Inside My Own Current Practice of Courage: Part III

Dear You,

One week ago, I placed my body in the hands of others. I let myself be opened, reshaped, stitched back together. And in the days that followed, I let myself be cared for in ways I never had before. I have been held upright in the shower, my hair washed by hands not my own. I have let another dress me, feed me, press new gauze to my skin, and wipe my nose when I could not lift my arms.

Vulnerability like this does something to you. It strips you down to your rawest form, not to leave you weak, but to remind you of where your strength truly lives.

Because strength is not embodied in severe independence, closed hands, or the solitary fight. It is in the surrender to care, the willingness to be seen, and in opening to intimacy that moves beyond romance into the emotional landscape of being fully human in front of another human.

I am healing. I can feel my strength returning, yet more than that, I can feel the depth of my acceptance stretching wider. This body, this disease, this path I did not choose—it is mine. And because it is mine, I will meet it fully. I will walk with it, listen to it, honor it. I will let it teach me not only about pain, but about joy.

Because joy does not come in the absence of pain.

It is not something we earn when we have finally smoothed out all the rough edges. No, joy is born in the very center of it all—when we allow discomfort to exist without resistance, when we find within ourselves the security that no external thing can give or take away.

It is unwrapped in the moments of the everyday struggle—when laughter slips through exhaustion, when warmth is found in a small act of care, when we feel both the ache of healing and the aliveness of hope.

Agony and ecstasy can truly coexist. They always have.

Recovery is long. But the illuminations are deep. Because when everything we have relied upon falls away—when we are no longer the strongest one in the room, when we must trust others to carry us—we learn what we are really made of. We learn that courage is not the absence of fear, but the way we move through it. We learn that what has been taken from us is not where our power lives.

And so, I ask you once more—what is your version of lipedema?

What is the thing that has taken from you, the thing you have spent years resisting? What if you met it fully? What if you stopped waging war against it and instead asked—how do I move with this? How do I reclaim what is mine?

For those following my journey closely, I am doing well. My body is rebuilding, and my spirit feels more alive than ever. I took a two mile walk today in the trees and rainfall.

I want you to know that whatever you are walking through, you are not powerless here. You are not waiting to be whole. You don’t need something outside of you to create a more vibrant life.

Look within, reach within. Let yourself break open.

Because when you begin here—raw and unguarded—and allow yourself to unwind what has been tightly bound, you will find the joy you have been seeking all along. Not in spite of the struggle, but because of it.

From my heart to yours,

Practice Postscript

The Reflection:

What has your pain or struggle been quietly teaching you? What wisdom is hidden within it?

The Everyday Practice:

The next time you resist receiving genuine help, pause and notice what it feels like to soften into it instead.

The Question to Carry Forward:

How can I allow both discomfort and joy to exist within me at the same time?