Tonight I slipped into pajamas, iced my knee, and felt my body exhale. Embodied practice, for me, begins in these small moments — the ones where I remember that creativity lives in the body first.

I forget, sometimes, that writing isn’t just a brain activity — it’s a full‑system experience. My nervous system has opinions about noise, about pacing, about pressure. My knee has opinions about how long I sit. My breath has opinions about how fast I move.

Embodied practice, for me, is the moment I remember that my body is part of the studio. That the work isn’t separate from the vessel that makes it. That the story I finished tonight didn’t just come from my mind — it came from my chest, my breath, my hands, my whole self.

And when I finally listened, when I iced my knee and let myself settle, something in me unclenched. The story landed. My body landed. I landed.

So tonight I’m asking myself — and you — a simple question:

What does your body need in order to create?

Maybe it’s water. Maybe it’s quiet. Maybe it’s movement. Maybe it’s rest.

Whatever it is, it counts. It matters. It’s part of the practice.