Welcome to Being Human

You’re coming soon. 

I can feel you growing—tumbling this way and that, reaching out with your little hands, and your little feet. There's a bump I think is your little bottom.

I want to tell you some things before you arrive. Once you’re here, your body will remember some things about who you are now, but the memory of wherever you were and whoever you knew before will start to fade.

You’re getting a 'body'. It might feel like a strange arrangement at first. You’ve never had edges before; you’ve never ended where something else began. That hard line between you and "not-you" can be disorienting. Don’t panic. The edges are simply how we encounter the world.

The body is not a container. It is a conversation. It will try to speak to you. Hunger, warmth, the ache of a quiet room—these are all ways your body reaches out. You won’t have a translation guide at first. That’s okay. You’ll learn the language of being alive just by living.

There will be pain. I wish I could shield you from it. Sometimes pain is a signal, a way for the body to say "pay attention to this problem." Other times, it is your burden, a boundary you have to cope with. It is never a punishment, and it is never your fault. It's the weight of having a shape. When the message is too loud or the burden too heavy, remember that you don’t have to do this alone.

There will be light. It lands on things and makes them visible, which means some things will always be in shadow. You’ll learn to navigate the places you can see and be gentle with yourself in the places you can't.

There will be other bodies. They can show you how to hold a spoon or how to breathe when you’re afraid. Other people are wonderful witnesses, but your experience is yours alone. Their rhythm is not your rhythm. Learning what belongs to you and what was handed to you by mistake is a skill called discernment, and it will serve you forever.

There is a wisdom in your stillness. You don’t always have to be reaching or learning or doing. Sometimes, the most important thing your body can do is simply be still. Your heart beats and your lungs expand without you asking them to; you can let them lead for a while. Rest is not a reward for work—it is the quiet space where your "conversation" with your body gathers its breath. 

Some people may try to tell you how to feel. They might say "you’re fine" when you aren’t, or "calm down" when your heart is racing. They might think your sensitivity is a problem, rather than a unique way of feeling the world. When that happens, remember: your instrument is not broken. It is tuned to a frequency they might not understand.

You are not a problem to be solved. You are a person arriving. There is nothing to fix. There is only the unfolding of who you are.

You are not starting from nothing. Every day, I will move this body of mine to help you feel safe, fed, and seen. My journey is in service of yours for as long as you need it.

Here is the secret no one tells you: The body you’re getting is your first home. It is the place where you meet the world. It is breathing, growing, and responding, even when you aren't trying. You don’t have to be perfect at being human. You just have to be.

Welcome to being human, sweet baby. Your body is your own. You belong here.

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