I used to walk before I tip-toed. I used to sing before I whispered. I used to cry before I endured.

My colorful shorts had dirt stains on them from sitting on the park bench. I heard cheering for my brother’s baseball team in the distance. In my own little world, I opened my little pink journal and put bulky headphones on. There were words that poured out of my fingers onto a page with tears ridden on the sides. I had no proper language for the strangeness I felt.

I wouldn’t say I was the type of kid that had no friends. In fact, I was always at a friends house. I didn’t get home sick or miss my mom like the other kids did. I enjoyed the attention of other parents so much. They praised me for being so mature, so thoughtful. I was a kind soul to everyone but myself.

I feel like my body has always ached. My stomach brews an emotion so deep it can’t be thrown up. I feel fuzz in my brain but pain in my chest. My brain and my body begin to disconnect. Which one was doing this to the other? What is wrong with me?

I remember looking in a mirror, seeing a little girl look back at me. She’s so small, her face full and nose undefined. Her eyes look darker and heavier then she feels like they should. I stared at her as I put her hair into a bun for ballet. Pulling, twisting, arms getting tired. I couldn’t get it right that day. I laid in bed crying the rest of the night instead of going.

“You are the most stressed out kid I’ve ever seen,” My mom would say. “What do you even have to be stressed about?”

Everything, mom. God, I was a kid worried about everything. I was being buried alive and didn’t know why. I wrote in my journals about never being good enough and failing everyone around me. I was just a child, I hadn’t even been relied on for anything enough to fail someone that badly. While so many people talk about the ease of childhood, the lack of worries, I thank god I’m not there anymore.

I forgot about how long I’ve felt like this until I found those journals one day when I was older. I cried and cried at the thought of my little toothless self feeling inadequate of living. I hadn’t even done anything yet. I started out my childhood with a love for Just Dance and singing Britney Spears songs. How did the light leave my eyes before I could even sit in the front seat of a car?

My body. How I had been so cruel to it. I had no value for it. My body was my enemy. My body was given the punishment of my thoughts. For that I am so, so sorry. I wish I could say I was a careless and fun kid. I wish I could say that I loved myself.

Growing older, I know my unruly body is one that deserves the kindness it bestows to others. She should sing Britney Spears and play Just Dance. She should get rest and do the things she enjoys. She is me and I am her. My brain and body are still working on their relationship, but they’re beginning to understand how they are endlessly connected. While I have to undo a mindset that I’ve had my whole life, nothing makes me feel more at peace than the thought of feeling okay with myself. Just laying in the grass, quietly, feeling the wind and just the wind.

My unruly body thanks me, finally.