Listening to Body Stories
How to Understand and Care
for People in their Bodily Life
As I was in the hospital the other day, I sat next to a woman who was about to have surgery, as was I. We shared our anxiety and concerns, and also our hopes that the surgeries might be successful. We were both aware of the fact that the attitudes we took toward our surgery was important, even if, by certain measures, the surgeries were not successful. We both had a feeling that no matter what happened, all was OK.
I offer a word about how, from an open and relational (process) perspective, your soul can be whole in your body, even if your body is not a happy companion for your soul. I use the word "soul" not only because it has philosophical meaning but also because it's the word my friend used. She said: "I think my soul is OK no matter what happens to my body." I understood and appreciated what she meant.
*
By "soul" I mean is the innermost essence of your life. It is not above you as a spectator or beside you as a companion. It is in the immediacy of your experience, as you interact with other people, with the natural world, with the heavens, with God, and with yourself. It is in your body in an important way, but not simply one part of your body located in a special region, not even your brain, It is, in the words of the philosopher Whitehead, who you are as a subject of your own life, a concrescing subject who is feeling and responding to the world, consciously and unconsciously, in the immediacy of each moment.
Your soul is by all means influenced by your body, including your brain, And it is possible and probable that entities within your bodies have souls, too. Living cells, for example,. And bacteria. But you yourself, in the immediacy of your first-person experience, your lived experience, are an embodied soul. You soul which is embodied is not the body that is ensouled.
Your soul is your psyche, your mind, your seat of awareness - forever responsive to the surrounding world, the most immediacy instance of which is your localized body,
*
The aim of each and every soul - of each and every human being - is to seek harmony, intensity in experience, The measure of our souls is not found. among other places, in having a healthy body—however health is defined—but in cultivating a healthy relationship with our own bodies, whatever conditions we face.
It is also found in willing the well-being of every person in their body, whatever its circumstances, shape, or stage of life. This kind of love begins with listening—listening to our own stories and to the stories of others, on their own terms and for their own sakes, without judgement. To listen to body stories—honestly, tenderly, and without judgment—and to accompany people as they move from one stage of bodily life to another, even to the final letting go of their bodies—is one of the deepest forms of love we can offer them, and they to us.
This is the way God listens to people: with tender care. Indeed, the stories people tell about their bodies, and their bodies themselves, are part of God's ongoing life. At least this is how process-relational theology sees things. For process theologies the multiplicity of the world, including bodies and souls, is something felt and loved by God and something that stays with God - everlastingly remembered - even after people die. In this sense God is many as well as one. The entire universe, in its multiplicity, is the body of God.
*
I live in a culture that privileges youth and idolizes physical health—often reducing the worth of a body to its vitality, appearance, or productivity. In such a culture, bodies that are aging, ill, transitioning, differently shaped, or differently abled can be seen as less valuable, less beautiful, or even less fully human.
But bodily health is not the only measure of well-being. Just as important—perhaps even more so—is the relationship we have with our bodies. A young, able body may still be treated with shame, indifference, or neglect. An aging or hurting body may be honored, listened to, even loved. And even when love feels out of reach, there can be a quiet beauty in simply persevering through pain.
*
Open and relational theology offers a different kind of wisdom: that a healthy relationship to the body is not a one-size-fits-all achievement, but a living, changing journey—shaped by each person’s physical condition, emotional life, and spiritual depth.
God, in this theology, is not the enforcer of ideal forms but the intimate lure toward wholeness—however wholeness might look in this moment, in this body. Thomas Oord and others invite us to imagine God as a Spirit of amipotence—all-loving presence—working in our lives and in the world. This Spirit is an inwardly felt lure, guiding each of us toward a more compassionate and truthful relationship with our bodies.
*
If God is indeed an indwelling lure toward wholeness, then this divine lure includes a call to be gently related to our bodies—not in the abstract, but in the concrete and changing realities of our embodied lives. That relationship will not look the same for everyone, nor will it remain the same throughout a single life.
Below I offer images of such embodied relational health. Each represents a way of being in the body—appropriate to a particular phase, challenge, or possibility in life. Many more could be added. These are simply starting points for reflection.
I offer a word about how, from an open and relational (process) perspective, your soul can be whole in your body, even if your body is not a happy companion for your soul. I use the word "soul" not only because it has philosophical meaning but also because it's the word my friend used. She said: "I think my soul is OK no matter what happens to my body." I understood and appreciated what she meant.
*
By "soul" I mean is the innermost essence of your life. It is not above you as a spectator or beside you as a companion. It is in the immediacy of your experience, as you interact with other people, with the natural world, with the heavens, with God, and with yourself. It is in your body in an important way, but not simply one part of your body located in a special region, not even your brain, It is, in the words of the philosopher Whitehead, who you are as a subject of your own life, a concrescing subject who is feeling and responding to the world, consciously and unconsciously, in the immediacy of each moment.
Your soul is by all means influenced by your body, including your brain, And it is possible and probable that entities within your bodies have souls, too. Living cells, for example,. And bacteria. But you yourself, in the immediacy of your first-person experience, your lived experience, are an embodied soul. You soul which is embodied is not the body that is ensouled.
Your soul is your psyche, your mind, your seat of awareness - forever responsive to the surrounding world, the most immediacy instance of which is your localized body,
*
The aim of each and every soul - of each and every human being - is to seek harmony, intensity in experience, The measure of our souls is not found. among other places, in having a healthy body—however health is defined—but in cultivating a healthy relationship with our own bodies, whatever conditions we face.
It is also found in willing the well-being of every person in their body, whatever its circumstances, shape, or stage of life. This kind of love begins with listening—listening to our own stories and to the stories of others, on their own terms and for their own sakes, without judgement. To listen to body stories—honestly, tenderly, and without judgment—and to accompany people as they move from one stage of bodily life to another, even to the final letting go of their bodies—is one of the deepest forms of love we can offer them, and they to us.
This is the way God listens to people: with tender care. Indeed, the stories people tell about their bodies, and their bodies themselves, are part of God's ongoing life. At least this is how process-relational theology sees things. For process theologies the multiplicity of the world, including bodies and souls, is something felt and loved by God and something that stays with God - everlastingly remembered - even after people die. In this sense God is many as well as one. The entire universe, in its multiplicity, is the body of God.
*
I live in a culture that privileges youth and idolizes physical health—often reducing the worth of a body to its vitality, appearance, or productivity. In such a culture, bodies that are aging, ill, transitioning, differently shaped, or differently abled can be seen as less valuable, less beautiful, or even less fully human.
But bodily health is not the only measure of well-being. Just as important—perhaps even more so—is the relationship we have with our bodies. A young, able body may still be treated with shame, indifference, or neglect. An aging or hurting body may be honored, listened to, even loved. And even when love feels out of reach, there can be a quiet beauty in simply persevering through pain.
*
Open and relational theology offers a different kind of wisdom: that a healthy relationship to the body is not a one-size-fits-all achievement, but a living, changing journey—shaped by each person’s physical condition, emotional life, and spiritual depth.
God, in this theology, is not the enforcer of ideal forms but the intimate lure toward wholeness—however wholeness might look in this moment, in this body. Thomas Oord and others invite us to imagine God as a Spirit of amipotence—all-loving presence—working in our lives and in the world. This Spirit is an inwardly felt lure, guiding each of us toward a more compassionate and truthful relationship with our bodies.
*
If God is indeed an indwelling lure toward wholeness, then this divine lure includes a call to be gently related to our bodies—not in the abstract, but in the concrete and changing realities of our embodied lives. That relationship will not look the same for everyone, nor will it remain the same throughout a single life.
Below I offer images of such embodied relational health. Each represents a way of being in the body—appropriate to a particular phase, challenge, or possibility in life. Many more could be added. These are simply starting points for reflection.
Twenty One Ways to be
Whole in Your Body
Breaking the Cycle
“I spent years hating my body for not looking like the ones in magazines. Then one day, my daughter asked me if she was beautiful. I realized I couldn’t teach her to love her body if I was still at war with mine. So now, I’m trying. I don’t love it every day. But I’m learning to speak to it with kindness.”
— Monica, 38, mother and teacher
More Than the Pain
“I live with endometriosis. Some days my body feels like a battlefield. But even on the worst days, I try to remind myself that pain isn’t the only truth. My body is also where I cry with friends, sing badly in the car, and feel the sun on my face. It’s more than its illness.”
— Nia, 30, designer and chronic pain advocate
Learning to Befriend My Body
“I’m tired of pretending my body is a problem to fix. I’m not 25, I have chronic pain, and I don't fit the mold of what this culture calls ‘wellness.’ But I’m still here. I want to stop measuring my worth by what my body can do or how it looks. I want to learn to befriend it—listen to it—maybe even love it. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s mine.”
— Maya, 48, artist and chronic pain survivor
Becoming Whole, Differently
“At first, I thought I had to get ‘back to normal’—walk like before, move like nothing happened. But I’m learning that this new body is my normal now. My prosthetic isn’t a failure or a flaw—it’s part of the story. I’m not the same, but I’m still me. And maybe there’s beauty in learning to move differently.”
— Jalen, 31, teacher and amputee
Love as Shelter
“If trading my body could save my son’s life, I’d do it without blinking. My muscles, my breath, my strength—he can have it all. Right now, my body isn’t about looking strong. It’s about holding him when he’s scared, carrying him when he’s weak, staying beside him through the worst nights. This body is a shelter. And that’s enough.”
— Ethan, 42, father of a child with cancer
Learning from Her Joy
“I watch my young daughter learn to walk, and I’m reminded how absolutely wonderful our bodies can be. The way she wobbles, falls, laughs, and tries again—it’s pure joy. No shame, no comparison, just discovery. She’s not thinking about how her body looks. She’s feeling what it can do. And honestly, she’s teaching me how to love mine again.”
— Aaron, 36, father and former athlete
Coming Home to Myself
“For a long time, my body felt like a lie someone else wrote for me. Transitioning wasn’t about rejecting it—it was about finally telling the truth with it. I’m not chasing perfection. I’m just trying to live honestly in my skin. This body is still becoming, just like I am. And for the first time, it feels like home.”
— Riley, 29, trans man and writer
Grace in the Letting Go
“I used to try so hard to keep up—stay fit, stay young, stay invisible to time. But at 79, I’ve stopped running from my age. My body is slower now. Softer. But it’s still mine. I don’t need to conquer it. I need to listen to it, thank it, and let it rest when it asks.”
— Elaine, 79, retired librarian
Still Worthy, Still Here
“After the stroke, people started speaking to me like I was fragile or broken. But I’m still me. I may speak more slowly and walk with a cane, but I still have stories to tell, jokes to make, and love to give. My body isn’t who I was—but it’s still worthy of respect.”
— Thomas, 84, grandfather and WWII historian
Worn, Not Weak
“This body has buried parents, raised children, worked in fields and factories. It creaks and it aches—but don’t confuse that with weakness. There’s strength in living this long and still smiling. My wrinkles are memories. My hands are history.”
— Laverne, 87, former farmworker
This Body Held a Whole Life
“They say old age is a thief, but it’s also a truth-teller. This body held babies, held grief, held joy, and held on. I used to try to hide it. Now, I wear it like a badge. This body didn’t betray me. It carried me. All the way here.”
— Rosa, 91, matriarch and storyteller
Held in Grief
“After my miscarriage, I couldn’t bear to look at my body in the mirror. I felt like it had failed. But over time, I began to see it differently—not as broken, but as brave. It held my grief, and now it holds my healing. That’s something sacred.”
— Jamie, 33, social worker
Running Toward Myself
“I started running to lose weight, but somewhere along the way, it stopped being about the scale. Now I run to feel free, to feel strong, to feel like I belong in my own skin. For the first time in my life, I’m not running away from my body—I’m running with it.”
— Sasha, 41, middle school principal
Stretch Marks and Strength
“I used to cover up my stretch marks like they were scars. Now I see them as evidence. I stretched to hold life. I stretched to become someone new. My body changed because it was doing something extraordinary. And I did, too.”
— Amina, 29, mother of twins
Dancing Through Depression
“Depression made my body feel like a cage. Heavy, distant, numb. But dancing, even in the living room with the curtains closed, reminded me there was still rhythm in me. Some days, it’s all I can do. And some days, it’s everything.”
— Elise, 26, student and poet
The Long Road Back
“After the car accident, I had to relearn everything—how to walk, how to trust my body, how to believe it could be mine again. Recovery was slow, humbling. But every step was a decision to live. And now, I don’t take a single movement for granted.”
— Marcus, 45, former EMT
Fasting with Gratitude
“As a Muslim woman, Ramadan taught me to listen to my body in a different way. Not to indulge it or ignore it, but to respect it. Fasting wasn’t about punishment—it was about alignment. My body became a vessel of prayer.”
— Noura, 37, community organizer
Invisible, Not Imaginary
“People don’t see my illness. They see a young woman who ‘looks fine.’ But fibromyalgia doesn’t ask for permission to show up. Some days I walk, some days I crawl. I’m learning to stop apologizing for what others can’t see.”
— Kiara, 32, graphic designer
Becoming Muscle
“Lifting weights gave me something I didn’t know I was missing—a sense of power that was mine alone. Not for looks, not for approval. Just strength, discipline, and clarity. My body doesn’t need to be small to be worthy. It just needs to be mine.”
— Devyn, 24, nonbinary athlete
A New Kind of Mirror
“Chemo changed everything. My hair, my skin, my energy. But it also changed my perspective. I stopped looking for beauty in the mirror, and started feeling it in how people held my hand, in how I held theirs. My body is not what it was—but neither am I. I’m still here. And that’s beautiful.”
— Lila, 58, cancer survivor
I Gave My Body, and It Was Enough
“I gave my body to protect the people I loved. In that final moment, there was no fear—only clarity. My body was never perfect, but it was mine to give. It carried me through every act of love, every step toward courage. I don’t regret the cost. What I gave was real. What I gave was enough. From here—whatever you call this place—I see it all with grace. The scars, the weight, the ache… they were part of the offering. And now, I rest in the hands of something larger than pain. Tell them: their bodies matter. Not because they last forever, but because of what they make possible.”
— Jonathan, 36, fallen soldier and beloved friend
“I spent years hating my body for not looking like the ones in magazines. Then one day, my daughter asked me if she was beautiful. I realized I couldn’t teach her to love her body if I was still at war with mine. So now, I’m trying. I don’t love it every day. But I’m learning to speak to it with kindness.”
— Monica, 38, mother and teacher
More Than the Pain
“I live with endometriosis. Some days my body feels like a battlefield. But even on the worst days, I try to remind myself that pain isn’t the only truth. My body is also where I cry with friends, sing badly in the car, and feel the sun on my face. It’s more than its illness.”
— Nia, 30, designer and chronic pain advocate
Learning to Befriend My Body
“I’m tired of pretending my body is a problem to fix. I’m not 25, I have chronic pain, and I don't fit the mold of what this culture calls ‘wellness.’ But I’m still here. I want to stop measuring my worth by what my body can do or how it looks. I want to learn to befriend it—listen to it—maybe even love it. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s mine.”
— Maya, 48, artist and chronic pain survivor
Becoming Whole, Differently
“At first, I thought I had to get ‘back to normal’—walk like before, move like nothing happened. But I’m learning that this new body is my normal now. My prosthetic isn’t a failure or a flaw—it’s part of the story. I’m not the same, but I’m still me. And maybe there’s beauty in learning to move differently.”
— Jalen, 31, teacher and amputee
Love as Shelter
“If trading my body could save my son’s life, I’d do it without blinking. My muscles, my breath, my strength—he can have it all. Right now, my body isn’t about looking strong. It’s about holding him when he’s scared, carrying him when he’s weak, staying beside him through the worst nights. This body is a shelter. And that’s enough.”
— Ethan, 42, father of a child with cancer
Learning from Her Joy
“I watch my young daughter learn to walk, and I’m reminded how absolutely wonderful our bodies can be. The way she wobbles, falls, laughs, and tries again—it’s pure joy. No shame, no comparison, just discovery. She’s not thinking about how her body looks. She’s feeling what it can do. And honestly, she’s teaching me how to love mine again.”
— Aaron, 36, father and former athlete
Coming Home to Myself
“For a long time, my body felt like a lie someone else wrote for me. Transitioning wasn’t about rejecting it—it was about finally telling the truth with it. I’m not chasing perfection. I’m just trying to live honestly in my skin. This body is still becoming, just like I am. And for the first time, it feels like home.”
— Riley, 29, trans man and writer
Grace in the Letting Go
“I used to try so hard to keep up—stay fit, stay young, stay invisible to time. But at 79, I’ve stopped running from my age. My body is slower now. Softer. But it’s still mine. I don’t need to conquer it. I need to listen to it, thank it, and let it rest when it asks.”
— Elaine, 79, retired librarian
Still Worthy, Still Here
“After the stroke, people started speaking to me like I was fragile or broken. But I’m still me. I may speak more slowly and walk with a cane, but I still have stories to tell, jokes to make, and love to give. My body isn’t who I was—but it’s still worthy of respect.”
— Thomas, 84, grandfather and WWII historian
Worn, Not Weak
“This body has buried parents, raised children, worked in fields and factories. It creaks and it aches—but don’t confuse that with weakness. There’s strength in living this long and still smiling. My wrinkles are memories. My hands are history.”
— Laverne, 87, former farmworker
This Body Held a Whole Life
“They say old age is a thief, but it’s also a truth-teller. This body held babies, held grief, held joy, and held on. I used to try to hide it. Now, I wear it like a badge. This body didn’t betray me. It carried me. All the way here.”
— Rosa, 91, matriarch and storyteller
Held in Grief
“After my miscarriage, I couldn’t bear to look at my body in the mirror. I felt like it had failed. But over time, I began to see it differently—not as broken, but as brave. It held my grief, and now it holds my healing. That’s something sacred.”
— Jamie, 33, social worker
Running Toward Myself
“I started running to lose weight, but somewhere along the way, it stopped being about the scale. Now I run to feel free, to feel strong, to feel like I belong in my own skin. For the first time in my life, I’m not running away from my body—I’m running with it.”
— Sasha, 41, middle school principal
Stretch Marks and Strength
“I used to cover up my stretch marks like they were scars. Now I see them as evidence. I stretched to hold life. I stretched to become someone new. My body changed because it was doing something extraordinary. And I did, too.”
— Amina, 29, mother of twins
Dancing Through Depression
“Depression made my body feel like a cage. Heavy, distant, numb. But dancing, even in the living room with the curtains closed, reminded me there was still rhythm in me. Some days, it’s all I can do. And some days, it’s everything.”
— Elise, 26, student and poet
The Long Road Back
“After the car accident, I had to relearn everything—how to walk, how to trust my body, how to believe it could be mine again. Recovery was slow, humbling. But every step was a decision to live. And now, I don’t take a single movement for granted.”
— Marcus, 45, former EMT
Fasting with Gratitude
“As a Muslim woman, Ramadan taught me to listen to my body in a different way. Not to indulge it or ignore it, but to respect it. Fasting wasn’t about punishment—it was about alignment. My body became a vessel of prayer.”
— Noura, 37, community organizer
Invisible, Not Imaginary
“People don’t see my illness. They see a young woman who ‘looks fine.’ But fibromyalgia doesn’t ask for permission to show up. Some days I walk, some days I crawl. I’m learning to stop apologizing for what others can’t see.”
— Kiara, 32, graphic designer
Becoming Muscle
“Lifting weights gave me something I didn’t know I was missing—a sense of power that was mine alone. Not for looks, not for approval. Just strength, discipline, and clarity. My body doesn’t need to be small to be worthy. It just needs to be mine.”
— Devyn, 24, nonbinary athlete
A New Kind of Mirror
“Chemo changed everything. My hair, my skin, my energy. But it also changed my perspective. I stopped looking for beauty in the mirror, and started feeling it in how people held my hand, in how I held theirs. My body is not what it was—but neither am I. I’m still here. And that’s beautiful.”
— Lila, 58, cancer survivor
I Gave My Body, and It Was Enough
“I gave my body to protect the people I loved. In that final moment, there was no fear—only clarity. My body was never perfect, but it was mine to give. It carried me through every act of love, every step toward courage. I don’t regret the cost. What I gave was real. What I gave was enough. From here—whatever you call this place—I see it all with grace. The scars, the weight, the ache… they were part of the offering. And now, I rest in the hands of something larger than pain. Tell them: their bodies matter. Not because they last forever, but because of what they make possible.”
— Jonathan, 36, fallen soldier and beloved friend