You say, I love that you wore your glasses today!
as if that is enough, as if that is anything at all.
I watch the words slip from your mouth,
brittle as milk teeth, and I want to pocket them,
keep them warm, keep them safe,
but they turn to dust in my hands.

I wish the world would burn to ashes by morning,

so I could spit out the truth like blood,

and press my chest onto yours,

and feel your breaths that are weighted by longing.

So badly I want you—
like a ghost wants a body, like a wound wants a knife.

And when I think of all the things we carry,
I feel the shifting earth, the shallow grave,
the breath still rising beneath the soil.

You sit at the small group’s Bible study, hands folded in your lap, nails pressing crescents into your palm. The group of girls is doing a study on Corinthians, talking about the body as a temple. Again.

“You wouldn’t starve a temple, would you?” Someone says, smiling, passing the bowl of cookies around. “It’s about stewardship.”

Stewardship. A word that means responsibility, at which you have utterly failed.

You blink, and suddenly you are fifteen again, kneeling over the toilet seat, hands gripping the pale porcelain. God, make me holy. Make me pure. Burn this feeling away. Another blink, and you are twenty-one, standing in front of a scale. The number flickers. A priest blesses communion. A sacrifice offered. Holy unto the Lord.

Back in the present, someone asks if you’re okay.

You nod.

You do not say: I don’t know where hunger ends and sin begins.

You do not say: If my body is a temple, why do I feel like a ruin?

Back home, while the shower is running, you look in the mirror. Your enemy stands before you.

Runny-egg eyes spin as you begin to feel backed into a corner. You are trapped in your own mind, the prison created by the body of the beast in the mirror.

“God, save me, guide my steps,” you cry aloud, this pathetic plea.

The enemy whispers back, “Abandon all hope, there is no god where you are.”

You don’t remember lying down, but you find yourself hiding beneath your comforter, the shower still running, steam curling under the door. The words echo in your mind. There is no god where you are.

A lie, it must be. But it settles in your bones like truth.

***

Your therapist’s office is quiet except for the whispering hum of the A/C. The chair is plush soft. You hadn’t noticed that before.

“You look tired,” Dr. Meyers says, with a look of gentleness in her eyes.

You pull the sleeve of your sweater over your hands. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Dr. Meyers nods, as if she understands. Maybe she does. “Would you like to talk about it?”

You hesitate. Then blurt out, “Is my eating disorder a sin?”

The words linger between you, like smoke, hanging in the imbalance.

Dr. Meyers doesn’t answer right away. She never does. She waits, as if the answer is something to be discovered, not handed over like a prescription.

“What do you think?”

You swallow. “I don’t know.”

You think about the small group meeting last week, the way they spoke about the body as a temple. A commandment you were unable to keep.

“But also,” you say, your voice lower now, “it doesn’t feel like something I chose.”

Dr. Meyers nods. “Because it isn’t.”

A pause. The minute hand on the clock ticks. You stare at the picture frame of Dr. Meyers’ young daughters on the desk. You desperately long for the wonder and inexperience that fills youth.

“Sin is an act of will,” Dr. Meyers continues. “It’s a choice to turn away. But illness, illness takes.” She leans forward slightly. “An eating disorder isn’t something you do. It’s something that’s happening to you.”

You exhale, something in your chest loosens.

“But it feels like my fault.”

“Of course it does. That’s what it does—it convinces you you’re the problem. But listen to me.” Dr. Meyers’ voice is calm. “The reality is, you are not your illness. And it is not your sin to carry.”

You stare down at your lap while tugging the sleeves of your sweater. You want to believe her words.

“Would it be okay if we tried something?” Dr. Meyers asks after a moment.

You hesitate but nod.

Dr. Meyers picks up a small mirror from the desk. Not a full-length mirror, just a handheld one, round and unassuming. She holds it out.

“Take a look,” she says, gentle but firm. “And tell me what you see.”

The weight of the mirror in your hands feels unbearable.

The enemy is in there, but you look anyway.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t see a ruin.

You see a girl.

And maybe, God is with you, after all.

I suppose I should have expected this when I decided to pursue music in a university setting. After all, when something you love becomes an academic discipline, it inevitably gets measured, assessed, and graded. But I didn’t quite anticipate how restricting it would feel to be constantly evaluated for something that’s supposed to be personal. Music has always been framed as a universal language, a way to connect, to release emotions, to express what words cannot. And yet, within the rigid structures of conservatories and competitions, expression itself can start to feel like a performance—not just for an audience, but for a panel that dictates whether my version of “expression” is correct.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore playing music. And I find it so often says the words I can’t. Performing the last movement of Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony surrounded by a full orchestra and chorus is nothing short of transcendent. As I play the brilliant tremolos outlining the D Major chord on my violin, I’m immersed in a world of sound and beauty that is pulsing through my veins. In those moments, I don’t have to think–I just exist within the music, and feel every ounce of it. And I only hope that the audience can really feel it too.

Yet somewhere along the way, the thing that was meant to give me freedom started to feel like a cage–confined by expectations, evaluations, and the pressure to perform expression in the right way. And that’s why I need a creative outlet—something that isn’t graded, auditioned for, or picked apart by a panel of judges. Something that belongs to me. That’s what this Substack is meant to be. A space where I can create, think, and express on my own terms.

Performing in front of others is anxiety-inducing, yet the irony is that while I’m expected to deliver a performance filled with carefully crafted expressions, no one truly knows how I feel. My hope with this Substack is to join a community of people who have the courage to share their real emotions, unfiltered and all. Maybe you’re not a musician, but you know what it’s like to hide behind a pretense instead of expressing what you really feel. If that resonates with you, I hope we can share this space together—one where emotion and feeling takes center stage

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