Skin against my skin, softly touching me. It feels delightful. I get goosebumps.

A needle on the bottom of my foot and the doctor says, “Can you feel this?” I can’t, but I see the goosebumps.

Glove-covered hands wash my body and the cold water upon contact … goosebumps.

After reading the book Pleasure Activism and discussing it with other women with spinal cord injuries, it got me thinking about my relationship with touch and different types of touch — sensual, functional, pleasurable, painful and even imaginary.

I once was encouraged to explore my body, touch my body, and give consent to someone I trusted in helping me find out where I could feel and what felt pleasurable, painful or triggering. I found some areas still had full sensation, and others were numb. Sometimes I couldn’t feel anything. Grief, loss and desperation sat in my stomach … just wishing to feel even a distant spark.

It’s become a practice to see what I feel. Why is my stomach nervous? Can my gut trust? Do I have to pee? Is this hot or cold? Smooth or sharp? I let myself be curious using objects, textures, water, even air. What does it feel like? If I can’t feel it, can I imagine it? I invite my other senses to join — how does touch feel with my eyes closed? Open? What does it sound like?

A health care provider once told me I wasn’t really feeling my foot. That someone with my injury couldn’t feel that. This interaction stuck with me and led me to not trust my body for years. Today I choose to believe my body. It stays the same. It’s always changing. What it tells me is the truth. It’s mine and I get to decide what I feel and how.