What am I grieving today, just today?

As I continue navigating these uncharted waters, I’ve come to recognize that I’ve been quietly grieving parts of myself—not all at once, but in small, almost imperceptible moments.

Today, one of those parts is my old physique.

Over the past year, my metabolism has slowed in ways my body made impossible to ignore. Yes, there were more cravings—but there was also a shift toward nourishment that felt fuller, more textured than a life of salads alone. I began to experience my body through new senses. I traced the curves of my chest, my stomach, my back. I noticed—without rushing to fix—the space my vessel now occupies. Not with shame, but with awareness.

Stress has a way of settling into the body. My face softened. My midsection held more. I began to understand that my system was no longer buffering cortisol the way it once had. Grief stagnated. My body spoke what my mind was still trying to outrun.

Around the same time, a long-anticipated job—one I had welcomed as a new beginning—quietly unraveled. I had entered it with intention, building safeguards, tending relationships, and practicing presence. I told myself I was ready not just to walk through the mud, but to move with it. To learn from it.

What I learned instead was this: effort without support eventually asks the body to carry more than it should.

Without meaningful backing from leadership, I found myself navigating a coercive, intimidating environment—one marked by constant surveillance and erosion of trust. My physical body absorbed the impact. My mental well-being became a proving ground for every therapeutic tool I had been learning.

Still, I survived.

Through sleepless nights, tear-streaked mornings, green-goo afternoons, anxiety-fueled eating, and an unstructured relationship with nourishment, I was gently—but firmly—invited to revisit my relationship with movement. Not as punishment. Not as control. But as care.

I returned to exercise in small, intentional ways. Five to ten minutes a day. Simple calisthenics. Just enough to reclaim breath, circulation, presence. It became something I could weave into daily life—while prepping a meal, upon waking, or beside my bed before sleep. Some days I resisted. Some days discipline arrived softly, without ceremony.

And there it was—the meeting point between desire and discipline.

I began to understand that part of my whimsical self needed rest to make room for steadiness. I am grieving that free-spirited, messy warrior—the one who once thrived without structure in the midst of constant chaos.

This season, shaped by lived experience and embodied reckoning, is asking me to redefine discipline—not as rigidity, but as reverence. I am learning to honor my non-negotiables. To tend my mornings. To recognize when enough truly is enough.

And yes, there is grief here too—the grief of releasing old stories.

The inner voice that once felt like a relentless narrator in my mind has softened. It’s quieter now. Less insistent. In its place, there is more room for playfulness, curiosity, and gentleness—with myself, with the world, and with Milo, my steady companion in this unfolding chapter.

On the harder days, the dialogue in my head is kinder. On the quieter days, I notice joy resting in stillness. Presence, I’m learning, doesn’t require perfection—only willingness.

Till next time,

My question to you: What are you grieving today—just today? And what practice, ritual, or gesture of care helps you meet the weight of it with compassion?