The Myth of Body Betrayal

Gratitude changed my life.

Literally.

In early 2003, during one of the darkest periods of my life, gratitude became the thing that helped me stay.

It helped me keep going.

It helped me find reasons to take another step when I wasn't sure I wanted to take one at all.

What started as a simple gratitude journal became a lifeline. It changed how I saw my life. It changed how I saw other people. It changed how I saw challenges, setbacks, and opportunities.

Eventually, gratitude became one of the foundations of everything I teach.

I write about gratitude.

I teach gratitude.

I recommend gratitude journals.

I encourage people to look for what is working instead of obsessing over what isn't.

Gratitude is woven into my books, my courses, my conversations, and my life.

Which makes what I'm about to tell you both humbling and slightly embarrassing.

In more than twenty years of gratitude journals, gratitude lists, gratitude challenges, gratitude workshops, gratitude books, gratitude conversations, and gratitude practices...

I don't remember ever consciously thanking my body.

Not once.

Funny how that works.

I read the books.

I recommend the books.

I reference the books.

I write the books.

I teach people about perspective, emotions, beliefs, energy, healing, responsibility, and the stories we tell ourselves.

I spend my days helping people uncover the hidden assumptions that quietly shape their lives.

I talk about how our words matter.

I talk about how what we focus on grows.

I talk about how the relationship we have with ourselves influences every area of our lives.

I teach that everything is connected.

I teach that our thoughts, emotions, beliefs, and experiences are woven together in ways most people never stop to consider.

And somehow...

I completely missed something sitting right in front of me for nearly sixty years.

You know the saying about not being able to see the forest because of all the trees?

Apparently, I bought property in that forest and lived there for decades.

Because while I was helping other people uncover their blind spots, I had one of my own.

A big one.

For nearly sixty years, I believed my body was the problem.

Not consciously.

Not every day.

But underneath it all was a quiet frustration that had been building for as long as I can remember.

I was overweight as a child.

I was overweight as a teenager.

I am overweight as an adult.

No matter what I tried, it often felt like my body had received a completely different set of instructions than everyone else's.

While other people seemed to lose weight simply by making eye contact with a treadmill, I felt like every step forward came with a complimentary trip backward.

Exercise hurt.

Movement hurt.

Sometimes existing hurt.

And when you're carrying extra weight while navigating pain, the world tends to have plenty of opinions.

"Just eat less."

"Just move more."

"Just try harder."

As if nobody had ever thought of those things before.

Trust me, if the answer had been that simple, I would have solved this mystery sometime before the internet became a thing.

Over the years, I searched for answers.

Diets.

Programs.

Doctors.

Supplements.

Exercise plans.

Experts.

Books.

More diets.

More experts.

More promises wrapped in shiny packaging.

I wasn't chasing perfection.

I wasn't trying to become a swimsuit model.

I wasn't trying to look twenty-five again.

I wanted relief.

I wanted better health.

I wanted to lower my blood pressure.

I wanted to feel better.

Most of all, I wanted my body and me to finally be on the same team.

In August of 2003, I underwent gastric bypass surgery.

Like most major decisions, it came wrapped in hope.

I hoped it would help me lose weight.

I hoped it would improve my health.

I hoped it would make life easier.

The surgery worked.

At least on paper.

I lost weight.

That was it.

The magical transformation I secretly hoped for never arrived.

Life continued.

The years continued.

Challenges continued.

Eventually, some of the weight returned.

And without realizing it, every disappointment became another piece of evidence in the case I was building against my body.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit B.

Exhibit C...

By the time I reached my forties, I had assembled enough evidence to convince any jury.

Then life handed me even more.

In 2005, I received a diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis.

Years later came a Lipedema diagnosis.

There were spinal issues.

Joint issues.

Surgeries.

Pain.

Mobility challenges.

A wheelchair.

More frustration.

More setbacks.

More moments spent staring into space wondering what the actual hell the point of all this was.

Every challenge seemed to support the story I already believed.

My body was broken.

My body was failing me.

My body was fighting me.

Case closed.

Or so I thought.

Recently, during a deeply personal spiritual experience, something happened that caught me completely off guard.

Not because it was complicated.

Not because it was profound.

Not because I had never heard it before.

Quite the opposite.

It was so simple that I almost laughed.

I was asked a question.

What if your body isn't fighting you?

What if your body is fighting for you?

The question stopped me cold.

Not because I didn't understand it.

Because I did.

At least intellectually.

I've spent years teaching people that perspective changes everything.

I've spent years teaching people that words matter.

I've spent years teaching people that the stories we tell ourselves become the lens through which we experience life.

I've spent years teaching gratitude.

Yet somehow, despite all of that, I had never consciously stopped and thanked my body.

Not once.

I thanked the Universe.

I thanked friends.

I thanked teachers.

I thanked opportunities.

I thanked lessons.

I thanked challenges.

I thanked the coffee that got me through certain mornings.

But I don't remember ever sitting down and saying:

"Thank you, body."

Not for losing weight.

Not for behaving the way I wanted it to.

Not for performing perfectly.

Just...

Thank you.

Thank you for showing up.

Thank you for doing your job.

Thank you for carrying me.

And that's when something shifted.

Because suddenly I saw something I had somehow missed for nearly sixty years.

My body is still here.

Not was.

Is.

My body is still carrying me.

Present tense.

Right now.

This body carried me through childhood.

This body carried me from Germany to the United States.

This body carried me through marriage (and still is).

This body carried me through raising two incredible children.

This body carried me through every move, every deployment, every challenge, every celebration, every heartbreak, every lesson, and every fresh start.

This body carried me through receiving an MS diagnosis.

This body is carrying me while it navigates the symptoms associated with that diagnosis.

This body is carrying me while it navigates the symptoms associated with Lipedema.

This body carries me through pain.

This body carries me through surgeries.

This body carries me through concrete legs.

This body carries me through difficult days.

This body carries me while I write these words.

And suddenly I wasn't looking at everything my body couldn't do.

I was looking at everything it was doing.

Every heartbeat.

Every breath.

Every repair.

Every adaptation.

Every workaround.

Every adjustment happening quietly behind the scenes without me even noticing.

While I spent decades accusing my body of betrayal, my body was busy doing everything it could to keep me going.

Not perfectly.

Not effortlessly.

Not without struggle.

But faithfully.

Day after day.

Year after year.

Decade after decade.

The truth hit me harder than any diagnosis ever had.

My body has never stopped fighting for me.

Not once.

Even when I was angry at it.

Even when I judged it.

Even when I blamed it.

Even when I felt betrayed by it.

Even when I believed it had failed me.

My body kept showing up.

My body kept adapting.

My body kept trying.

My body kept carrying me.

And then I realized there was another story hiding underneath the first one.

For years, I thought the problem was my body.

Looking back, I think the real problem was the story.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing challenges as experiences and started treating them as identities.

I wasn't just carrying extra weight... I became "the overweight one."

I wasn't just navigating diagnoses... I quietly started seeing myself through them.

I wasn't just experiencing limitations... I started believing they defined me.

But I am not a diagnosis.

I am not a symptom.

I am not pain.

I am not a wheelchair.

I am not a number on a scale.

I am not a medical chart.

I am not a collection of limitations.

I am the awareness experiencing all of it.

And the body I spent decades judging has been faithfully carrying me through every moment of the journey.

Now, before anyone gets too excited, this is not the part where I tell you all my symptoms disappeared, angels started singing backup vocals, and I suddenly began training for a marathon.

Let's be realistic.

The diagnoses haven't magically packed their bags and moved out.

My body still experiences challenges.

My body still experiences pain.

Some days are harder than others.

I still have moments when I'd happily trade this model in for one with fewer warning lights, better suspension, and a warranty that actually covers everything.

But the relationship has changed.

And that changes everything.

For nearly sixty years, I looked at my body and saw failure.

Today, I look at my body and see effort.

I see resilience.

I see devotion.

I see a body that has been carrying an extraordinary load for a very long time.

I see a body that wakes up every morning and says:

"Alright, kiddo. Let's see what we can do today."

And honestly?

After everything my body has carried, I think it deserves a thank-you instead of another accusation.

If my body could talk, I suspect it would smile, shake its head, and say:

"Took you long enough."

The myth says my body is fighting me.

The truth is my body is fighting for me.

It always has been.

And perhaps the greatest lesson wasn't hidden in a diagnosis, a surgery, a diet, a book, or even a spiritual experience.

Perhaps it was hidden in plain sight all along.

The one thing I forgot to include in my gratitude practice was the very thing that had been carrying me through every moment of my life.

My amazing, beautiful, resilient body.

Ready for Your Own Perspective Shift?

Sometimes the thing that needs healing isn't the circumstance.

Sometimes it's the story.

If you've been carrying a story about yourself, your past, your worth, your future, or your body, perhaps it's time to look at it through a different lens.

The QAR7IS Method and the resources at Matters of Perspective® are designed to help you uncover the stories beneath the story, challenge the myths you've accepted as truth, and discover new possibilities hiding in plain sight.

Because sometimes changing your life doesn't begin by changing your circumstances.

Sometimes it begins by changing your perspective.

And trust me...

That kind of shift changes everything.