I've been thinking a lot about whispers lately.

Not the spooky kind. Not the "the universe told me..." kind that makes some people slowly inch toward the nearest exit. I'm talking about those quiet little nudges that seem to show up over and over again. They don't demand our attention. They don't stomp their feet. They simply wait... patiently... until we're finally quiet enough to notice them.

Looking back, I don't think my body started whispering to me about ten years ago.

I think it had been whispering my entire life.

About ten years ago was simply the first time I actually heard it.

It wasn't trying to tell me anything profound.

It wasn't predicting the future.

It simply whispered, "Your mouth needs attention."

The interesting part is that I agreed.

I knew it did.

The problem wasn't hearing the whisper.

The problem was that I couldn't afford to listen.

Yes, money absolutely played a role. I don't think anyone has ever described major dental work as "a bargain." But if money had been the only obstacle, I probably would have figured something out sooner. Fear had a vote. Distrust had a vote. Timing had a vote. And life... well, life has this annoying habit of grabbing the microphone and convincing us that whatever is screaming the loudest deserves our attention first.

The whisper never stood a chance.

So I adapted.

Isn't that what we do?

Humans are incredibly resourceful when it comes to adapting. I learned which side to chew on. I quietly retired a handful of foods from my menu. I smiled a little differently. I became remarkably good at pretending everything was just fine.

I also became embarrassingly good at rescuing pizza and steak from places food was never intended to visit. If you've never had to excuse yourself after dinner to embark on an archaeological excavation expedition inside your own mouth, I sincerely hope you never develop that particular skill.

Here's the funny thing.

After a while, none of it felt strange anymore.

It was just... Tuesday.

The more I thought about that, the more I realized how incredibly good we are at normalizing things that were never meant to become normal. We normalize stress. We normalize exhaustion. We normalize pain. We normalize putting ourselves last. We normalize relationships that slowly chip away at us. We normalize dreams that get pushed into a drawer because today is just too busy.

We normalize carrying things that were never ours to carry forever.

Maybe that's one of our greatest strengths.

Maybe it's also one of our greatest blind spots.

I don't think that's just true for teeth.

I think that's true for almost every area of our lives.

Maybe that's why I keep coming back to the image of a backpack. We all have one. 

Some are stuffed with grief. 

Some with fear. 

Some with responsibilities. 

Some with stories we've been telling ourselves for decades. 

Mine happens to have a few very heavy bricks in it. Over time, I became so used to carrying the weight that I forgot to ask whether every single brick still belonged there.

My body has been navigating challenges for a very long time. Some began early in my life. Others arrived years later. There have been diagnoses, surgeries, scars, setbacks, and enough titanium that airport security and I have developed a rather comfortable relationship.

The whisper about my mouth wasn't the beginning of my body's story.

It was simply another whisper asking for my attention.

For a long time, I did what I think most of us do without even realizing it.

I took ownership of every diagnosis I was given.

Not because anyone told me I had to.

Because the diagnosis came from someone I trusted. Someone with years of education, experience, and authority. When an expert looks you in the eye, gives your symptoms a name, and explains what they believe is happening, it's only natural to believe them.

The interesting part isn't that we believe them.

It's what often happens next.

Somewhere along the way, the diagnosis quietly shifts from describing what our body is experiencing to describing who we believe we are.

"I have..."

Two tiny words.

Two incredibly powerful words.

Looking back, I don't think I ever questioned them.

Until one day I did.

Nothing about my body changed that day.

Nothing about the diagnoses changed.

Only my perspective did.

It suddenly occurred to me that a diagnosis has a very important job. It helps guide treatment. It gives healthcare providers a common language. It helps explain what they believe my body is experiencing.

But it was never meant to become my identity.

A diagnosis is a map.

It is not the traveler.

That one perspective didn't change my diagnoses.

It changed my relationship with them.

Instead of saying, "I have multiple sclerosis," I started saying, "I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis."

Instead of saying, "I have lipedema," I started saying, "My body is dealing with lipedema."

Instead of saying, "I am in pain," I started saying, "My body is experiencing pain."

At first it felt awkward.

Then it felt freeing.

Because my body is carrying the physical experience.

I am carrying the choice of how I respond to it.

Those are two very different jobs.

I can't change what has already happened.

I can't erase surgeries.

I can't wish away scars.

I can't rewrite yesterday.

But I have complete control over the relationship I choose to have with my body today.

That one shift quietly changed everything.

Without even noticing it, I stopped asking my body why it wasn't healing faster.

Instead, I found myself asking a completely different question.

"How can I make your job a little easier?"

That question still makes me emotional.

Because somewhere along the way, my body stopped being the problem I was trying to fix.

It became my teammate.

The more I've thought about finally getting my mouth taken care of, the more I've realized this isn't really about my teeth.

It's about helping my body.

For years it has been dealing with an abscess, chronic gum disease, inflammation, and all the work that comes with fighting those battles every single day while also navigating everything else that has become part of its journey. Has that ongoing burden been one piece of the much bigger puzzle my body has been dealing with all these years... and continues to deal with today?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

The truth is, nobody really knows.

Our bodies are beautifully complicated. One thing affects another, which nudges something else, which starts another chain reaction. Pull one thread and half the sweater moves.

That's exactly why I've stopped looking for the answer.

These days I'm much more interested in asking better questions.

What happens when my body no longer has to fight one unnecessary battle every single day?

I honestly don't know.

And strangely...

I'm okay not knowing.

Hope doesn't require certainty.

It simply requires possibility.

Do I hope removing that chronic infection creates ripple effects throughout my body?

Absolutely.

Do I secretly hope my body throws a little celebration party and starts redirecting all those resources toward healing in ways none of us could predict?

Without question.

Would I also be thrilled if pizza and I could finally enjoy a meal together without scheduling a follow-up archaeological excavation expedition?

Let's just say pizza is equally invested in this journey.

The older I get, the less interested I become in finding one magical answer and the more interested I become in removing unnecessary burdens.

Maybe healing isn't always about adding one more supplement, one more treatment, one more strategy, or one more miracle.

Maybe sometimes healing begins by finally removing something that has been asking far too much of us for far too long.

I don't know what my body will do once that backpack full of heavy bricks becomes just a little lighter.

I just know it's been carrying that weight for a very long time.

I think it deserves a little relief... We've both earned it.

What whisper has life been patiently waiting for you to hear?

Maybe it has nothing to do with your health.

Maybe it's a relationship, a dream, a boundary, a conversation, or simply a quiet part of yourself that has been whispering, "It's time."

You don't have to solve your whole life today.

Maybe today is simply about becoming quiet enough to hear the whisper.

And if you're ready to explore what that whisper might be trying to tell you, I'd be honored to walk alongside you. That's exactly why I created Matters of Perspective®. 

Sometimes we don't need another answer.

Sometimes one fresh perspective is enough to finally hear what has been patiently waiting for us all along.

Shift happens...

One perspective at a time.