I’ve written a lot lately about what my body has been through: the medical records, the surgeries, the trauma, the tests, and the fear that can still show up even when the results are normal.

I think part of the reason this has been so close to the surface is that recently I’ve been writing my memoir, Pieces of Me. I have been living with all of this for 31 years, so I am not just now trying to make sense of my story. In many ways, I have made sense of it the only way I knew how: by living it, adapting, getting up, figuring out what my body needed, and learning how to move forward even when life looked nothing like I thought it would.

But writing about it is different than living through it.

Writing asks me to go back. To remember. To sit with the girl I was when everything changed. To read words in my medical records that describe things my body endured before I even had the language to fully understand them. And sometimes, even after 31 years, those feelings still rise to the surface.

For so many years, my body was the place where things went wrong. It was the place of pain, surgery, scars, scans, hospital rooms, unanswered questions, and unexpected complications. It was the body that forced me to grow up too fast. The body that changed my teenage years. The body that carried an ileostomy before I even fully understood what that would mean for the rest of my life.

So when I say I am learning to trust my body again, I do not mean that in a simple, pretty, everything-is-fine kind of way. I mean I am learning how to live inside a body that has scared me before.

And that is complicated.

Because when your body has been through a lot, you learn to pay attention. You notice every pain, every change, every strange symptom, and every twinge that feels different than the last one. You wonder if it is nothing. You wonder if it is something. You wonder if this is the moment you should push through or the moment you should call the doctor.

And honestly, that kind of awareness is not weakness. It is survival.

My body taught me early that symptoms can matter. Pain can mean something. Things can change quickly. Life can be interrupted by one appointment, one test result, one hospital stay, or one surgery. So, of course, I became watchful. Of course, I learned to scan. Of course, my mind sometimes jumps ahead before my heart has a chance to catch up.

That is what happens when your body has not always felt safe.

But lately, I have been realizing there is a difference between listening to my body and interrogating it. There is a difference between being aware and being afraid. There is a difference between taking care of myself and living braced for the next bad thing.

And I am trying to learn that difference.

I am trying to remind myself that every ache is not an emergency. Every symptom is not a disaster. Every appointment is not automatically bad news. Every test is not the beginning of another hard chapter. Sometimes my body is tired because it is tired. Sometimes my body hurts because it has been through a lot. Sometimes my body needs rest, water, movement, nourishment, or simply a little compassion.

And sometimes, yes, my body needs medical care. I am not trying to ignore that. I will always take my health seriously because I know what can happen when things are not taken seriously.

But I also do not want fear to be the only voice I listen to.

That is the part I am working on. I am trying to trust myself enough to know when something needs attention, but also trust myself enough not to spiral every time something feels off. I am trying to speak to my body differently. Not, “What is wrong with you now?” but, “What do you need from me today?”

That shift may sound small, but for me, it feels big.

There have been seasons when I felt frustrated with my body. Not because I hated it, but because I was tired of how much it had to carry. I wanted it to be easier. I wanted it to be predictable. I wanted to be able to move through life without always factoring in symptoms, energy, digestion, pain, appointments, medications, scars, and the emotional weight of past trauma.

But my body is not the enemy.

My body is the reason I am still here.

That is something I have to remind myself of often. This body survived Crohn’s disease. This body survived surgeries. This body adjusted to life with an ileostomy. This body carried me through grief, motherhood, marriage, work, road trips, family moments, ordinary days, and days I did not know how I would get through.

This body has not only been the place where hard things happened. It has also been the body that kept going.

And maybe trusting my body again starts there.

Not with pretending nothing bad ever happened. Not with forcing myself to be positive every second. Not with ignoring fear when it shows up. But with learning to see my body as something worthy of care, not criticism. Something that deserves patience. Something that has fought hard for me, even when I was frustrated with it.

I think many of us have places within ourselves where trust has been broken. Maybe for you, it is not medical trauma. Maybe it is grief, anxiety, a diagnosis, an injury, or a body that changed after pregnancy, age, stress, or loss. Maybe your body no longer looks, feels, moves, or responds the way it used to.

Maybe you have caught yourself feeling frustrated with your body, too. Maybe you have wondered why it cannot just cooperate. Maybe you have felt betrayed by your own exhaustion, your own pain, your own limits, or your own fear.

I understand that feeling.

But I also think we can learn a new way. A softer way. A way that says, “I am listening, but I am not going to panic.” A way that says, “I will take care of you, but I will not punish you for needing care.” A way that says, “You have been through a lot, and I am grateful you are still carrying me.”

That does not mean I do this perfectly. I don’t. There are still days when fear wins first. There are still days when I feel a symptom, and my mind immediately runs ahead. There are still days when I have to talk myself back down and remind myself: not this time. We are not going down that rabbit hole today.

But I am learning.

I am learning that trusting my body does not mean believing it will never hurt again. It does not mean believing I will never have another hard medical day. It does not mean I will never feel scared.

Trusting my body means I am learning to stay connected to myself instead of abandoning myself in fear. It means I can notice something without immediately assuming the worst. It means I can care for my body without resenting it. It means I can be honest about what I have been through and still believe there is joy to be found here, in this body, in this life, on this day.

And that is where I am right now.

Still healing. Still listening. Still reminding myself that my body is not just a record of pain. It is a record of survival. It is a record of strength. It is a record of every ordinary and beautiful thing I am still here to experience.

So I am learning to trust it again.

Slowly, gently, one day at a time.