Would You Believe I Only Learned How To Move My Body In My 30's?

Looking back, my childhood wasn't really about being the athletic kid, or even spending much time on the playground.

My world felt much more gentle – focused on the warmth of friendships, pouring my heart into writing, and those endless daydreams where I was pretending to be a mom or a TV talk show host like Oprah.

And honestly, a big reason for that quiet avoidance of physical play was a deeper insecurity that brewed inside. Not just the usual childhood fear of scrapes, but something more sensitive: a growing insecurity about my own body.

From my earliest years through my teens, the comments I heard about my size, how I looked, and those difficult earlier experiences… they gently wove a narrative that left me feeling so uncomfortable in my own skin. My body often felt like something to be hidden, rather than a joyful space to explore. I avoided any type of play that would require me to show off my body and it's capabilities, slowly retreating further and further into myself.

I did try a little bit of volleyball and badminton in junior high, but even then, my movements felt somewhat contained, very still. I hid my body as much as possible, wearing oversized clothing and avoiding any gaze or attention.

Then, in my twenties, I ventured into the gym. I lifted weights, used the cardio machines – all the familiar routines. Yet, even then, the movements were quite static, very controlled. I was working out, yes, but I wasn't really moving in a free, dynamic way.

I honestly didn't know how to simply play, to experience true recreation. I hadn't yet understood the full depth or length of my body's reach, what its true ranges might be, or how to move with spontaneous flow. I would often dream about it though, the potentional that my body might have to leap and soar and reach. However, in reality, my body felt more like a task to be managed, rather than a gentle invitation to joy.

My thirties arrived, bringing with them a tender, profound shift. I believe alot of it had to do with motherhood, and the pride and confidence that came with knowing what my body could do. This decade became a space for gentle exploration, a place where I finally, truly began to discover what it meant to move.

I felt drawn to practices like yoga and Thai massage, connecting mind, body and breath with each movement - lengthening, bending and expanding beyond what I thought was possible for me. Each session brought a quiet sense of wonder. I'd often find myself thinking, "Could my body actually do that?" I was constantly, gently surprised by the incredible flexibility and capacity I held – a depth I genuinely never knew was there.

For so long, I had just assumed I couldn't move that way. I hadn't truly given myself the chance to try, and honestly, I was never really encouraged to explore beyond those deeply held beliefs.

Today, my relationship with my body feels so different. It's filled with fascination, admiration, and love. I truly adore watching how it moves now – how it gently twists, softly bends, lightly leaps, and simply flows. I move with so much compassion and joy. Of course, old habits have a way of lingering, don't they? Sometimes, that almost automatic "no thank you" still tries to surface when someone suggests dancing or playful movement. But now, I pause. I gently challenge that old voice, and I lean into the opportunity to participate, to say a quiet, joyful "yes" to movement.

One of my most cherished practices is recording myself. When I watch these videos, there's no judgment, no criticism, just a profound sense of amazement and deep, deep love. "Wow" I often think, so proud of myself, "look at her move. Look what my body can do!"

I've always understood that movement is healing, but taking it to this next level – through play, where movement is fluid and kind, and the focus isn't on losing weight or achieving a certain look, but purely on joy, pleasure, and radical self-discovery – feels like an entirely new dimension of wellness.

It's a different kind of freedom, a beautiful, gentle liberation and reclamation of my body not as something to be hidden or controlled, but as a vibrant, living source of delight, empowerment, and endless, soft possibilities.

So, I wonder, in your own journey: When did you first truly discover joy in movement?