’re tired.
To say no when it’s a no.
To say yes only when you mean it.
To grieve the years you lived as a stranger to yourself—
and to celebrate every moment you begin coming home.
Your Body Was Never Meant to Be a Museum
You were not made to be looked at.
You were not born for approval.
You were not put on this earth to be consumed.
Your body is not public property.
It is not open for interpretation or validation.
It is not a placeholder for someone else’s desire.
Your body is yours.
To dance with.
To breathe in.
To feel inside of.
To speak from.
To trust.
And every time you return to it—
in softness, in silence, in rage, in pleasure—
you rewrite the story they wrote without your consent.
Coming Home
You may never forget what it felt like
to be wanted more than known.
To be praised but not protected.
To be touched but not understood.
But now you know better.
Now you know:
You don’t owe anyone your body.
You don’t owe anyone your silence.
You don’t owe anyone a version of you that erases your truth.
You belong to yourself.
Not to the gaze.
Not to the story they projected.
Not to the past that tried to claim you.
You are home.
You are whole.
You are yours.
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