Two years ago, in a session with my therapist, I suddenly found myself saying, “I want to talk about my relationship to my body sometime.” Just saying that one sentence out loud was all I could muster that day, and had taken me decades to get to that point.
My first real awareness of my body started when I was around eight years old in the hallways of my grammar school in suburban Boston. As I cycled my bike over mounds of dirt in the woods behind my house, and flew around the corners of a roller rink on a Thursday night as Michael Jackson tunes blared, I was blissfully unaware that my body was being judged and seen as wrong.
