Send us a textWe unpack Sonya Renee Taylor's revolutionary book, "The Body Is Not An Apology," in our latest Foundation Fridays episode.  Sonya walks us through the labyrinth of body positivity, providing a map to navigate our way to radical self-love. During this heart-to-heart, we confront the challenging terrain of body acceptance and internalized negativity.  Sonya's ten tools, (posted below, ) guide us like a compass toward embracing our bodies with grace and joy. We discuss the importance of touching and moving our bodies with intention, rewriting the stories we've been told about ourselves, and the strength found in supportive communities.  We also talk about the three core tenets Sonya refers to as The Three Peaces which she says are necessary if we want to free ourselves from the more of body judgement and shame.  They are:Make Peace with not understanding.Make peace with differenceMake peace with yourself. Peppered with personal tales of self-discovery, this episode is a call to arms against the phrases that keep us down and a celebration of the journey towards cultivating a nurturing self-dialogue.As we wrap up this inspiring exchange, we reflect on how "The Body is Not An Apology" serves as a catalyst for not only personal but also social change.  Sonya Renee Taylor's work is a rallying cry, urging us to examine our internal biases and to strive for systemic revolution. In the face of a society that profits from our self-doubt, we are reminded that the negative voices we hear are not our own. Join us as we amplify our authentic voices and echo the message of radical self-love into every corner of our lives.The Ten Tools: 1. Dump The Junk2. Curb Body Bad-Mouthing 3. Reframe Your Framework4. Meditate On A Mantra5. Banish The Binary6. Explore Your Terrain7. Be In A Movement 8. Make A New Story 9. Be In A Community10. Give Yourself Some GraceI normally share the closing quote of the episode, but today, we close with the poem that opened this episode. My Mother's Belly - by Sonya Renee TaylorThe bread of her waist, a loaf I would knead with 8 year old palms sweaty from play. My brother and I marvelled at the ridges and grooves. How they would summit at her navel. How her belly looked like a walnut. How we were once seeds that resided inside. We giggled, my brother and I, when she would recline on the couch, lift her shirt,  let her belly spread like cake batter in a pan. It was as much a treat as licking the sweet from electric mixers on birthdays.The undulating of my mother’s belly was not a shame she hid from her children. She knew we came from this. Her belly was a gift we kept passing between us. It was both hers, of her body and ours for having made it new, different. Her belly was an altar of flesh built in remembrance of us, by us.What remains of my mother’s belly resides in a container of ashes I keep in a closet. Every once and again, I open the box, sift through the fine crystals with palms that were once eight. Feel the grooves and ridges that do not summit now but rill through fingers. Granules that are so much more salt that sweet today. And yet, still I marvel at her once body. Even in this form say, “I came from this.”https://www.instagram.com/reverseresetrestore/?fbclid=IwAR0ycrx4XHwDTZIwEx5LpeXF2NQOJ3cK1eJ7P1nUezK3REQR6wdBm3Mr_nYhttps://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100092872185263

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