Pike

There were moments in that lifetime that my heart still replays. So strange the way my body holds on to this story. When I look back at it, I want a sunny picture book, a romantic tapestry of words that matches the peacock feathers, Coco Chanel, Obsession, feel of suede-soled dance shoes pushing across the floating hardwood floor. My body remembers your eyes, the shape of your face and floppy hair like they're been burned into me, but I feel no heat. 

I want to see all that with Jon Secada crooning, styrofoam cups of cheap coffee from those orange-handled pots with that fabulously cheap powdered creamer and those plastic stir sticks but instead, all my body sees when I look back is my head on a pike: steel rod that can't stand feeling anymore holding me up. You did that. And she did that. Collectively, they did that. In four years.

There are moments in that lifetime that my heart still replays. I remember the forbidden interior of your car. I remember my own light dimming like it was on a switch. I remember darkness rising in my like stage lights: please take your seats ladies and gentlemen; the show is about to begin. 

I think there's something in me that wants that back, which is why I'm afraid to move forward. Strictly said, there were moments in that lifetime that my heart still replays: just how deeply the body can become a repository for love that has no one to receive it and nowhere to go. For despair that has no one to validate it. For confusion that has no one to hold it without judging or making fun. For malice that hadn't learned how to come out of my hands yet; I had to use my mouth. For, for, for...I don't know what else to say. My body remembers Jesus to a Child all too well. The light in that room. The darkness. The ambience, the audience, the threats backstage of a good time so rote by then, they were almost boring. 

🎧 Bring This Prompt into Your Own Body

The essay you just read began as a prompt inside the Body Writers Circle. We take our prompts from song lyrics and write whatever our bodies want to say. If your own body feels full or unsafe to exist in today, I invite you to try this gentle Body Writing™ practice:

Set the Mood: 

Get cozy, plug in headphones and sink into this week's featured song on Spotify.

Listen:

Close your eyes. Don't worry about the lyrics or what they mean intellectually. Just notice how the rhythm, melody and vibe affect your body. What do you feel opening up and coming forward?

Write:

Open your journal and write the opening lyric (There were moments in that lifetime that my heart still replays) at the top of your page. Don't try to match my writing; just notice: what does it bring up for you? What does it make your body want to say? Write for three pages – without editing, censoring yourself or trying to make your writing "good."

Why Journaling Alone Is Only the First Step

While practicing this alone can bring beautiful moments of connection and relief, trying to navigate your deepest, most intense stories alone is a big ask for a sensitive nervous system. When you're the only one holding the pen and the space, your inner critic takes charge easily, causing you to freeze up or pull back before finding the deeper medicine.

True somatic resolution requires co-regulation.

Which is why doing this work inside an ultra-intimate, zero-critique group of just 5 to 6 women changes everything. In the Body Writers Circle, you don't carry emotional weight by yourself. The shared presence of our tiny, trusted community holds space for you – allowing you to feel safe venturing into the depths your body needs without freezing or flooding.

If you feel a quiet, resonant yes to this, you belong with us. 

A new, founding member circle is opening soon. (June 2026)

Add your name to the waitlist here, for first access to a space. 💗