Dear Body
A letter about movement, resilience, and showing up for yourself
I recorded myself reading this one, along with an intro. Hit play if you’d rather listen. And thank you to friends + family who reached out after Tuesday’s post. With all my heart, I appreciate you.
Dear Body,
I’m writing this to you at the end of a week when I almost forgot you. When grief made me forget why you matter, what you give me, and who we are together.
On Monday, I couldn’t get out of bed. Grief anchored me there, and every routine that usually lifts me up became impossible.
But then on Tuesday, I lifted weights with my son. Wednesday, I hiked with one of my closest friends. Thursday, I rucked with my dog and lifted with my son again.
I was able to do this not because the pain went away, but because somewhere beneath the grief, I remembered you: you are what keeps me alive.
You are the foundation everything else is built on.
When my mind couldn’t think straight, you were still there—steady, capable, waiting for me to remember.
Body, the purest relationship I have with you is the one no one else sees. When I move for myself—not for how I look, not for performance, not for anyone’s approval—but for me.
When I show up for you consistently, when I honor you even when it’s hard, I’m building something based on self-respect. I’m learning to count on who I am inside.
Here’s what I know: the only way I feel good about myself is by doing things worth feeling good about.
It’s getting through the hard things because future me is counting on present me to not give up.
Real strength is built through cycles of challenge and resilience—stress, recover, adapt. Resilience is forged by getting better at feeling bad.
Monday I felt terrible. Tuesday, terrible but still got out of bed and spent time with my son at the gym. Wednesday, terrible hiking in nature with a friend who saw my pain and hiked alongside it anyway. Thursday, terrible as I rucked with my dog and lifted at the gym.
The pain hasn’t gone away. But, I can feel, Body, that you are getting better at carrying it.
This week, you carried me through the hardest days. You got me out of bed when I didn’t think I could. You hiked me through grief. You lifted me back to myself.
Thank you for not giving up on me when I almost gave up on you.
I won’t forget again.
Love,
-Marek
One summer in my twenties, five people I knew - including dear loved ones - died. I felt so numb for months and months. I was dancing in two small companies at the time and the hours spent moving my body in the studio are the only things that buoyed me through life. I’m always so thankful for the way moving my body helps me process feelings of any size.
Sending you peace <3
This. Beautiful letter, Marek. One of my favorite analogies of grief feels poignant here...
Grief is like carrying a rock in your pocket. At first, you notice how heavy it is all the time, and the weight is a constant burden. But over time, you grow stronger, and while you still carry the rock with you always, you notice it less. It stops feeling so heavy.