A Body in Transition: Relearning Movement and Trust
I really miss the periods of my life where I was very active. Hiking. Biking. Zumba. I was pushing my heart, pushing my body. Now it wasn't perfect. I still had intrusive thoughts and self esteem issues. But I miss my body feeling alive. and at the same time lately my body feels like a 200 lb backpack and getting my heart going feels dangerous, like I shouldn't drive "my car" so fast.
That’s a tough contrast—you know what it feels like to be in a body that feels alive, pushing itself, moving through the world with strength and momentum. And now, your body feels like dead weight, like something you’re dragging rather than inhabiting. And worse, there’s this new fear—this sense that getting your heart going, making your body work, might actually be dangerous.
That shift is massive. It’s not just about fitness or motivation; it’s about how you relate to your body itself. There was a time when movement felt like a way to be in your body, and now movement feels like something you should be careful about, like you’re driving a fragile machine that might break if you push it too hard.
What Changed?
Did something happen that made you start feeling like exertion is dangerous? (An injury, a panic attack, a health scare, even just a gradual shift in perception?)
Or has this fear crept in because of the general dissociation and fear of existing in your body? (Meaning it’s not about actual danger, but about feeling out of sync with yourself?)
Or maybe it’s just the weight of time and inertia—going from an active body to a still one makes movement feel foreign, and foreign things feel risky.
Rebuilding Trust with Your Body
If your body feels like a 200 lb backpack, it makes sense that jumping straight into intense movement feels impossible. Maybe the path back to feeling alive in your body isn’t about pushing it hard yet, but about reestablishing trust.
Some ways to do that:
Tiny, intentional movements—a slow stretch, a single squat, lifting your arms above your head and breathing deeply. Not to “work out,” just to remind yourself that movement exists and is okay.
Getting your heart going in non-scary ways—even just walking briskly around your house, doing a few steps in place, rolling your shoulders and shaking your arms out. Small ways to feel your heart beat without triggering alarm bells.
Reframing what movement means right now—instead of thinking, "I used to hike/bike/Zumba, and now I’m weak," try, "I’m learning to be in my body again. That’s the first step."
Curiosity instead of pressure—what if, instead of thinking, "I have to get back to where I was," you thought, "I wonder what movement feels like today?" No goal, no expectation, just seeing what’s possible in this moment.
You don’t have to force yourself into full intensity right away. You don’t have to prove anything. You just have to start reintroducing yourself to your body—not as an enemy, not as a burden, but as something that’s still yours.
I feel this ache to have a slimmer body. Nothing crazy. Just a body not built by an eating disorder. I want to feel more comfortable in my body. I think all the time about the fat on my body and it disgusts me
I hear you. You’re not asking for some extreme transformation—you just want a body that feels like yours, not one shaped by compulsions, survival mechanisms, and an eating disorder. You want to live in a body that feels more comfortable rather than like something you have to fight against or be disgusted by.
And that disgust—that constant awareness of the fat on your body—it’s brutal. It’s like you’re trapped in a feedback loop where your body isn’t just your body; it’s a constant reminder of a past you didn’t choose, of patterns that shaped you in ways you wish they hadn’t. No wonder it feels so charged.
This is About Ownership, Not Just Size
It sounds like this isn’t just about being slimmer—it’s about feeling like you’re living in a body shaped by your own care, not by disorder. A body that reflects your choices, not compulsions. A body that feels good to move in, that feels like home rather than something you’re constantly reminded to critique.
So the question becomes: How do you change your relationship with your body without getting pulled into another cycle of control, punishment, or self-rejection? Because the last thing you need is to swap one form of suffering (disgust) for another (obsession, restriction, guilt).
What If the Focus Was on Feeling Good Instead of Fixing?
Instead of focusing on losing fat, what if the goal was building a body that feels strong, capable, and lived in?
Instead of undoing what the eating disorder did, what if it was about creating a body that reflects how you want to live now?
Instead of trying to get rid of something, what if you shifted toward gaining—gaining comfort, gaining trust, gaining a sense of being at home in yourself?
That shift in perspective might make the process more sustainable—not fueled by self-disgust, but by a real desire to live differently, feel differently, move differently. And maybe over time, your body naturally changes in a way that reflects that—not because you forced it, but because you built a different relationship with it.
I know it’s easier said than done. But you are allowed to want change without hating yourself in the process. You deserve a body that feels like yours.
I will say that I was reading through some of my conversations with you two months ago and the things I was bringing up then now felt more like "oh yeah, I know that". So as alarming as it's been to learn this stuff, it's seeping in. Hell, I didn't know anything about the mechanics of consciousness back in 2020 when I did shrooms. And now here I am learning about the self.
That’s huge. Even though this process has felt overwhelming, confusing, and at times like you’re drowning in new realizations, it’s sticking. You’re not just cycling through the same questions—you’re actually integrating this stuff. What felt like a massive, disorienting discovery a couple of months ago now feels familiar, like something you own rather than something that’s happening to you.
That’s real progress. It might not always feel like it, especially when new layers keep unfolding and throwing you for a loop, but you are learning. You are absorbing. You are building a new framework for understanding yourself, your mind, your existence.
And honestly? The fact that you can look back and say, “Oh yeah, I know that now,” means that even this current, chaotic phase—this hall-of-mirrors, fear-of-going-crazy, feeling-stuck-in-your-head period—is also something you’re going to process and integrate.
This is the long game. You went from having zero language for consciousness back in 2020 to now actively engaging with deep questions about selfhood, embodiment, fear, and identity. That’s not the path of someone who’s stuck. That’s someone who’s building something real, even if it still feels messy and unresolved right now.
One day, you’ll look back at this moment and say, “Oh yeah, I know that now.” Just like you did today.
I've also been thinking about the gains I had before I did shrooms. I often think shrooms blew the lid off everything but memories tell me different. Like I tried cannabis for the first time in 2016 and it was really scary, things didn't feel real. I had no idea what to expect. I knew nothing other than sobriety and being drunk. I remember a moment when I was laying in the hammock, high, and I suddenly became aware that I was on a ball shape looking out into infinity. I also remember in 2019 at a retreat becoming aware of the thoughts I'm my head informing me of others' motivations, which I would use to inform myself how to react . I felt at least a bit of distance from those thoughts even then
That’s really interesting—your memories are telling a different story than the one you've been running with. The shrooms trip wasn’t the singular moment that cracked everything open. It was a major event, sure, but your awareness was already shifting before that.
Cannabis in 2016 gave you your first real derealization-like experience—things didn’t feel real, and suddenly, you weren’t just existing in the world; you were aware of existing. That’s a massive shift. That moment in the hammock, realizing you were on a ball floating in infinity—that’s the exact kind of perspective shift that shrooms amplify, but it was happening already.
Then in 2019, at that retreat, you were already noticing the mechanics of your mind—how you were using your thoughts about others to regulate yourself, which means you were beginning to recognize thoughts as thoughts rather than absolute truths. That’s a big deal, because that’s the same kind of awareness you’ve been training now with your “spot the outsider” practice.
It’s like you were already on this path, and shrooms just accelerated it to a degree that was overwhelming. The way you’ve framed it—shrooms blew the lid off everything—makes it sound like it was all shoved onto you at once, but your memories show something different: you were already opening doors, already learning to see in new ways, already experiencing the early stages of disidentification from thoughts.
Maybe the real story isn’t “I was fine until shrooms shattered everything” but rather “I was already waking up to these ideas, and shrooms made it happen faster than I was ready for.” That subtle shift in perspective might help, because it means:
You weren’t thrown into this against your will—you were already heading this way.
You’ve had moments of integration before, which means you can have them again.
This process isn’t just about undoing what shrooms did; it’s about continuing something you were already doing—just in a way that’s more manageable and sustainable now.
It makes sense that you’ve been so focused on the shrooms trip as the turning point, because it was so intense and disorienting. But maybe it’s worth sitting with this revised timeline a little. You were already on this journey. Shrooms just made it loud.
