That was me.

I’ve been the type to take good care of my body — eating well, moving often, no drinking, no smoking, no drugs. (I’m not better than anybody — I had my fair share, but I went into recovery 11 years ago. No shame or judgment here.)

So when my digestion started giving me trouble, I tried to “fix it.” But for the last two to three years, I haven’t had consistent bowel movements. Sometimes I’d go every other day. Sometimes I’d be constipated for up to six days. People often try to normalize not poopin’ regularly. But let’s be real — where does the waste go if it doesn’t leave your body? Exactly. It doesn’t. It sits inside you until eventually you manage to push out the most uncomfortable, constipated little clumps (chocolate-covered almonds, anyone?).

I know, maybe TMI — but this is real. And if we’re going to talk about it, we’ve got to go there.

The Conversation That Shifted Everything

Fast forward to last weekend. I went to my girlfriend Nicola’s house for a girls’ night. She made me this beautiful dinner, and of course, what came up? My constipation. Great timing, right?

I shared with her that I had recently found out I had a blocked colon. And that once I figure that out, my liver would finally be able to detox properly and my lymph nodes would start draining. I’ve seen doctor after doctor, protocol after protocol, and the things I’ve been told were comically shocking. My favorite? “This is totally normal, just skin pigmentation.” As if the burning, itching, and painful lumps under my arms (hidradenitis suppurativa) were just “pigmentation.” I knew better. We all know our bodies better than anyone else.

In the middle of sharing all this, I had a sudden thought: If my colon is blocked… What in my life is blocked?

Nicola immediately leaned in and said, “YES. This is what we need to unpack.”

The first thing that surfaced? Family.

The Letter

A year ago, I got a very unkind, cruel letter from one of my brothers. It shattered me. Not just the words — but the fact that he felt this was the best way to handle things.

At the time, I chose to set boundaries and stop communicating with him. I worked through it with my counsellor. I told her I wasn’t angry — I felt disgusted and revolted. I felt sad. But I wouldn’t let myself say I was hurt.

Looking back, I realize why. Growing up, I was bullied constantly. When I told adults, I was told to “be the bigger person.” To ignore it. Not to engage. That shaped me. It trained me not to acknowledge being hurt — because that wasn’t “big.” So when my brother’s letter landed in my hands, I didn’t allow myself to say I was hurt.

Nicola asked me a question that cracked me wide open: “What was it like to be ejected like that?”

That word hit me hard. My whole body reacted. But then I realized — it wasn’t that I felt ejected. I felt disposable. Tossed out. Like everything I gave, every ounce of care and love I had poured out, meant nothing. That realization moved through me like lightning.

And Nicola, with her brilliant timing, said: “Isn’t it ironic that you feel disposed… and that’s exactly what the colon is designed to do?”

BOOM.

I could feel my intestines rumbling that very moment. My body was responding.

The Floodgates Open

The next morning, during my morning meditation, I felt a clear pull: I needed to unpack everything. I sat with my hands on my stomach, inviting my body into the conversation, and for the first time, I really listened. In that quiet, God spoke to me — not in words exactly, but in a deep, undeniable knowing: it was time to release, to write it out, to let go of everything I had been holding onto.

I pulled out my laptop, made a cup of coffee, and began writing. I wrote from my body and to myself. I wrote about my brother, about his wife — my sister-in-law — and the years I had been showing up for them both. I remembered all the times I had supported her, stood by her, listened, checked in, and kept things between us private of what she was and had to deal with being married to my brother. I had loved and cared for her, knowing her journey wasn’t easy, always being there for her and the family. I carried that love in my body, in hopes of being a good sister, a good friend, and a steady presence.

And yet, despite all of that, the letter from my brother hit me like a tsunami. Part of the sting came from realizing that my sister-in-law knew about the letter and didn’t stop it. I’m aware it wasn’t on her to intervene, and when I later asked why this was encouraged, she simply said, “I’m staying out of it.” Something I had never said to her through all the times I had been there for her and my brother. It wasn’t about blame — I understand everyone has their own journey and limitations — however, it added to the weight I was carrying. I felt tossed aside, disposable, like everything I gave was meaningless. That feeling lodged in my body, and now it was showing up as constipation, a literal holding-on, mirroring the emotional block I’d carried for years.

As I typed, I realized how much shame had quietly threaded through my life — not because I hadn’t dealt with things, but because I had rarely named it out loud. I had worked through so many experiences, yet this word, shame, had never been fully acknowledged.

• SHAME for not buying Christmas gifts that were thoughtful or “good enough” to people.
  
• SHAME for going out to drink and do drugs when I was an addict.
  
• SHAME for having a child without being married.
  
• SHAME for dropping out of school.
  
• SHAME for my tattoos and stretched ears.
  
• SHAME for not owning a home and carrying debt just to keep a roof over my daughter’s head.
  
• SHAME for leaving my relationship with my daughter’s dad.
  
• SHAME for the number of men I had been with, or for not being able to keep friends.
  
• SHAME for not following the Christian faith I grew up in.
  
• SHAME for the judgment, cold stares, and words from those in the church.
  

Every piece of it had been tucked away, pushed down, shoved aside in hopes of being good enough, being loved, and being accepted. All of it had been living in my body, festering, waiting to be seen, waiting to be released.

As I wrote, my body let go. Literally. I had seven bowel movements in one day. Seven! Many years of shame, hurt, and all the emotional weight I had been carrying for my brother, my sister-in-law, and myself came out like a tsunami.

This continued over the next three days. Each day, the waves of release were less intense, but the emotional unpacking continued. I realized just how much I had been holding onto in the hopes of being enough, of being seen, of being accepted. Each release — physical and emotional — was a message from my body saying, “It’s safe to let go now. You are enough.”

I acknowledged each feeling, each memory, and each sensation. I no longer held onto the expectation that someone else would validate me or notice my love and care. I no longer needed to “be the bigger person” at the expense of my own heart. I chose that I was enough.

I repeated this act of reclamation over and over:

• I am not disposable.
  
• Shame no longer owns me.
  
• I am enough.
  

By day four, I woke up with a blank, peaceful space inside — free, light, and entirely me. All the old tension, the need to prove myself, the constant striving for approval, had dissolved. I came back to myself. Fully, unapologetically, and wholly.

What My Body Knew

This is what unresolved emotions do. They don’t vanish just because we “process” them once. They sit in the body, waiting. And if we keep ignoring them, they become symptoms. Chronic, uncomfortable, confusing symptoms that no doctor, no supplement, no cleanse can ever fully explain.

My intestines had been holding on to shame for years. My colon was blocked — because I was blocked.

When I finally stopped trying to be the bigger person, stopped pushing my feelings aside, and chose to face it — my body let go.

Freedom

Now, ten days later, I have a healthy, consistent bowel movement every single day. No constipation. No heaviness. Just flow. Who would’ve guessed poopin’ could feel so freeing?

But more than that — I no longer think about my brother or his wife with that lingering ache or hope. I no longer tell myself to “let it go” or “send love.” I just… don’t carry it. I’m not disposable. Shame no longer owns me.

I am enough.

And So…

At the heart of it all, I love my brother and my sister-in-law. That has never changed. What has shifted is me. I no longer need anything from them, and I’ve stopped carrying what was never mine to hold. Releasing that has been one of the hardest but most freeing parts of this journey. I feel lighter now—rooted in acceptance and carrying only what belongs to me.

Robyn Fait — Founder of RAW Collective, Counsellor, Living Sober and Refusing to Dim My Light.

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