Living in my body

I’m staying at my friend Jaime’s this weekend up on the Central Coast. Her house is currently undergoing some renovations (#adultlife), so we’re at her parents’ home, which is perched right on the edge of a coastal national park.

Jaime introduced me to her regular running trail, which takes you down through the bush, pops you out onto the sand, then brings you back up (very up) through the forest, all while gifting you an immersive experience in Bouddi National Park.

Let me tell you—it certainly was an experience.

Think of starting off on the trail: the wood chips and dirt create a soft springboard beneath your feet, then slowly turn into a descent into the bush via stairs of polished stone and wayward branches that are prime tripping potential (or at least a slice on the leg), all the while you’re trying to nimbly prance down each step like a stag navigating the forest because you’re on a run and don’t want to walk.

You continue down, down, down, following the curve of the trail, hearing the soft rumble of the ocean crescendo as you get closer, closer, and then the bush pops you out into a glorious bay whose golden sand beckons you welcomingly while the waves crash thunderously onto the beach. The gusts of wind whip your hair into your face as you stumble across the sand, because really who can run gracefully across sand when your feet sink with each step, but you feel so wild and alive as you witness the powerful forces of nature take place in front of you.

A set of stairs greets you as the track takes you back into the bush: you look up and all you see is stairs for ages, until they seemingly disappear behind the trees, but really it’s just a mirage because they are still there to torment your quads and your lungs as you make your way up, the breathlessness slightly easing when you transition to the steadiness of a quick walk instead of the tempo of a bouncing jog (try it out for size—there’s definitely a difference between a slow run versus a power walk up stairs). And then finally—finally!—the incline tapers off and you’re back on the rolling waves of the trail as it weaves and meanders through the national park. It’s here, feet tapping out a steady rhythm on the earth, eyes gazing up into the clear blue sky that peeks through the towering leaves, surrounded by the magnificent reddish-orange bark of the proudly erect smooth-barked apple trees that you realize how wonderful it is to be alive.

It’s here on the trail where I was struck by a moment of realization: I don’t just want my body to look good—I want it to be functional.

What use is a body that “looks good” if it can’t support you throughout the day? For so long, and sometimes still to this day, I overemphasized attaining a specific look and primarily exercised to achieve a certain body shape that was very much influenced by the white Western culture that I live in. And to be honest I will still get sucked into that cult of propaganda, but when I take a step back—when I’m back home in nature and tap back into myself—it’s a moment of realization of just how much my body has done for me and how much it continues to do for me.

Some of this magic and wonder I felt may be leftover from starting Bill Bryson’s The Body this week. He opens the book by making you marvel at just how much stuff is in you body and how all of these microscopic components work together to enable us to operate and function—it’s truly miraculous that it all just happens without me noticing or even being aware of what’s going on inside.

I love that my body works. I’m ecstatic that it just operates normally on its own, without needing any additional equipment or medical care. I want to exercise so that I can continue function and move, not just to have pretty looking muscles. I mean yes, I do also want to have pretty looking muscles and I do care about my looks, but this moment, combined with the events of last summer, reminds me of how much I value having a functioning body.

What does it matter what my body looks like when compared to others because damn this body has supported me for the past 30+ years. Despite all that it’s gone through, this body is resilient and has recovered from all the shitty ways I’ve treated it from sleep deprivation to sun damage to bingeing to cutting to starvation. Despite all the abuse this body has encountered and the strands of genetic code that’s missing, its millions of microscopic cells and other tiny components of which I don’t have the scientific name for all rally together to help repair and heal and make this body continue to function and function well.

My body supports me. It enables me to breathe in the fresh air and bask in the sunlight that caresses my face. My heart pumps oxygen and blood throughout my body and enables my limbs to carry me through the forest and go up excruciating flights of stairs. It functions without me thinking as I enter a meditative state of running and turn my gaze inwards. It adjusts for all different types of terrains that my feet encounter on a single run, from gravel to dirt to sand to stone. It supports me in doing the activities that I love.

And I’m so incredibly grateful that I live in a body that can do that. I don’t know how long I have in this able—in this capable—body, but I am so damn grateful that I have it right now.

The run ended at Arnie’s Espresso Bar, a local staple run by a wonderful man named Rick.