Alive At Last

February 10, 2026

Writer: Victoria Pescod

For most health is a given. And for most, their physique is a quiet certainty. We often think that all we see is all there is. That a body tells the whole story. That the shape we take is the life we’ve chosen. But what about when that’s not true? What about when your body doesn’t mirror the effort, the discipline, or the love you pour into it every single day? What about when your reflection doesn’t echo the story of your commitment—but instead, feels like a betrayal?

For years, I’ve lived inside a body that doesn’t seem to listen. I’ve moved it with care. I’ve nourished it with intention. I’ve done “everything right.” And yet, my body holds on to weight like it’s protecting me from something I don’t understand.

It’s hard to explain the heartbreak of trying your hardest and feeling like you’re losing anyway—not just physically, but emotionally. Because when the world sees a body, it assumes a story. And when that story doesn’t align with the truth, it hurts.

My reflection became unbearable and uncomfortable. It became something I avoided. The fog in my bathroom mirror after a shower became my biggest ally because it prevented me from looking. Because I knew that if I looked I would start judging, comparing, and picking myself apart. And all I’d feel was tightness. Shame. Constriction. Besides, I didn't even want to see.

I started to wonder if maybe I was the problem. Maybe I was doing something wrong. Was it that Thursday I skipped my workout, or the dessert I ordered at dinner on Friday. Maybe I just wasn’t trying hard enough— even though every part of me ached from the trying. It was like studying for hours and still failing miserably on the exam.

Eventually, I went looking for answers. Not because I was hopeful—but because I was exhausted.

Somewhere in between blood tests and silent waiting rooms, a truth began to form: my body wasn’t working against me out of spite. It was trying to survive something I hadn’t named. A diagnosis came. Something to hold in my hands and say, “This is why.”

It was the strangest kind of relief— to finally have a reason. To know that all those years of struggle weren’t imagined. That my body wasn’t betraying me out of laziness or rebellion— it was simply asking for help in the only way it knew how. And still, even with answers, the grief lingered. Because no diagnosis can undo the shame that’s settled in your bones. No lab result can rewrite the years you’ve spent trying to earn worth through control.

It took me a long time to realize this wasn’t about my body not listening to me. It was about me finally learning to listen to it. To the quiet aches. The stubborn resistance. The way it held on when I begged it to let go. My body was never failing me. It was protecting me. It was trying, in its own language, to be heard. There was something wrong—something unseen— and still, it showed up for me every day.

So I stopped fighting it. Stopped shaming it. And instead, I started asking: What are you trying to say? And for the first time, I listened.

This isn’t a story about control. Or fixing. Or becoming smaller. It’s about learning to stay. To stay with yourself, even when you feel uncomfortable in your skin. To stay kind, even when the world is not. Because healing isn’t loud. It’s not always visible. It doesn’t always come with milestones or scales. And most of all— what we see is never the whole story. Not with bodies. Not with people. Not with life. We are all more than what the world can see— and sometimes, the hardest work is simply believing that.

But still, I’m learning. I’m learning that health is not just the absence of illness or the number on a scale. It’s the quiet miracle of waking up. It’s the breath I didn’t have to ask for. It’s the heartbeat that continues, even on the days I forget to say thank you. And maybe that’s what I’m trying to hold onto now— that while we only die once, we get the chance to live every single day.

So no, my body hasn’t always done what I’ve asked of it. But it’s still here. Still carrying me. Still giving me the chance to begin again. And that, in itself, is worth listening to.