My knees ache as I run down Pasochoa. The mud splashes inside of my hiking boots and I can hear the slosh of my wet socks with each syncopated step.
The forest towers behind me and to my left catch a glimpse of the snowcapped peaks of Sinchalagua. I’m showered in sunshine. I’m swaddled in sweat and warmth. The rain begins to fall softly as my heart pumps endorphins to every cavity of my body.
I feel like a child again, transported to a rainy spring day in Connecticut. My big brother and I splash through our flooded street wearing bright yellow rain boots. We turn over rocks and search for worms. Our fingernails are full of dirt and my knees are scraped from falling off of my bike earlier that morning. I wear a hello kitty Band-Aid with pride.
This distant version of myself existed to experience, not to be experienced.
As I’ve grown older I have forgotten that my body isn’t for others. I’m not some sculpture meant for scrutiny. I don’t have to be pretty from every angle. I don’t exist as a one dimensional art form or a quiet mannequin curated from marble and fastened to the halls of the MET.
I’m a culmination of all of my parts. Even the ones I cannot see. I am a composition of stories, adventures and struggles; some of which have altered the appearance of my bone, skin and body.
There’s a dialogue in my head between a brave five year old child dawning rain boots and road burn and a 23 year old-version who thinks she needs to be palatable from all angles.
“You don’t have to swallow your tongue to make your profile look less obscene.”
“You don’t have to suck in your stomach to enjoy the beach.”
“You don’t need to shave your bikini line to be worthy of love and affection.”
I suppose that sometimes wisdom isn’t synonymous with age, it’s actually synonymous with naivete.
She reminds me that I am lungs breathing life into my muscles, legs that carry me up hundreds of meters of altitude over loose volcanic rock, eyes that witness sunsets and fingertips that push me into a child’s pose.
I’m a walking, skipping, tumbling, breathing, human miracle. The perfect system of nerves and capillaries and joints and bone.
On some days I find myself critiquing candid photos of myself. I’m sitting crisscross applesauce on the beach and admiring the skyline. I can almost remember how heavenly the moment felt.
Why do I wish my nose was smaller? My ancestors didn’t escape concentration camps for me to be ashamed of the bridge of my nose.
It’s hard work-rewiring the way you’ve been conditioned to think. It’s a constant dialogue. A constant uphill battle. You have to be vigilant, consistent, and most importantly, compassionate.
My body has changed a lot this past year. I used to slave myself at the gym for aesthetic purposes. But these past six months, on the road, I build myself up outside the confines of the gym.
Movement replaces exercise. It’s the byproduct of living. It is walking to waterfalls, swimming in lakes, and dancing with strangers into the late hours of the evening. It’s wholesome and beautiful.
I’ve been eating well here. Drinking some red wine too. This usually breeds existential conversations with strangers about love and loss into the early hours of the morning. I rarely regret the wine I drink or the vulnerability I share.
I’ve lost some muscle in the process and gained some fat in its place. I have new scars from crashing a motorbike in Nicaragua. And, I have new tattoos from impulsive days on the Colombian coast. I think they are marks of youth.
I see my face change when I brush my teeth in the morning. There are wrinkles by the corners of my eyes and on my forehead. I even plucked a grey hair out of my head the other day.
Like almost everyone, I’m scared of aging. But, I think I’m more scared of not having control.
I wonder if ten years from now I’ll love myself more. Maybe by then my mind will be a quiet space of prayer. Maybe, by then, little me can have one day of rest.
I don’t want to spend my life wishing I was smaller, being scared to show my shoulders, begging the universe to make my features more refined, my stature less awkward.
I want to be five again: bathed in ignorance, unapologetically present and sincerely human.
I think that running through the mud is a good start.
