I Just Didn’t Recognize Her

By Lisa R. Conner

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I have spent much of my life trying to change my body.

Lose weight.

Exercise more.

Eat differently.

Sleep better.

Drink more water.

Take the supplements.

Hit the numbers.

Reach the goal.

There is nothing inherently wrong with those things.

Many of them are healthy.

Many of them have helped me.

But lately, I have realized something I wish I had understood decades ago.

I had confused caring for my body…

…with trying to improve her.

There is a difference.

One afternoon, while I was out riding my bike, a thought came to me so gently that I almost missed it.

My body is not my project.

She is my best friend.

I know how to love a best friend.

I know how to notice when she is tired.

How to celebrate her victories.

How to sit quietly beside her when she is hurting.

How to offer grace after a difficult day.

I would never shame my best friend for changing.

I would never criticize her for having scars.

I would never ignore her when she asked me to slow down.

I would never intentionally give the things that made her feel worse.

So why would I do those things to my own body?

That question has stayed with me.

Especially after everything she has done.

She carried my babies.

She lifted me to the tops of mountains.

She let me feel the warmth of the sun on my face.

The freedom of a breeze moving through my long, crazy hair.

She carried me through laughter.

Through tears.

Through work that mattered.

Through love.

Through heartbreak.

Through healing.

Through illness.

Through reinvention.

She held my children.

Now she cradles my first grandchild.

She has carried me through an extraordinary life.

She has never stopped showing up for me.

Even on the days when I misunderstood her.

Even on the days when I wished she looked different.

Even on the days when I judged her more harshly than I would ever judge someone I love.

She stayed.

She waited.

She kept showing up.

That deserves my respect.

Lately, I have been creating small rituals.

Because this is how I want to love my best friend.

More water.

More protein.

More vegetables.

More movement.

More sleep.

More time in nature.

More quiet.

More laughter.

More fun.

No more punishment.

Only partnership.

I am beginning to understand that relationships are built in ordinary moments.

A glass of water.

A nourishing meal.

A walk.

A bike ride.

A good night’s sleep.

Listening instead of pushing.

Resting instead of proving.

Showing up.

Again.

And again.

The scale now lives underneath my bed.

Not because weight doesn’t matter.

Because it no longer gets to define this relationship.

It can tell me what I weigh.

It cannot tell me how alive I feel.

It cannot measure my strength.

My power.

My energy.

My peace.

My curiosity.

The joy I feel riding my bike.

The gratitude I feel waking up to another beautiful day.

Those are my barometers now.

Have you ever thanked your body?

Not because she met a standard.

Not because she looked a certain way.

Not because she performed perfectly.

Simply because she stayed.

Because she has been with you since your very first breath.

Because she has carried every version of you.

Because she has quietly walked beside you through every ordinary day…

…and every life-changing one.

Maybe the most faithful relationship we will ever have is the one we have with our own body.

Mine has been waiting for me to notice.

To listen.

To trust her.

To care for her with the same tenderness I would offer someone I deeply love.

It took me a lifetime to recognize our friendship.

Now I get to love her back.

Living in curiosity,

Lisa

Lisa R. Conner is a writer, coach, REALTOR, and entrepreneur based in Alaska. She is the author of Casa Renae: Outgrowing Your Story & Coming Home to Yourself and writes Fireweed & Flannel as a place for honest reflections on reinvention, courage, identity, grief, real estate, and the wild beauty of becoming.