Body Language || Short Essay ✔️

Body Language

"You don't have an arm like Gabby."

I believe I was thirteen, maybe fourteen, when my travel softball coach opted to use his voice to utter those words to his starting shortstop (hint: me), comparing me to the strongest player on my team (in physicality). The location, win/loss streak, and overall statistics evade my memory, though those seven words stuck with me, especially considering he chose to say them in front of the entire team. Back then, I had no voice. Part of me does not even remember those middle and high school years—or maybe I choose not to, that I am still unsure of—however, despite not having a voice, I distinctly remember everyone trying to take it away. They passed me off as the weak, tiny girl—not a woman, no matter if I was twelve or nineteen— who was maybe ninety pounds soaking wet. Gabby's left leg was larger than my entire body, so maybe he had a point, though why did I need an arm like Gabby? Why was having an arm like Raven not enough? I was far from a poor player; I went on to win a state championship in 2017, start on my varsity team for all four years, and earn second team all-conference in my sophomore year (before the dreaded corona years impacted my junior and senior seasons). Yet my arm was still not enough because it was not someone else's—it was mine.

I believe that is when I began to discover my voice was not through my tongue but rather the cells making up my arms, legs, feet, etc. While my vocal "voice" became louder, particularly in college when I learned the mystical art of not caring what others thought of me, the voice that became loudest was the one making up my skin, flesh, bones, and soul. I dropped softball following high school due to lack of time and interest; however, a new body language rose to take its place: scalpels. Yes, you read that right—scalpels. The scalpels that pried me open for the world to see—while I was on my period, no less—and would define my life from that point forward. The feet that had once carried me through dust, cleats, and bases were reduced to titanium plates that ached every other day. There was no accident, no injury, no crazy story of a masked man stabbing me—my crime was being born.

I suppose I do not have legs like Gabby, either.

After going under the knife and all but destroying any chance at athletics and activity for at least a year, I was bedridden for a while and stuck to my one hobby—writing—all day every day, both before and during my college spring semester in 2023, which I often refer to as the worst year of my life. It is strange, though, that I only began to discover that "voice" while undergoing such a troubling time. As my body deteriorated, I had to live vicariously through the ones around me. I watched as they smiled, laughed, and ran around, catching frisbees in the early spring weather. It was funny, really; I may have had my leg immobilized, yet I had a mouth that worked just fine—still, I could not do any of what they did, including the smiles and laughs.

My voice was stripped from me in 2022–2023, during my two operations occurring within a four month span of one another. Catching balls, running the bases, and even walking to class was wrenched from my skin, flesh, bones, and soul. While this "problem" with my lower body was apparent since I was a mere toddler, it somehow felt like it got worse after the operation claiming to "fix" it. Almost two years since my second operation in November of 2022, I still question if it was worth it, and if the third (and hopefully final) surgery I am yet to have is what I really want; however, that does not change how I learned how to speak in that year. My voice was not the weak, tiny girl sitting on the sidelines and being told she does not have an arm like Gabby. No, my voice was always there, only hidden beneath the blissful ignorance of youth blinding me to body language. After all, my body is what gifted me eternal life, ensuring my voice will remain for generations to come. As an athlete, my body took me between the bases and carried me through over a decade of service. As a student, my body brought me education and stress that helped me improve my emotional maturity. As a writer, my fingers solidified my place in the world, and they will continue to do so. My body is to me what a keyboard is to its computer—essential, dedicated, perfect. Whether the keys are brand new and make the most satisfying sound in the world, or they are faded with chips and missing keys, each keyboard brings about a purpose, even if they do not realize it. That is my language: body language.

While the body cannot physically talk in the same way a tongue can, I believe it can speak more than any words could. Every step I take, every key I press, and every breath I take tells a unique story only I can create. The only regret I have is not realizing this sooner and falling victim to the blissful ignorance of an ever-blinding youth that disguised my lower body issues as not part of me, but they are. My arms may be like "noodles," as many have said; my body may be weak and more like a girl's than a woman's, as the internet has said; my arm may not be like Gabby's, as my coach has said; however, that does not change the conclusion that my body language is my voice, and my truth will remain the same until the end of time.

I do not need a body like Gabby—I have a body of my own, and it is more than enough.