Writing Helps Cells To Dance

“When our cells dance, we allow our body to become a muse. 

The body becomes a place of inspiration…" --Celeste Snowber

I was beginning to understand just how many stories my body held. I had carried these stories all of my life, but now that I was writing every day, the stories were beginning to surface.

The stories seemed to congregate mostly in my joints. Or maybe it was just easier for me to feel them there. Regardless, they had "gummed up the works", making it more and more difficult for me to function.

In school, I was taught to write from my head. This system was purely intellectual, based on reason instead of inspiration. I was told to create an outline before I even attempted to write, so that is what I always did. Until my body forced me to do something different.

My body simply would not be quiet anymore. It began to speak to me through recurring bouts of skin cancer. This was quite frightening at the time, but I now understand that it was the beginning of freedom.

I had held poison inside of me for a very long time. This poison consisted of the trauma I had experienced in childhood, plus the trauma I had added to it through my attempts to kill my pain. Skin cancer was an invitation from my body to begin to write the trauma down.

So I wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and my body gradually became a place of inspiration, instead of a receptacle for pain. Writing gave my cells permission to express themselves on paper rather than through illness. The skin cancers got less and less serious as I continued to write, and that process continues to this day.

As I write, I imagine my cells opening up. I give my writing complete freedom to go wherever it likes. Since I write from memory AND imagination, I do not have to stick to the facts. My writing has permission to change my original experiences in whatever way it likes.

My writing creates new stories, and these stories get laid down beside the original ones. Then, when my brain accesses a memory, it can decide to choose between the original or the new, altered version.

Eventually, I can skip the painful, original version of the story altogether. It's not that I forget the trauma--the trauma did actually happen. But I am able to shift my focus to the new, more forgiving version. And all of this has happened naturally, in an organic way, not in any way I might have designed. That is why the change lasts.

More to come....

This writing explores trauma, the body, and lived experience. It is reflective and personal, not clinical or therapeutic. I am not a therapist or medical professional, and this work is not intended as medical or mental-health advice. If this topic feels activating or overwhelming, please take care of yourself and consider seeking support from a qualified professional.

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