I Need to Move, I Need to Feel

A woman laying on her back on a mat on the floor

I need to move.

Not because I am running from what happened.

But because I am learning that my body deserves to experience something beyond survival.

I need to move my arms.

To feel my feet connecting with the earth.

To sway.

To stretch.

To breathe.

To allow the rhythm of my own body to guide me.

I need to cry.

Not because I am weak.

Not because I am falling apart.

But because there are tears I have not yet allowed myself to express.

And when they come, I want to give them room.

I need to feel my emotions.

The grief.

The tenderness.

The anger.

The relief.

The love.

The extraordinary vulnerability of allowing myself to be seen.

I need to be held.

Not restrained.

Not controlled.

Not told what I should feel.

Held.

With tenderness.

With consent.

With patience.

With the understanding that I do not need to explain my tears.

I need someone who can be present without asking me to become smaller.

I need room for my body to move.

Room for my voice to make sound.

Room for my breath to deepen naturally.

Room for my knee to be supported.

Room for the places that feel tight to soften when they can.

Room for the emotions that have been waiting for my attention.

And when I am tired,

I need room to rest.

Because rest is not the opposite of healing.

Stillness is not failure.

And I do not have to exhaust myself to prove that something is changing.

I can move when movement feels supportive.

I can cry when tears arrive.

I can ask to be held when I need connection.

I can listen when my body asks met o slow down.

There is room for all of it.

For movement.

For tears.

For sound.

For silence.

For compassion.

For the woman who is learning to live within her body with greater tenderness.

I am allowed to move.

I am allowed to feel.

I am allowed to cry.

I am allowed to be held.

And I am allowed to heal without forcing a single thing.

— Julie Jewels Smoot