The body is the keeper of truth

Part One. The Body – the Keeper of Truth

The body is the only diary that cannot be forged. It writes without ink, asks no permission, knows no censorship. Every cell bears the imprint of what has been lived, every breath an echo of what has been experienced, every pain a sign that something has gone unheard.

The mind can lie. It builds defenses, comforts us with illusions, teaches us to forget. But the body knows no forgetting. It remembers everything: a touch that warmed, a look that hurt. It stores trauma in muscles, joy in posture, fear in breathing. And if the truth is banished from consciousness, the body takes it into custody.

A symptom is a letter the body writes when words no longer reach us. Migraines, shortness of breath, insomnia—these aren't enemies, but messengers. They don't punish us; they beg us to stop and hear what we refuse to hear.

And this is the body's secret fidelity. It doesn't betray us, even when it seems like it's crumbling. It simply reminds us: "You're not where you're supposed to be. You're not in your truth."

Part Two: Truth as Medicine

When we begin to listen to the body, it gradually stops screaming. When we name the feelings we've been running from, the body breathes a sigh of relief. The truth doesn't destroy us—on the contrary, it restores our breath, restores our strength, restores the softness of our movement.

The truth isn't always a loud admission. Sometimes it's just a tiny step: allowing ourselves the sadness we've grown accustomed to hiding; acknowledging fatigue instead of heroically dragging through the day; saying "it hurts" instead of smiling. And suddenly, the body feels lighter, as if a weight carried around for years has finally been lifted from our grasp.

The body loves truth as the earth loves rain. It absorbs it, and forgotten shoots come alive within it. Truth is the most ancient and most reliable method of healing. Not an alternative to medicine, but its deepest source: that which activates internal forces, awakens the immune system, and opens new paths to recovery.

And if we want to return to ourselves, we need to trust not only our minds, but also our breathing, not only our words, but also our pauses, not only our logic, but also our heartbeat.

The body has always been our ally. It is not tired of us. It awaits the moment when we dare to hear its language—the language of truth, the language of silence, the language of self-kindness.

What can you do when your body reminds you of the truth?

• Listen to the silences. Sometimes truth comes not from words, but from what we don't have time to say. Notice how your body reacts in silence.
• Talk to the symptom. Not as an enemy, but as a messenger. Ask: "What do you want to tell me?"
• Give space to feelings. If you want to cry, cry. If you want to be silent, be silent. Don't hide your inner state from yourself.
• Write about your body in words. Keep a diary, not of events, but of sensations: where it hurts, where it's warm, where it feels light. This is how the body's memory begins to unfold.
• Bring your breath back. Simply place your hand on your chest, close your eyes, and breathe deeper than usual. This reconciles the mind and body.