I ease my sleeping mask onto my forehead and slowly open my eyes to squint at the time on my phone, as I do every morning – it’s 5.a.m., yippee! Excitement flourishes as I swiftly place my phone back down and take 5 minutes to breathe, contemplate what the weather may be doing when the darkness eventually lifts, and consider how good it feels to be able to take those long, deep breaths, cocooned in a Tempur and feather sandwich with a purring cat by my side.
What was different this morning to other mornings, were the tears that flowed.
I’ve gotten into the weird habit of intuitively placing my hand over my stomach when I get up in the morning, a hangover from when I was quite sick and would pray I feel nothing there, rather than the pregnant-like belly which was so unfamiliar to me and disappointingly there without fail every morning for much of last year.
I walked into the bathroom and was about to weigh myself (another daily occurrence at the moment) when I caught my reflection in the mirror – more specifically, my pancake-flat stomach. As I proceeded with my belly check-in, my top exposed that shadowy line between the oblique and ab muscles: the muscle definition more like I’m used to seeing; a stomach that is some semblance of mine, not a distended, foreign one.
For whatever reason, the magnitude of what my body has been through and the progress of my recovery hit me like a freight train, and the happy tears flowed.
To top it off, I descended into the foyer and was immediately greeted with the stunning framed L’Instant Tattinger poster gifted to me by a grateful client yesterday which, in my recently-woken state, I’d not quite remembered had happened yet. (How hypocritical to mention this when I’ve just written about my contempt for “stuff” – will elaborate more!)
My heart filled with gratitude. I am able-bodied, I can get out of bed in the morning. I have fresh air to breathe, food to nourish my body with, and I get to go and do worthy work that people appreciate beyond words.
I am happy.