I Touched Myself Back Into Existence

I Touched Myself Back Into Existence

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For years, I lived just outside my body.
Close enough to function.
Far enough not to feel.

Touch was something that happened to me, not something I claimed.
My skin knew more silence than softness.
My desire—when it spoke—was often drowned out by guilt, by fear, by someone else’s expectations.

I became good at disconnection.
At looking in the mirror and seeing a version of myself curated for survival.
Not intimacy.
Not joy.
Not truth.

But one day, I stopped outsourcing my return.
I placed a hand on my own skin—not to fix it, not to judge it, but to meet it.
And it trembled.
Not from shame. From recognition.

Because I had forgotten what it meant to come home.

Touch, real touch—the kind that listens, not takes—
isn’t always sexual.
It’s sacred.
It’s the language of presence.
And for me, it became a map back to aliveness.

Each moment of contact whispered:
“You are here.”
“You are real.”
“You still belong to yourself.”

I didn’t need permission.
I didn’t need performance.
I just needed to feel—without story, without shame.

This is how I touched myself back into existence:
By returning breath by breath, fingertip by fingertip,
until this body no longer felt like exile,
but home.

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