Yesterday we talked about the sinking feeling of not belonging, whether it’s at the gym, a new fitness class or anything we might’ve tried a few times. I remember distinctly that when I felt like I didn’t belong, I’d blame my body. Why wasn’t I thin enough? Then I’d surely feel better. Why couldn’t I run that fast? Then I wouldn’t feel so out of place. And so on.

When we get consumed with insecure thoughts, we forget just how amazing our bodies are and the many things they’ve done for us. So today I wanted to remind you (and me, too) about the many beautiful stories our bodies tell. I wanted to celebrate our bodies and all they are. That’s why I’m reposting this poem from April. I hope you enjoy it!


My legs have stories to tell.

When I was a little girl,

they pushed me down the mini snow-covered hills

in my sled,

outside my home in Moscow.

They wobbled and swayed

as my dad played his bayan.

I can still feel that joy.

They helped me peddle

through the streets of an Italian city.

My bike found in the trash, and

brought back to life by my cousins.

Throughout the years, they’ve moved

to the tune of moody music

and fast tracks.

They’ve walked, for hours,

through the streets of Brooklyn,

my late grandma and I side-by-side,

gabbing, gossiping and giggling.

They strolled along museums, galleries

big and small, and

in Central Park

in awe.

My legs have hiked,

run when I didn’t think I could and

tried to conquer the bunny slope one winter at the Poconos.

(That thing is hard!)

They let me live out my ballerina dreams,

one pointed toe at a time.

They’ve shopped ’til we dropped

with my mom.

They’ve propelled me

higher and higher on the swings,

one of my favorite childhood pastimes.

When I truly felt free and fearless.

My arms have stories to tell, too.

They’ve hugged loved ones.

Held new life.

Someday hoping to hold my own.

They’ve cuddled my 16-year-old kitty.

They’ve curled weights and made me feel strong.

They’ve helped my kayak glide

through the bright blue waters of the Caribbean.

My hands have stories to tell, too.

My hands have held an apple as I chomped with pure glee.

Or a spoon as I’ve chomped on chocolate chip ice cream

or a chewy, gooey brownie,

finally without shame, guilt or desperation.

My hands have cupped my boyfriend’s face

as we’re kissing.

My hands have written silly stories

and become vehicles for my passion.

They’ve thumbed through pages

of old, dusty books

in different cities.

My body has stories to tell,

and I want to hear them.

Instead of letting diets,

dull dreams,

destructive expectations

and the outside world

shut my body up.

Every day,

I work

to shut them out.

My body has stories to tell,

and I want to hear them.

Let yours speak, too.

P.S., Be sure to check out Golda’s beautiful post on making amends with your body.