Listening to Your Body's Wisdom

This blog is named The Spiritual Belly because I believe my weight journey is more than just about improving my physical health. I believe our bodies also carry wisdom, and if we're listening, they can guide us toward truth.

Lately, I’ve found myself staring at that same stalled number on the scale, feeling a familiar mix of frustration and curiosity. On the surface, it seems like a physical issue: eat less, move more, check the result. But something deeper is being asked of me—something spiritual. It's as if my body is whispering, "Slow down. Pay attention. I'm trying to tell you something."

The Body And Its Many Meanings

Growing up in America, I was shaped by a particular vision of the body—one that sees it primarily as a project. You manage it, discipline it, upgrade it. If your body is thin, muscular, or beautiful, you’ve “succeeded.” If not, well… maybe you just didn’t try hard enough. In this view, the body becomes a sort of moral scoreboard. Health becomes virtue. Fat becomes failure. And somewhere along the way, our actual lived experience inside these bodies gets silenced.

For me, that idea was reinforced by the evangelical Christianity I grew up with. In that tradition, the body was mostly seen as temporary—just a shell for the soul. The real goal was heaven, not healing. Spiritual maturity was measured in Bible reading and behavior, not in breath, movement, or presence. There were no regular practices for honoring the body, for integrating it into prayer or worship, or even for listening to what it might be saying. Fasting was allowed, but only if it proved your devotion. Rest was allowed, but only after you’d worked yourself into the ground.

It’s only recently that I’ve discovered other ways of seeing.

In many Eastern traditions, the body is not something to escape or conquer, but a sacred vessel for awakening. Practices like yoga and mindful breathing are not just about flexibility or focus—they are invitations to come home to the self. The body is where healing happens. It is the teacher, not just the tool.

Carl Jung, in his psychological work, offered yet another lens. He saw the body as part of the psyche—a living symbol that speaks through sensation, illness, craving, and even weight. What we carry physically often mirrors what we carry emotionally or spiritually. To ignore the body is to ignore a major part of the soul's journey. Jung believed that healing happens when we integrate what’s unconscious into consciousness. And often, the body knows what the mind is not yet ready to admit.

All of this makes me wonder: what have I been taught not to hear? What have I labeled as failure that might actually be a cry for compassion?

Listening With The Body

With these new perspectives in mind, I decided to try something different. Instead of treating my body as a problem to fix, I began to wonder what might happen if I listened to it—really listened.

I came across a practice called somatic imagery. It’s a simple but powerful approach rooted in the idea that our bodies carry stories, emotions, and even spiritual truths that our minds might not fully grasp. When we slow down, get still, and bring awareness to a part of our body—like the belly—we can sometimes access a deeper kind of wisdom. Not logical. Not verbal. But true.

Somatic imagery is not about diagnosis or discipline. It’s about dialogue. It’s about meeting the parts of ourselves that have been ignored, shamed, or pushed aside—and asking, *What do you want me to know?*

For me, this was a radical shift. I had spent so long trying to conquer my body—through diets, through guilt, through endless striving. But this practice invited me to do something completely different: to listen. Not to what a scale says, not to what a health app says, not even to what a past version of me believed—but to what my body, in this moment, was carrying and longing to express.

What My Belly Had to Say

So one afternoon, I laid down and placed my hands on my stomach.

I took a few slow breaths, closed my eyes, and brought my attention to this part of me that I’ve so often tried to ignore, fix, or judge. I didn’t rush. I didn’t ask it to change. I just made space for it.

Then I asked a simple question: If this part of me could take a shape, what would it be?

A few images floated up, almost like dreams. First, I saw a beach ball—bright, inflated, a little silly. Then a heavy boulder—immovable, ancient. And then, surprisingly, the image of a fit athlete—alive, strong, potential. I let each image arrive without trying to analyze them.

Then I asked another question: What do you want me to know?

The responses were immediate, almost like a whisper from a long-lost friend.
“I feel weak.”
“I wish you would try harder.”
“You’re not perfect.”

It stung. But I kept listening.

I remembered something I’d read: the parts of us that criticize often do so because they’re protecting something tender. So I asked again—not to defend myself, but to understand: Why do you feel this way?

That’s when a different voice emerged. Softer. More raw.

“You work too much. The world is going crazy. The market wants you consuming a lot of products. It’s easier to stay with the herd. It’s too much work to say no. Just enjoy the food that never satisfies.”

Then it said something I didn’t expect:
“I would feel nourished if I didn’t feel so tired and burnt out. Everyone demands my attention. Food is the only thing that doesn’t ask anything from me. I just want to be. Without striving. Without judgment. I just want to be.”

I had to pause.

This wasn’t laziness speaking. It wasn’t weakness. It was a deep, buried hunger for rest. For peace. For a kind of nourishment that doesn’t come in calories, but in kindness.

A Real Kind of Rest

Ever since college, tiredness has followed me like a shadow. It’s more than just needing sleep—it’s a bone-deep weariness, a sense that no amount of checking out or lying down can really touch.

Sometimes I look at old pictures of myself—me as a kid, bright-eyed and curious—and then I look at photos from the past decade. My eyes have changed. They squint more now, like they’re searching for something just out of reach. There’s a puffiness to them that feels like accumulated years of pushing through: through work, through expectations, through life.

And honestly, if I’m carrying extra weight, I think part of it is because I’m also carrying this exhaustion.

That’s why when that voice from my belly said, “I just want to be, without striving, without judgment,” I felt something open in me. Because it named something I’ve rarely allowed myself to fully want: true rest.

Not just sleep. Not just checking out on the couch with a show or a snack. But the kind of rest that touches the soul. The kind of rest where I’m not trying to prove anything, improve anything, or earn anything.

The rest that comes when I finally believe I am enough.

I don’t think our culture has any idea how to do this. We’re told to be productive, optimize everything, self-improve constantly. Even rest has become something to master—download the sleep app, buy the fancy weighted blanket, schedule your mindfulness.

But the rest I’m craving doesn’t come with a price tag. It comes when I allow myself to stop. To listen. To forgive. To soften.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s the place where real transformation begins.

Returning to the Present Body

I haven’t stopped my weight loss journey. Objectively, my health matters. I know my body would benefit from carrying less. But the way I walk that path is starting to shift.

Instead of treating my body like a stubborn problem to fix, I’m starting to see it as a wise friend trying to get my attention. It’s been telling me—sometimes through exhaustion, sometimes through cravings—that I’ve been living too fast, too externally. That maybe all this extra weight isn’t a failure, but a message. A sacred message. Slow down. Feel. Be here.

And I’m listening now.

I’m learning that I can still pursue health, but not from a place of shame or punishment. I can pursue it as an act of kindness. Of gratitude. Because my body—this miraculous, living organism—has been doing its best for me all along. It has carried me through stress, grief, overwork, overthinking, and it’s still here, holding on, hoping I’ll finally listen.

What if health wasn’t just about a number on a scale, but about how present I am to my life? What if I can enjoy movement, not as a chore, but as an expression of aliveness? What if I eat with reverence instead of guilt? What if I stop postponing joy for “someday when I’m better,” and start living like I’m worthy now?

Because the truth is: all we ever have is the present moment. The now.

And we get to choose how we show up in it. We can live it weighed down by regret, by shame, by the feeling that we’re always behind—or we can open our hearts to the complexity of being human. The high and low. The fast and slow. The striving and the resting. It’s all part of it.

And when we meet this moment with curiosity and kindness, we begin to change—not just our bodies, but our whole relationship with life.

Try It Yourself: A Simple Somatic Imagery Practice

If you're curious about what your own body might be trying to tell you, here’s a gentle way to begin listening.

Find a quiet space and sit or lie down comfortably. Take a few deep, slow breaths to settle. Then begin a simple body scan—bring your attention to your feet, your legs, your belly, your chest, your shoulders, your jaw. Just notice what’s there. No need to fix anything.

When you feel centered, place your hands on the part of your body that feels most alive or weighed down. Ask a simple question like, *What do you want me to know?* or *What are you carrying?* Then listen—without judgment. You may see an image, hear a phrase, or simply feel an emotion. Whatever comes up, just be present to it.

Sometimes the body answers in whispers. But with time and compassion, those whispers can lead you home.

In the quiet space between hunger and fullness, striving and stillness, we may just discover that our bodies have been speaking sacred truths all along—we only needed to slow down and listen.

Down 1.2 lbs.