If my body could talk, I wonder what its first words would be.
Would it whisper an apology?
Would it scream in rage?
Would it stay silent, because like me, it’s just so tired?
My body was supposed to be my safest place.
It was supposed to be the home I could trust — the one that would carry me into my thirties, forties, sixties. I expected this body to let me grow old with my husband, to chase after my nieces and nephews, to hold babies that carried my smile.
But instead, this body became a battlefield.
The First Betrayal
If my body could talk, maybe it would start with “I’m sorry.”
Sorry for the irregular pap smear that seemed like a small thing, until it wasn’t.
Sorry that what was first brushed off as endometriosis became endometrial cancer.
Sorry that, before I could even wrap my head around it, I was flat on cold tables for internal ultrasounds, blood draws, biopsies, and PET scans — while other women my age were buying outfits for bachelorette parties and planning honeymoons.
I think about those first appointments a lot. How small and young I felt in waiting rooms surrounded by people decades older than me. How surreal it was to be told, “You’re going to lose your hair,” before I’d even gotten a chance to figure out what style I loved. How quickly my twenties turned from living to surviving.
The Tumor That Came Back
My body might apologize for the cruelest betrayal of all: the tumor they cut from my breast that came right back.
I remember tracing my fingers over the scar, trying to believe it was over. But the scans showed otherwise. It was back, like the cancer was mocking me, laughing at my hope. I felt tricked by my own skin — by the very thing that was supposed to protect me.
Poison and Scars
If my body could talk, maybe it would say it’s sorry for the poison.
For the chemo meant to save me that also left my heart permanently damaged.
For the endless pills, injections, infusions — each one carving away more of me than it saved.
It might say it’s sorry for the scars scattered across my abdomen, for the way my stomach now looks like a roadmap of surgeries and losses. For the hair it shed, the fertility it stole, the way it turned intimacy into something complicated and fragile.
“I never wanted this for you. I didn’t mean to betray you. I just couldn’t stop it.”
The Exhaustion
Sometimes I imagine my body’s voice, low and hoarse, saying: “I’m so tired.”
Because I’ve asked it to endure so much.
I forced it through surgeries that cut it open and stitched it back together.
I begged it to keep standing through chemo that burned like fire in my veins.
I pushed it onto cold tables for scan after scan, holding still while machines hummed and doctors searched for new shadows.
I made it get up the next morning, again and again, even when it begged for rest.
And yet — even broken — it still carries me.
The Gifts
If my body could talk, maybe it would remind me: “I gave you more than cancer ever could take.”
This body walked me down an aisle in a wedding dress. Even with disease blooming quietly inside me, it carried me into the arms of the man who promised forever.
This body danced at that wedding, even though I already felt the weakness creeping in. I remember spinning, laughing, trying to memorize the way his hands felt holding mine.
This body let me shave my head in the bathroom while Pete held the clippers. I cried, but then Biggie — my first dog, my gentle giant — nudged me over and over with his big head, like he was saying, “You’re still you.” He made me laugh in the middle of my grief.
This body gave me Mojo, my little grey shadow who somehow knows exactly where to press himself against my ribs when I’m breaking. The body that held him as a puppy, his tiny warm weight on my chest, his puppy breath tickling my chin.
This body let me hug my parents, hold my nieces and nephews, tickle little hands and hear belly laughs that made every IV line worth it.
This body let me sit outside and feel the sun. Let me taste pizza, sip coffee, breathe in fresh air after long hospital stays.
This body, scarred and sick, has still let me love and be loved.
The Conflict
I want to hate my body. Some days I do.
I want to scream at it for betraying me, for stealing decades I thought were mine, for making my twenties a war zone instead of an adventure.
But then I think: if my body hadn’t carried me this far, I wouldn’t have had these years at all.
Without this body, I wouldn’t have been a wife.
I wouldn’t have been a Titi.
I wouldn’t have been Mojo’s mom.
I wouldn’t have been me.
And that’s the hardest truth of all: my body is both the thing that is killing me and the thing that has let me live.
If My Body Could Talk
If my body could talk, maybe it wouldn’t apologize. Maybe it wouldn’t scream.
Maybe it would just whisper:
“I carried you as far as I could. I gave you love, laughter, and life. And even when I broke, I never stopped being yours.”
🐾 Mojo’s Part
If my mom’s body could talk, I don’t think it should say sorry.
Because it’s the body that smells like home.
The body that lets me burrow under blankets.
The body that gives me scratches until my eyes close.
The body that still gets up to feed me, even when it hurts.
The body that cries sometimes, but still leans down to kiss me on the head.
I don’t care about the scars.
I don’t care about the medicine bottles.
I don’t care about the way it shakes when she stands.
It’s still hers. And she’s still mine.
If her body could talk, I’d tell it: “Thank you.”
Thank you for giving me more days with my mom.
Thank you for being strong enough to let her laugh at me, hug me, love me.
Thank you for carrying her long enough that I got to be her dog.
Because I don’t need her body to be perfect.
I just need it to stay.
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