Manipulation

How did I not see this sooner? Today’s message was a wake-up call, bold and unmistakable, one that cut through the noise of years of “trying.” I’ve been focused on my thoughts, behaviors, and now, I realize, even more critically, my motives—the hidden drivers behind each choice I make for my body.

If I choose to lose weight, that’s fine. But what I choose to do to accomplish that is only a small piece of the puzzle. The real question has been: why? Today, the answer hit me, both frightening and enlightening. My motive has been vanity, approval, fitting in, and avoiding judgment. Turns out, it’s not about health—it’s been about looking good or being right. Somewhere along the way, I became the world’s most intense undercover agent, camouflaging myself to avoid judgment.

I went on a cleanse once as a desperate solution to a severe health challenge. It was driven by fear that I’d never feel healthy again. The motive wasn’t wellness; it was pain relief. I quit drinking because I was tired of morning tremors and wanted my partner’s approval. I quit smoking because of my constant coughing. Each time, it was my body crying out, and I was scrambling to silence it—not heal it. Not one of these changes was rooted in loving care; each one came from a place of desperation or control.

I’ve been using vice grips—harsh rules, intense self-discipline, and relentless control tactics—to force this body into shape. But let’s face it: this job requires kid gloves and the kind of patience reserved for first-time gardeners and careful sculptors. Holy shit, Sherlock! That’s all my body has known of “me,” its so-called caretaker—a drill sergeant rather than a friend. It’s downright embarrassing, honestly.

In the images that came during meditation, the message was clear… a vice grip dripping blood and tears. And I saw the truth in it. My body has endured because it’s resilient, and it’s willing, eager even, for a new kind of care. I’m re-doubling my efforts to be the kind and sweet friend, the gentle caretaker this body has deserved all along. 

After seeing the vice grip for what it was—a relentless attempt to control my body rather than nurture it—I realize I need to continue what I'm currently doing AND be open to a new foundational practice. I’m grateful for the mantras I’ve adopted lately. Simple words, perhaps, but they feel like shelter and direction when I need them most: There is nothing to fear. There is nothing to prove. There is nothing to fix. There is nothing wrong, and there is nothing missing.

Each one brings me a different kind of sanity. “Nothing to fear” invites courage, a reminder that life is safe to explore and that fear is 90% delusional. “Nothing to prove” gently tells me to let go of perfectionism, to stop comparing and judging my worth based on others’ expectations I’ve unknowingly taken on. “Nothing to fix” is a potent reminder that, most likely, “it’s not my circus and not my monkeys.” The chances are extremely high that I am not responsible for fixing anything, because a slight shift in perspective reveals things as perfectly perfect as they are. And “nothing is missing” is my favorite of all—a deep reassurance that everything I need is already here within me.

Each phrase whispers a different invitation: release worry, drop expectations, step back from control, recognize completeness. These words are like a gentle hand on my shoulder, guiding me away from the need to do and toward the ability to simply be. With each reminder, I feel a bit closer to the friend I want to be to myself, one who offers gentleness instead of judgment, who listens rather than insists.
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Can I forgive myself and move on? Can I release all the anger, pain, and fear that I’ve stuffed down, the emotions I numbed for so long? Can I allow the LOVE I've resisted? The power I've shyed away from? The responsibility I've avoided? Releasing anger and pain isn’t an easy one-step fix, I’m learning. For now, I know there’s nothing to do… just to be present and be kind, from this moment forward. My intention is internal alignment, to birth a new way of being and thinking and behaving. My body’s resilient—it’s seen me through more than a few questionable choices and hasn’t given up yet. I’m counting on it to forgive me, as bodies often do, with grace and a quiet readiness to move forward. All is well, and I’m feeling strangely confident that, this time, I’ll actually be listening.