The Body Grief Journal

There was a time when my pain spoke a language I could not translate. It lived in my body as a silent ache, a heaviness that words could not hold. For years, I tried to express that ache through self-destruction, through substances and isolation, through harm that felt like control. I did not know how to name what hurt, and I did not believe I had the right to. I only knew how to survive it. In a system quick to label and categorize, my suffering was turned into data points.

On December 8, 2003, I began my recovery journey. Like many others in recovery I know, I had not been in contact with my family for a...

I reminisce about late-night meetings, where burnt coffee filled styrofoam cups. The cold metal chairs formed a circle, and as I sat...