My body exists. That alone is enough. It breathes, it carries me, it responds to my needs, my pain, my joy, my hunger, my healing. And yet—so often, the world expects it to shrink, to silence itself, to fit into some narrow version of “acceptable.” But my body has never been the problem.
The problem is the pressure to apologize for taking up space, for growing, for aging, for resting, for needing care. The problem is a culture that measures worth in inches and numbers, in tightness and tone, instead of tenderness and truth.
But I’m done saying sorry for things that aren’t wrong.
I don’t owe anyone an apology for my shape, my softness, my scars, or my story. This body has been with me through it all—every late night, every heartbreak, every celebration, every quiet moment where I kept going. It has adapted, protected, nourished, and endured. That deserves gratitude, not guilt.
So no, I will not apologize for existing in this body. I will not apologize for feeding it when it’s hungry, or letting it rest when it’s tired, or for wearing clothes that feel good instead of ones that hide me.
My body tells the truth of my life. And that truth is valid. That truth is worthy. That truth is mine to honour—not explain away.