To my body,

Sometimes it is difficult to love you.

Sometimes I feel ashamed by the way you look. Shoulders too broad, legs too thin, hips not wide enough to balance me out in the way that I wanted to look. Too buck-toothed, face too asymmetrical, skin too dark, a stomach pouch I want to lose.

Sometimes you give me pain. It’s pain that I feel in my nerves—for example it can start in my sciatic nerve, but I feel it all the way down in my feet. Or sharp yet fleeting headaches that make me freeze because I become stricken with fear that it is something more. When you have a chronic illness, sometimes it is always “something more.”

Sometimes you make me afraid. It seems like you are always working against me, and I feel like I can’t depend on you or that there is something wrong. You are supposed to fight for me, but this disease I have keeps taking from me, and I really want you to please stop taking from me. How can I call you my home when we are constantly at war?

I have masses that grow in various shapes and sizes. They all cause problems in their own way—they itch, they cause pain, they’re ugly. Sometimes it’s difficult to look in the mirror because I don’t like what I see. But today? Today, my body, we had a connection, and I will never forget that.

I don’t know what sparked my desire to take care of you today, to love you, to be at peace with you. I showered you with love today—literally. I sat in my bathtub and lathered soap onto my arms and legs until bubbles formed all around. My hands carefully ran up and down lumps and spots that shouldn’t be there and marveled at the way the water ran down my skin and over my scars.

When I looked at myself in the mirror today, I paid attention to the way that my skin looked golden brown, and I felt luminous. When I rubbed lotion onto my arms and let it sink into my skin, I thought of how my skin color had been passed down to me from a line of strong Filipina women. I’m not connected to my culture as much as I would like to be, but thanks to a Marvel quote, I realize that I am the product of my ancestors who came before me. As I ran my fingers over the expanse of my back, I thought of how the masses and spots I have are like points on a map—or even constellations. They are little dots that connect to each other to make up the big picture: the big picture that is me. And I thought of the things that I love about myself: my nose and my smile and my laugh and my long hair and my compassion. Today I loved you where you were at instead of hating you for what I think you are or wishing you were more.

You are my vessel and my home, and I will live in you until I die. I will learn to love you. I will fight to love you every day. Because you are the body that I was given. There is no me without you to make me whole. You are my vessel. You are my home.

All of my scars and bumps and bruises tell different parts of my story. They are a part of who I am. This year, I’m ready to embrace these little parts of me. Because when I learn to love myself deeply, I can love others deeply too. And because of that, choosing to love you is the biggest, most radical act of love I can give.

Yours forever,