Sometimes I wonder something very simple.

Who first decided that the body should be perfect?

It certainly wasn't the body.

The body never asked for flawless skin.

It never asked for a flat stomach.

It never asked to weigh the same at seventy as it did at eighteen.

Those expectations came from somewhere else.

From mirrors.

From advertisements.

From comparison.

From fear.

But not from the body itself.

In the clinic, I often meet people who apologise for their bodies.

"I know I should lose weight."

"My legs are ugly."

"I'm getting old."

"I hate what I see."

Sometimes I quietly ask,

"What has your body done for you today?"

The answer changes the room.

It carried them here.

It breathed all morning.

It digested breakfast.

It kept their heart beating.

It allowed them to hug someone they love.

It walked the dog.

It climbed the stairs.

It laughed.

It cried.

It rested.

It continued.

The body is remarkably humble.

It rarely asks to be admired.

It asks only for enough sleep.

Enough food.

Enough movement.

Enough kindness.

It has never demanded perfection.

Only participation.

Perhaps we spend too much time trying to make our bodies beautiful,

and too little time noticing how faithfully they have served us.

The body does not wake each morning asking,

"Will I look perfect today?"

It wakes asking,

"Can we live another day together?"

That feels like a much wiser question.

Ageing is not the failure of the body.

It is one of the ways life expresses itself.

Wrinkles tell the story of time.

Scars tell the story of healing.

Grey hair tells the story of years survived.

None of them are mistakes.

Perhaps perfection was never the destination.

Perhaps life was.

Perhaps healing begins,

not when the body finally meets our expectations,

but when our expectations finally make room for the body.

The body never asked to be perfect.

It only asked for the chance to keep carrying your life.