Like the post last week, this is a post I’ve had in my drafts for a while. I wrote it shortly before I found out I was expecting again.

The Quiet Breaking Point

Growing up, I used to trust my body without question. It had a knack for healing quickly and when necessary, enduring physical pain that most people avoided. From a nearly fatal bike accident, to sprained wrists and ankles, to small accidental burns and scratches. My body handled it all, taking it on with no issues. I trusted that my body could do everything it had been designed to do…

Until it didn’t. 

It didn’t produce milk.

Recovery stalled, and the emotional pain persisted.

That trust I had in my body didn’t just crack; it shattered. The quiet hum of betrayal settled in, a profound disappointment, and loneliness. Looking in the mirror reminds of the betrayal. It begins to feel like your trapped in a physical adversary to your heartfelt desires. This kind of heartbreak is unique. It’s difficult to pinpoint, and it’s something we rarely give ourselves permission to mourn.

What We’re Told vs. What We Live

Life often feeds us platitudes. They say; “Listen to your body.” Or “Your body was made to do this.” While well-meaning, these words feel like salt in a wound. When your lived reality is the opposite of the message being spread. What happens when listening to your body only brings up pain? What happens when your body can’t do the very thing it was “made to do?”

A chasm opens. A large one, between you and your body. You begin to feel like a stranger in your own skin. This emotional disconnect creates fertile ground for shame, resentment and a deep, quiet sadness that isn’t often talked about. 

My body, that once felt like a source of strength, now feels like a landscape of failure and constant frustration. First, with my low milk supply issues. Subsequently, with other health struggles, I’ve been navigating the last two years.

Naming the Grief

Let’s identify this, and call it what it is: grief.

It’s layers of grief losing the expected future— the one where breastfeeding was simple, and possible. Where having pristine health was a given. This is the grief of losing a part of my identity that I had thought was guaranteed. The grief of losing a simple, trusting relationship with my own physical self.

This is why the trust shatters. A physical, emotional and spiritual breakdown. Acknowledging the grief is the first step toward healing. This post is a letter to myself, that my feelings are valid. The loss of my expectations and trust in my body is a real loss.

Rebuilding, Gently

Rebuilding trust isn’t a checklist to be completed. It’s a gentle process. It requires compassion, patience, and willingness to begin with small steps.

• Speak Kindly to Your Body. This will feel awkward, even ridiculous, at first. But try it. As you get dressed, put a hand on your stomach and say, “Thank you for carrying me today.” When you feel a pang of pain or fatigue, whisper, “It’s okay. We can rest.” You are re-wiring a narrative of resentment into one of compassion.
• Create Safety by Listening Without Judgment. The goal isn’t to listen for a solution, but simply to listen. What is your body telling you right now? Is it tired? Thirsty? Tense? Don’t rush to fix it. Just acknowledge it. By slowing down. Paying attention without an agenda, this signals that your body is safe to communicate with you again.
• Nourish It to Support It, Not to Fix It. Shift your mindset from seeing food, exercise, or medicine as tools to “fix” a broken machine. Instead, view them as acts of kindness. A warm meal is a gesture of comfort. A gentle walk is a moment of connection. This isn’t about earning your body’s cooperation; it’s about offering it support, no matter what it can or cannot do.
• Create Rituals of Care. Rituals are powerful because they are declarations that your body is worthy of care, right now, exactly as it is. This can be a warm bath with Epsom salts at the end of a long day. The simple act of applying a nice lotion. Wearing soft clothes that don’t constrict you, or five minutes of intentional breath-work. My personal favorite, is to do Pilates and yoga each day. These small, repeated acts re-establish a language of care.

Finding Comfort in Faith

For those who find comfort in faith, this journey can be a sacred one. There is a tendency to believe that God is only concerned with our spiritual perfection. but scripture teaches a more intimate truth.

This isn’t a God who is ashamed of our weakness or our body’s perceived failings. This is a Savior who chooses to feel our ‘pains’ and ‘sicknesses’ so He knows perfectly how to ‘succor’—or run to help—us. He doesn’t demand perfection; He meets us within the struggle.

Not Broken—Becoming

My body may feel broken, but I am not. I am a whole person, navigating a complex and often painful human experience.

The scriptures offers a powerful way to reframe this feeling of being broken. What if it isn’t a random failure? What if it is a divinely understood part of the mortal experience called “weakness”?

The most beautiful part of this promise is how He will “make weak things become strong.” The very places where you feel most weak can become, through His grace, the source of your greatest spiritual strengths. Your experience can forge in you a deeper capacity for empathy. a profound patience, and an unshakeable resilience you never would have known otherwise. The weakness itself becomes a catalyst for strength.

This is the essence of becoming. You are not just healing a relationship with your body. You are allowing your mortal struggles to forge you into someone with new wisdom and divine character.

Rebuilding trust with my body has been slow and nonlinear. Some days are good, and I feel a flicker of connection. Other days are hard, and the resentment is fresh. I’m practicing patience through the process. This is not a failure to correct, but a relationship to repair. It is holy work to choose kindness in the face of disappointment.