It catches me unexpectedly.
I'm standing in front of the mirror again – no surprise there – but this time my gaze drifts differently. Less on the warmth. Less on the soft press of fabric. More on the shape of me.
I trace the line of my hips with my eyes. The curve of my thighs. The gentle slope of my belly. Not harshly. Not unkindly. Just… noticing.
I don't dislike what I see.
But the thought rises soft as breath: *I wonder what it would feel like… to change.*
Not to erase anything. Not to punish. Not to become someone new.
Just to shape it. To shape myself. For me.
The idea doesn't feel sharp. It doesn't even feel urgent. It's like the warmth I've been carrying: quiet, patient, waiting for me to notice.
I picture it. A small space. A little corner of the house just for me. Nothing extravagant. Nothing that changes who I am. Just… more. A little more.
The thought lingers.
I find myself sitting later, scrolling through images without meaning to – soft mats, simple weights, pale wood floors, things I could bring into my world without disrupting it.
And when I fall asleep that night, I do it smiling.
The next few days drift by softly.
I don't rush it. I don't make a grand plan. But the thought stays, quiet and steady at the back of my mind – like warmth I carry without needing to touch.
I order a few things. Simple. Small. A soft mat. A set of bands. Lightweight dumbbells in pale gray. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that feels like a different life.
When the boxes arrive, I let them sit for a day. Then another. The change is mine – I can take my time.
Eventually, I open them. Unpack carefully. I clear a corner of the living room, roll out the mat, stack the pieces neatly. It's not much. But it's enough to feel like something new.
My fingertips brush the edge of the mat when I'm done. The air feels different. The house feels different. Not because anything's really changed, but because I know I have.
I pause in the mirror before bed – just for a breath.
The same reflection greets me: soft curves, quiet lines. The faintest shape of something that could become more.
I smile without thinking.
I don't need anyone to see it but me.
The first time I move, it's careful. Gentle. Nothing sharp, nothing forced.
I roll the mat out in the soft morning light. The air is cool. The house is still. I stretch slowly, letting each motion pull against the soft weight of me, not to change it, but to feel it differently.
It's not about numbers. Not about burning or measuring. It's the way my breath moves through my chest. The way my skin warms. The way the softness of my thighs feels against each shift.
I don't push far. Just enough. Just enough to feel awake. To feel present.
By the time I stop, my breath is light, my skin flushed. There's no urgency. No goal. Only the quiet hum of something new stirred beneath the surface.
I catch myself in the mirror as I stand, still flushed, still soft, but glowing in a way I haven't seen before.
I like this.
The thought settles easily.
I like this very much.