The body keeps the score. The mind just writes the fiction. Let that land. The mind, that beautiful, chattering, brilliant liar, wants to convince you that it’s in charge. It wants to build a narrative, a story, a neat little box around the chaos of your life and say, “See? All better.” It files the divorce papers, it changes the subject when that name comes up, it develops a sudden and intense interest in marathon running the month after the funeral. It tries to forget. But the body doesn’t have the luxury of forgetting. The body remembers. It remembers in the shallow breath you take every time you walk into a crowded room. It remembers in the clenched jaw that greets you every morning, a grinding testament to the words you swallowed years ago. It remembers in the knot of ice that lives just below your sternum, the one that tightens when you hear a car backfire, or a door slam, or a voice raised in a tone that is just a little too familiar. It remembers in the chronic fatigue that no amount of sleep can touch, the persistent ache in your lower back that has no medical explanation,