On Summer, Bodies, and Expectation

Summer isn’t always something folks look forward to. For many of us, especially those living in disabled, chronically ill, or marginalized bodies, it can bring up grief, dread, and overwhelm. The heat, the increased visibility of bodies, the social invitations that feel more like obligations, the pressure to smile and show up and seem okay when we’re not. Summer often arrives tangled with the same tired message we’ve been hearing all our lives: our bodies must become something else before we’re allowed to enjoy ourselves.

This pressure doesn’t come from nowhere. It’s not personal. It’s systemic. It’s rooted in a fatphobic, ableist, capitalist world that thrives on convincing us we’re broken. That our bodies are projects. That our worth is conditional. That we must earn comfort, care, rest, and joy by suffering through change. Diet culture and wellness culture rise to a roar this time of year, promising transformation, control, and belonging in exchange for obedience and self-erasure.

But I am here, in this disabled and chronically ill body, learning how to listen to my needs and be in relationship with myself, carrying grief in every cell of my being, and saying this clearly: your body does not need to be “ready” for anything. Especially not summer.

For me, summer brings up body grief on many levels. Grief for the ways my body used to function. Grief for the dreams that have shifted or disappeared. Grief for the energy I do not have. Grief for the ways I’ve been harmed and the ways I have harmed myself in the pursuit of acceptance. I feel it when I see a reflection I do not recognize. I feel it when I try to find clothes that don’t cause pain or discomfort. I feel it when I’m invited somewhere inaccessible, and again when I feel pressure to pretend I’m fine.

And still, I am learning to stay with myself anyway. Not always with love. Sometimes just with tolerance. Sometimes with a shaky breath and a quiet no. Sometimes with a soft yes to something small and nourishing. Sometimes with tears. Sometimes with joy.

There is no one way to reclaim summer. It does not have to look like loud confidence or body love. It might look like choosing shade over sun. It might be saying no to a gathering that feels too loud or too much. It might be bringing food that feels safe. It might be wearing what feels comfortable instead of what feels expected. It might mean sitting out. Resting. Crying. Laughing. Logging off. Logging in. Choosing softness. Claiming space.

You don’t need to love your body to respect it. You don’t need to feel confident to deserve care. You don’t need to be seen as doing better to be allowed to just be.

There is grief here, yes. And there can also be moments of sweetness. Of presence. Of relief. Of connection with others who get it. People who aren’t demanding your transformation. People who know that liberation doesn’t look like perfection. It looks like permission. It looks like release. It looks like reclaiming little joys and comforts in a world that tells us we have to earn them.

So I ask you gently, what would it mean to let your body just be this summer? I don't have a perfect answer. Most days, I'm still figuring that out myself. Some days it looks like listening. Some days it looks like grieving. Some days it looks like resting before I've convinced myself I've earned it.

Maybe the question isn't whether we can make peace with our bodies this summer. Maybe it's whether we can stop demanding that they become something else.