The Body Remembers Everything: for those carrying what no one saw

It didn’t happen all at once.
No fire,
no crash,
no headline.
Just years of small silences
stacked like bricks.

A slammed door.
A voice that didn’t soften.
A hand that hovered,
then didn’t.
A love that came
with teeth.

And still—
you grew.
You smiled in photographs.
You learned how to laugh
without letting it reach your chest.

But the body,
oh, the body
is a terrible archivist.
It keeps it all.
The trembling.
The quiet.
The way you learned to leave the room
without moving.

They call it
too sensitive.
Overreacting.
But they don’t know
how sharp a spoon sounds
when you’ve lived on alert.

How exhausting it is
to trust.
To rest.
To stay.

Some days,
healing feels like betrayal.
Like letting go
of the only rules
that ever kept you safe.

But you are safe now.
Even if your bones don’t believe it.
Even if your breath still skips
like a scratched record.

This is not brokenness.
This is survival
in a body that never got to exhale.

Let it tremble.
Let it shake.

You made it.

You made it.

You are still here.
And that is a kind of miracle
they will never understand.