Life is temporary. A dot between two black lines.

I’ve been sitting with this thought a lot lately. Not in an existential way, but in that quiet, grounding way that puts things into perspective. One day, we’re here. The next, we’re not. It’s always been this way for each and every one of us. A quiet blink in the cosmic eye. A sentence on the page of the universe. And while that might sound grim at first, to me, now, it’s oddly comforting. It means the pressure is off. I don’t have to be perfect. I just have to be present. To show up, take a breath, and if I’m lucky, make that dot shine a little brighter while it lasts.

And in the middle of all this rushing and striving and doing, I’ve realized something big: my job isn’t to fight time or chase some imaginary finish line. My job is to live this life, fully. And part of showing up fully is learning to stay in this body of mine. Not just tolerate it. Not just fix it, shape it, squeeze it into smaller jeans or force it into someone else’s ideal, which I did for years. But really accept it. Love it. As it is. Now.

Not five kilos from now.
Not “when I finally tone my abs.”
Not “after I stop craving chocolate at 9 PM.”

But now.
This soft, strong, perfectly imperfect, miraculous now.

To accept my body, not some future version of it, but this one. The one I woke up in today. The one that’s carried me through every heartbreak, every rebirth, every impossible Monday morning and magical summer evening. Because this body, my body, is the only companion I’ve had in every single second of this journey.

My job is no longer to wage war against it.
Maybe my job now is to treat it like the sacred vessel it has always been, worthy of care, of respect, of love, without condition.

And honestly? I didn’t always see it this way.
I used to be really good at disconnection, ignoring its signals, treating it like a project or a problem to fix. I wore busyness like armor and criticism like a second skin. But then he came into my life and saw through all the masks, all the shields, all the noise I had wrapped around me.
He saw me. And the first time, so did I. The real me. And somehow, just by loving me, he gave me “permission” to love myself. He reminded me that I’m not just a mind with a to-do list.

His love felt like home. Like safety. Like finally exhaling after years of holding my breath.

And then… he died.

Nothing prepares you for that kind of loss.
One minute, your life has a soundtrack, a scent, a heartbeat beside your own, and the next, silence. His absence was louder than anything I’d ever felt. And in that silence, something else arrived.

Awareness.

His death made me deeply aware of my life.

Of how fragile and fast it all is.
Of how easy it is to get lost in nonsense.
Of how precious it is to wake up. To breathe. To walk. To touch.
Of how much I’d taken for granted, including this body I’d spent so long criticizing.

Now, I want to take care of it, not because I’m trying to become someone else, but because I finally want to stay with myself. Because by doing this, it gives me something back: power. Quiet, steady, generous power. The kind that helps me outgrow every old version of myself. The kind that carries me into the next chapter, no matter how uncertain or wild or beautiful it may be. 
And I speak to it gently because it’s been through enough already.

So yeah, life is temporary. A dot between two black lines.
But I’m here now. Gratefully. With tears and laughter and stretch marks and memories. With longing and love.

This is my dot.
And I want it to mean something.
To feel like something.
To be mine all the way through.

And it starts, simply, with choosing to love this body.
With choosing to live this life, just as it is.
For as long as I have it.