After my daughter was born, I lost my body for a while.

Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone could see. But in the way that happens quietly in those early postpartum months. The sense of having been entirely inhabited by someone else, of having given every resource to a person who needed them more than you did, and arriving on the other side feeling faintly unrecognizable to yourself.

What I found, slowly, was something small enough to actually do.

During maternity leave there was no fixed time for it. Some days it happened in the morning while the baby slept. Some days it was the afternoon, a stolen twenty minutes between feeds. Some days it did not happen at all. That was fine. It was never about discipline. It was about having something to return to. A small physical practice that asked me to be present in my body rather than above it, moving through it rather than simply carrying it from one room to the next.

The practice itself draws from two very old traditions.

The first is lymphatic drainage. A gentle massage technique that encourages the movement of lymph fluid through the body, supporting the immune system and reducing the puffiness and fluid retention that postpartum bodies often carry. It is rooted in practices that have been used across Latin America for generations, particularly in Colombia, where the understanding of the lymphatic system as central to physical wellbeing is far older than it is in Western wellness culture.

The second is dry exfoliation. The practice of moving a tool across the skin before bathing, stimulating circulation and removing the layer of dead cells that accumulates when sleep is disrupted and the body is working harder than usual. Also old. Also simple.

Neither requires much. A quiet room. Hands that know where to go. Slow breath.

Now that I am back at work, I do not manage it every day. Life with two small children and a business does not leave room for that kind of consistency, and I stopped expecting it to. What I try for is once a week. A reset rather than a routine. A moment of returning to myself that keeps the thread from going completely slack.

When I do it, I notice. My body feels different afterward. Less held, less compressed. The particular fog of a full week begins to lift at the edges. And the next day I move through the world a little more like myself.

That is enough. That has always been enough.