I notice how my body behaves around Caleb now long before I consciously name it.
It’s not something I decide. It’s not a choice I make in the moment. It’s information my body offers up without commentary, the way it always has, long before my mind catches up and starts assigning meaning.
My shoulders stay loose.
They don’t creep upward toward my ears when he enters a room. They don’t brace in anticipation of questions I might need to answer or moods I might need to read. I don’t feel that familiar, low-grade tension that used to live between my shoulder blades, the kind that came from always being slightly prepared to respond.
My breath stays steady.
Not shallow. Not managed. It moves in and out of my chest without supervision, slow and even, as if my lungs trust the space they’re occ
