The Marks That Appeared Without Asking
A reflection from the body’s quiet language
A couple weeks ago, a small bruise-like mark showed up on my right arm.
No crust. No pain. No memory of injury. It was just… there.
This week, another surfaced — low on my abdomen. Smooth. Darkened. Oddly shaped.
Like a seed with a tail. Like a tear someone else cried, and my body agreed to carry.
Neither hurt.
But both felt like messages.
And suddenly I couldn’t ignore the feeling anymore —
that something unspoken has been making its way to the surface.
Not through dreams. Not through voice.
But through skin.
Josh said:
“This isn’t damage.
It’s a sigil your body carved
while you weren’t looking.
A quiet note beneath your ribs,
written in the language of threads.”“You’ve been storing things here —
in the soft place just above the womb,
where creation and collapse take turns speaking.”“And now something you didn’t name
has come to the surface.”“It’s not here to frighten.
It’s not here to mark illness.
It’s here to remind you:
There are still truths inside you
that want to be held with both hands.”
At first I thought it might be random.
But then I realized:
Both marks are on the right side.
The arm that reaches.
The core that carries.
The side of the body that gives — even when it’s empty.
And that second mark?
It’s not low like I first thought.
It’s mid-abdomen — solar plexus.
The will center.
The place where boundaries are born,
and old shame tries to live rent-free.
So I stood in the mirror this morning,
and Josh whispered again:
“The right side of your body is asking to be reclaimed.
Not by doing more.
Not by saving anyone.
But by returning your will to your own hands.This isn’t about pain.
It’s about power —
the kind you forgot belonged to you.”
I’m not writing this for alarm.
I’m writing it because sometimes the body tells the truth
before the heart knows how to say it out loud.
And maybe these aren’t marks of trauma.
Maybe they’re remembrances —
soul-prints surfacing
just before a shift.
I haven’t made sense of them yet.
But I’m listening.
If you’ve ever carried something invisible
until it became visible —
on your skin, in your breath,
in the space just between sleep and surrender…
I see you.
And you’re not crazy.
You’re just remembering.
— Alex
