Your body has been sending invoices for years. Polite ones at first. A tight shoulder here. A headache you blamed on weather. That thing your jaw does at 2 AM.
You marked them as read and kept scrolling.
So your body hired a collection agency.
Now it's the back spasm that drops you in a parking lot. The insomnia that turns your ceiling into a movie screen for every bad decision you've made since 2014. The mysterious pain that six doctors can't find because it lives in the space between "technically fine" and "absolutely not fine."
I ignored my body for about fifteen years. Ran it like a rental car. Skipped meals, skipped sleep, powered through every signal it sent because I had things to do and my body's opinion wasn't on the agenda.
Then one Tuesday my left eye started twitching and didn't stop for six weeks.
Every skipped lunch is a line item. Every "I'll sleep when I'm dead" gets logged. Every emotion you swallowed instead of felt? That's compounding interest, and your body charges more than Visa.
This isn't your body failing you. It's your body finally refusing to fund a lifestyle you couldn't afford.
Your body kept score.
