A Letter From My Stomach to Me

Letters From My Body — Letter Two

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Dear Casey,

I know you have been angry with me.

I have felt it in the way your hand moves toward me when the pain begins.

I have heard it in the frightened questions you ask when food no longer feels simple, when nausea arrives without invitation, or when another test leaves you waiting for answers.

I know there have been moments when you have wondered why I could not simply behave.

Why I could not digest quietly.

Why I had to ache, burn, bleed, tighten, turn against the very things meant to keep you alive.

But I need you to know something:

I was never trying to hurt you.

I was trying to hold what kept being handed to me.

I held the meals you ate too quickly because life did not give you time to slow down.

I held the medicine meant to quiet pain in other parts of your body.

I held the fear you swallowed so no one else would have to carry it.

I held the words you bit back.

The grief you pushed down.

The anger you were taught to make smaller.

The worry that settled inside you before you even realized you were afraid.

People speak of having a “strong stomach” as though strength means never reacting.

Never becoming unsettled.

Never refusing what causes harm.

But Casey, I have been strong for a very long time.

Strength was not my silence.

Strength was continuing to work while carrying more than I knew how to process.

Strength was breaking down nourishment while your nervous system remained braced for danger.

Strength was trying to protect you even when I was hurting too.

And when I began to bleed, I was not punishing you.

I was not failing you.

I was not trying to create one more crisis for you to survive.

I had simply reached the place where silence was no longer possible.

I wish I could have whispered in a language you understood sooner.

I wish I could have said:

This is too much.

Something is hurting me.

Please stop asking me to endure what is causing harm.

But bodies do not always have words.

Sometimes we speak through burning.

Through cramping.

Through nausea.

Through appetite disappearing.

Through pain that curls a person inward.

Sometimes we speak through blood.

And by the time you finally hear us, we may already be shouting.

I know the sight of that blood frightened you.

I know the hospital frightened you.

I know the transfusions, the waiting, the procedures, and the uncertainty made you feel as though your body had become another place where danger could hide.

But even then, I was not your enemy.

I was wounded.

There is a difference.

You have spent so much of your life believing that pain is something to push through.

You learned to keep moving while your neck hurt.

While your back hurt.

While your heart hurt.

While your memories hurt.

You became skilled at surviving discomfort because stopping was not always an option.

But I am asking you now to learn another kind of strength.

The strength of listening before suffering becomes an emergency.

The strength of believing your body when it says, This hurts.

The strength of letting care arrive before you have proven you can endure one more thing.

Please do not hate me for becoming tender.

Please do not resent me for needing gentleness.

I know eating may feel different for a while.

I know every unfamiliar sensation may make you wonder whether something is wrong again.

I know trust will not return simply because someone says the bleeding has stopped.

Trust rarely returns all at once.

It comes back slowly.

One safe meal.

One quiet evening.

One moment when pain does not follow.

One day when you realize you were not thinking about me at all.

We can rebuild that trust together.

You do not have to watch me with suspicion forever.

And I do not need you to become fearless.

I only need you to remain willing to listen.

Feed me gently.

Protect me from what harms me.

Let the doctors help when I need them.

Ask questions when something does not feel right.

And please remember that caring for me is not an inconvenience.

I am not separate from you.

I am part of the body that has carried you through every version of your life.

The body that stayed.

The body that survived.

The body that is still trying, even now, to lead you toward healing.

You have spent years asking your body to endure.

Perhaps this can be the season when you begin asking what it needs.

And when I answer, I hope you will not hear weakness.

I hope you will hear a part of you that still believes you are worth protecting.

With tender honesty,

Your Stomach

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Before You Go…

Place your hand gently over your stomach—not to check for pain, not to search for danger, but simply to acknowledge the part of you that has been carrying more than hunger.

Ask quietly:

What have I been forcing my body to hold?

What would gentleness look like today?

You do not have to solve everything your body has survived.

Sometimes healing begins by believing it when it speaks.

Every body has a story worth listening to.

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Until our next visit…

Take gentle care of yourself.
I’ll leave the porch light on.

With love,
Casey

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Continue the Journey

Next Letter
A Letter From My Lungs to Me
Coming soon