You didn’t change your meals.
You still skip dessert. Still count steps.
Yet your waist feels tighter.
The scale edges upward. Slowly. Quietly.
It doesn’t feel like a diet issue.
It feels like something else is in control.
You sleep, but your body acts like it’s in danger
You turn off the lights early.
You close your eyes.
But your mind doesn’t settle.
Your chest stays tense.
Dreams feel fast, shallow, forgettable.
You wake tired, jaw clenched.
Your appetite rises, but nothing really satisfies it
You crave salty snacks at night.
Then sugar.
Then more of both.
You eat slowly, still feel empty.
Something stirs beneath the hunger.
It’s not boredom.
It’s a need that feels wired into you.
Stress doesn’t just pass—it lingers in your stomach
You feel it below your ribs.
Not pain. Just pressure.
Meals sit longer.
You feel bloated without eating much.
Pants press into your skin by evening.
You exhale and still feel full.
Cortisol doesn’t explain everything, but it touches more than you expect
It’s not always sharp or sudden.
Sometimes, it simmers for weeks.
Unseen.
Unnoticed.
Until your body responds in whispers.
Then in habits.
Then in weight.
You’re not eating more—you’re storing more
Your body takes what it’s given and saves it.
Not for growth. Not for healing.
But for survival it thinks is coming.
It stores energy in places you notice.
Your waist.
Your back.
Your arms.
And no, it doesn’t feel fair.
You try to relax, but even rest feels like work
You sit still.
But your thoughts run.
Your muscles stay alert.
Your shoulders rise, even in sleep.
You take deep breaths, but nothing releases.
Your body doesn’t trust stillness anymore.
Sleep is short, shallow, and never enough
Even when you get eight hours, something’s missing.
Your mornings are thick.
Your mind is slow.
You need caffeine, then more caffeine.
And even then, you don’t feel present.
You gain weight, but it doesn’t follow a pattern
Some days your jeans fit.
Some days they don’t.
You weigh yourself twice, hoping for a mistake.
The numbers don’t lie.
But they don’t make sense either.
No matter what you do, your belly stays
You do crunches.
You walk more.
You cut bread.
You try juice.
Nothing moves the center.
The belly stays, as if guarding something.
You hold tension in your back, shoulders, jaw
You stretch.
You roll.
You massage.
But it returns by afternoon.
You clench without meaning to.
Even your smile feels tight.
You blame yourself because no one talks about cortisol
They tell you to eat less.
Move more.
But no one asks about sleep.
Or panic dreams.
Or why your stomach tightens when the phone rings.
No one asks about fear that doesn’t end.
Your body isn’t confused—it’s preparing for something you don’t see
It doesn’t know the threat has passed.
It reacts like you’re still running.
Still hiding.
Still trying to survive something that already happened.
So it stores.
It slows.
It waits.
You can’t diet your way out of fight or flight
No green juice calms the nervous system.
No treadmill lowers cortisol.
It’s not about effort.
It’s about permission.
Permission to stop.
To breathe.
To feel safe again.
There’s a weight that isn’t just physical
It sits behind your eyes.
In your spine.
In your breath.
You feel heavy, even when you’re empty.
The scale can’t measure that.
But your body does.
What your body protects, it will not let go of easily
This weight is not laziness.
It’s not weakness.
It’s protection.
From a threat that lives in memory.
A memory that’s still active.
Until safety returns, the body keeps storing.
Healing isn’t quick, and it doesn’t look like progress
Some days you’ll feel calm.
Other days, your heart will race at nothing.
You’ll sleep well, then not.
Your clothes will fit, then tighten again.
Healing doesn’t move in straight lines.
You want change, but your body wants certainty first
It needs to know it’s safe.
Not today—consistently.
Not just when you rest.
But in your breath.
In your gut.
In your thoughts.