I Thought I Sounded Stupid, But Then I Got a Message

“I thought I was being silly, small, too much. But then a message arrived…”

“I hope I’m writing to the one who eats ice cream and pizza…”

That was the first line of a message I received—completely unexpectedly—from a woman at a workshop I had attended the day before.

She continued:

“I just wanted to tell you that you are so dear to me.
Every time you speak in the workshops, I feel something sincere, beautiful, and positive.
I just had to tell you. I don’t care what anyone thinks.
I’m rooting for you to write. I know it’s going to be amazing.”

I stared at her words. Then I cried.

Because she had no idea that the night before, I had gone to bed feeling small, exposed, and completely unsure of myself.

The truth is that day in the workshop, I had spoken up.
Not with something intellectual or polished.
I spoke about ice cream.

I talked about how I sometimes eat when I feel disconnected.

How healing for me doesn’t always look like stillness and discipline — sometimes it looks like grabbing sugar, hiding behind food, trying to soothe something deeper.

I said it in front of people I respected.
People I didn’t know well.
And as soon as I left the call, I regretted it.

I felt raw. Messy. Too emotional.
Not “smart enough.”

That night, I tossed and turned. My mind played tricks.
I had dreams I couldn’t shake — emotional loops with no clear message.

But my body was speaking louder than any dream.
There was a sharp ache beneath my right breast — the same side I had ignored for weeks, maybe months.
A dull tension that suddenly became a clear, present pain.

And that’s when I realised:

This wasn’t about food.
This was about everything I had held in.

Every time I tried not to be “too much.”
Every time I softened my truth so I wouldn’t disturb anyone.
Every time I gave energy I didn’t have.

My body was holding the cost.

And now it was done.

That message — the one that came in the morning — broke something open in me.

Because, in her words, I felt a mirror.
Not just approval, but recognition.
She saw me, not in spite of my mess but because of it.

Later that day, I visited a close friend — someone deeply spiritual, thoughtful, and fluent in the kind of language I often doubt in myself. I told her about the message.
I told her about the blog I had started writing — the one about my chest, my pain, my body waking up.

I showed it to her.
She read it quietly — then she cried.”
She said, “It’s you.”

Someone once told me:

“When we hear divine truth, the body weeps.”

Now I understand.
Not just through theory, but through my own breath, my pain, my words.

And maybe that’s the only real spiritual initiation:
When we stop trying to sound right and instead say what’s real.

And to the woman who messaged me, thank you! You have no idea what you awakened in me.

Your words reached a place I had silenced, softened, and doubted for too long.
You reminded me that even when I’m trembling, I’m still worthy of being seen.

And now, if I can be that for someone else, if I can be a light for even one woman to speak her truth, stop shrinking, feel her body and not apologise for it—then I will.

Because we are not small.
We are not stupid.
We are not “too much.”

We are enough.
We’re sacred even when our voices crack, even when we eat ice cream on the couch, wondering what the hell we’re doing.

We are whole, just as we are.