The Language No One Taught Me

The Language No One Taught Me

There was a time when I didn’t know how to listen to my body.

I moved through my days by schedule and expectation, not by pulse or breath. Fatigue was something to push through. Dizziness was something to outwalk. My mind was louder, so it set the rules.

When illness arrived, I treated my body like something that had malfunctioned. I wanted answers, fixes, explanations — a way to return to reliability. The racing heart, the strange exhaustion, the quiet signals of overload all felt like problems to solve instead of messages to understand.

But over time, something shifted.

I began to notice patterns long before tests or monitors reflected them — how heat built before fatigue, how light and sound carried weight, how posture could predict collapse hours in advance. My body had been speaking long before I knew how to hear it.

The change didn’t come as clarity. It came as curiosity.

Instead of trying to control every sensation, I began learning its language — imperfectly, inconsistently, but with less fear. A spike in heart rate became punctuation, not catastrophe. A tremor felt less like punishment and more like emphasis. What once felt like betrayal began to resemble communication.

I started living by cues instead of clocks.

If my body whispered stop, I stopped.
If energy appeared briefly, I used it gently.
Rest stopped feeling like absence and began to feel like participation.

This wasn’t a quick lesson. The language of the body has no fixed grammar. Some days signals contradict each other. Some days energy disappears without explanation. I wanted rules; my body spoke in exceptions.

But slowly, trust replaced resistance.

I began to recognize early signs of overload. Small adjustments — water, quiet, a shift in posture, a pause — became forms of dialogue. The body spoke less in crisis and more in reminders. We were learning each other’s rhythm.

I used to believe healing meant returning to who I was before illness.

Now I understand it differently.

Healing is the willingness to remain in conversation with what is here.

My body and I are not fluent. Some days I misunderstand. Some days it goes quiet. But when I listen, even imperfectly, it offers moments of steadiness — small, ordinary mercies that feel like grace.

What once felt like betrayal now feels like relationship.

Not perfect.
Not predictable.
But honest.

A whisper is enough.

This story lives inside Compass Point 2- Who Am I Now ?