Everything Floats

The day has been hot and as I fall into the cool water, much, besides my sweat and the ache in my muscles, is shed.

I float. Every bit of me floats, and I smile as I look down. It is dark, the murmur of NPR in the background, and no one can see. In this moment, as I am entwined in my cocoon during my transformation, I love my body. I am allowed to love it, and not because I am alone, or that it is so dark, or because I must, but because I want to. It's an easy love, and I dive back into the water, letting it glide over my skin.

I decide that I am done with the self-loathing. I had told myself to stop this a long time ago, have talked about it, I think even written about it, but this time I know that it's really gone.

It's nice to hear, but I don't need those compliments any more. I don't want approval from anyone. I will just happily wear my skin, my muscles and bones, my fat, and I will love it. I will watch it change, too. I will watch it like one watches a sunrise, in aw of each phase and its beauty, until the sun is fully risen and we can't imagine it any other way.

Yes, everything floats when I'm in the water, but that only makes it easier to see, better to admire.