I Found God in My Skin, Not in Shame

I Found God in My Skin, Not in Shame

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For a long time, I believed holiness lived outside of me.

In rules. In silence. In modesty.
I was taught that the divine preferred discipline over desire, that purity meant absence—not presence—of want. That my body was a temptation, not a temple. Something to be subdued, not celebrated.

And so I shrank.

I silenced the hunger in my bones, the heat in my belly, the ache to be touched not just physically—but fully. I mistook shame for guidance. I confused guilt with grace. I believed that to be close to God, I had to abandon the parts of me that made me feel alive.

But what if divinity was never in the denial?

What if God is not found in turning away from the body—but in turning toward it?

Slowly, I began to listen—not to doctrine, but to sensation. To the breath that rose without my permission. To the spine that arched in joy. To the pulse that quickened not from sin, but from aliveness. And in that sacred turning inward, I began to hear something that sounded like prayer—but came from my skin.

Not shame. Not fear. Not control.

But reverence.

Maybe holiness isn’t in the suppression of pleasure—but in the presence it invites. In being so fully in our bodies that we can no longer pretend we’re separate from creation. In trusting that what’s beautiful doesn’t need to be earned through suffering—it already lives in us.

I stopped seeking God in my shame.
And I found the sacred where I least expected it:
In my body. In my want. In my yes.

Because maybe the divine was never judging from above—maybe it was always whispering from within.

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