Jayne Whyte's Portfolio

There is a quiet moment when you notice it.
Not fireworks.
Not music.
Just a calm realisation.
That, finally, this body is mine.

I did not grow up with that idea.
My body was managed for me very early.
Touched when it should not have been.
Controlled when it should have been protected.
I learned fast that survival meant shrinking, pleasing and obeying.

Later, I became a wife.
Then a mother.
Important roles. Heavy roles.
My body worked like a public service.
Feed the baby. Carry the child. Soothe the man. Smile at the world.
Rest was a rumour. Desire was optional. Mine was rarely considered.

I loved my children. Deeply.
But love does not cancel exhaustion.
Love does not erase how often your own needs get pushed to the edge of the table, waiting for crumbs.

In those years, my body felt rented out.
Leased to duty.
Signed over to responsibility.
Useful. Needed. But not really heard.

Then life shifted.
Not in one dramatic explosion.
More like slow tectonic movement.
Tiny changes. New boundaries. Different choices.
A few brave no’s.
A few gentle yes’s that were actually for me.

And something strange happened.
My body started talking again.

For the first time in a long time, I noticed how I walk.
How my shoulders drop when I feel safe.
How my hips move when no one is judging.
How my skin reacts when it is touched with care, not demand.

Recovery is not loud.
It is subtle.
It is choosing sleep without guilt.
Eating because you are hungry, not because it is time.
Saying no without explaining your whole life story.

Some days, my body still flinches at old memories.
Trauma has good memory.
But healing takes patience.
And patience is winning more days than it used to.

These past months, something has returned to me.
Ownership.
Not legal. Not loud.
Personal.

I wake up and feel inside my skin.
Not floating above it.
Not hiding from it.
Inside it.

This body has carried pain.
It has carried children.
It has carried expectations.
Now it is learning how to carry joy and pleasure.

Slowly.
Awkwardly.
Beautifully.

My body is not a duty anymore.
It is a home. My home.