Is Your Body Whispering Old Stories?

These words, read to me by my friend, Czyna (audio below) are from @christhecocreator and resonate deeply. ✨

what if the voice inside you
wasn't a prophet or a poison
but a riddle?

what if the thing we call a sign
is sometimes just the residue of a bruise
echoing through our bloodstream
like a song it forgot how to stop singing?

i used to think
that every flutter in my chest
was fate.
i used to think
that fear meant "don't go"
and calm meant "you're on the right path.”
but i was raised inside a thunderstorm
and sometimes silence felt like suffocating.

have you ever wondered,
what if that tightness in your chest
isn't a "no" but a doorway?
what if your "i don't trust this”
isn't about them
but about your body
still whispering old stories
in a language you haven't fully translated yet?

trauma is so clever, isn't it?
it doesn't arrive wearing a name tag
that says "wound."
it arrives wrapped in caution tape
and calls itself common sense.

sometimes i wonder
if trauma is the ghost of the past
trying to time travel
to keep me safe.
and intuition is the soul
slipping notes under my door
from a future i haven't met yet.

what if the nervous system is a magician?
a beautiful, bewildering magician.
what if it keeps pulling rabbits out of hats
and calling them "facts?"
what if it floods you with cortisol
then hands you a map labeled "truth?"

maybe the body doesn't just tell the truth.
maybe it tells "its" truth;
the one it memorized
when it had no other choice.

maybe your job now
isn't to believe everything it says
but to ask it gentle questions
like a parent reintroducing the world
to a child who learned to flinch
at every sunrise.

the alchemists would say
there are three stages to transformation:
the blackening,
the whitening,
and the reddening.

and i wonder,
what if confusion
is part of the magick?
what if doubt
is holy too?

what if the unlearning
isn't a failure
but a falling back in love
with your original knowing?
the one before the wounds got loud.

i've started asking my body questions
like it's an oracle
with stage fright.
like it wants to speak
but only if i promise
not to interrupt.

questions like:
"is this fear here to protect me
or to keep me small?"
"is this ache asking me to run
or to root deeper?"
"what if this discomfort
isn't danger
but growth…
in disguise?"

maybe intuition
isn't a superpower.
maybe it's a seed.
and maybe your heart
is just now becoming soil again
after years of drought.

can you feel it?
that tiny bloom
pushing through the ache—
not certain,
not loud,
but alive.

it doesn't demand.
it invites.

and this time,
you don't have to know.
you only have to wonder.
you only have to stay.
you only have to listen
without labeling.

when your body flinches—
instead of assuming it knows best,
what if you asked,
"what are you remembering?"
"what are you afraid i'll forget?"
"what would happen if we tried
a different story this time?"

isn't it a miracle
to get curious
instead of certain?
to pause
instead of perform?

to touch the edge of a trigger
and say,
"show me what you're protecting.”
to wrap the wound in your arms
while allowing it to fall apart.

this, i think, is the quiet revolution:
not silencing the inner voices
but learning their names.

not choosing between trauma and truth
but sitting with both at the same table
and asking,
"who else is here?”

because maybe
the voice of your soul
isn't louder than the others
just
more patient.
more wondering.
more wild.

and maybe
loving yourself
might feel like betrayal
to the parts of you
built entirely on not being loved.

but still,
you will love.
you will learn
the way a deer learns the woods again
after the fire.
slow, wide-eyed, trembling
but curious.
god, always curious.