It begins with a whisper,
a shadow stitched to her womb,
its weight pressing like a secret,
its roots spreading unseen.

They call it normal—
the blood that floods like rivers,
the cramps that steal her breath,
the clots dragging her body down.

Pain coils in her pelvis,
a fire that burns without end.
Her bladder aches, her bowels rebel,
her back bends beneath its weight.

They say it’s just being a woman,
but how do you explain the storms?
The tissue growing where it shouldn’t,
the scars binding organs into one.

She carries fatigue like a second skin,
her energy drained by invisible wars.
Her body becomes a battlefield—
every nerve alive with rebellion.

Doctors speak over her pain:
It’s all in your head, they insist.
But how do you imagine blood that stains,
or pain that splits you in two?

One day, she stops asking for answers.
She stands tall in the face of dismissal.
Her voice rises like thunder:
This is my body; I know it best.

Her womb is no longer their battlefield;
it is sacred ground she reclaims.
The shadow no longer consumes her—
it becomes part of her story, not its end.

I stand in the mirror, searching my face,
for signs of change, for bits I’ve replaced.
I’ve fought to grow, to mend and refine,
to leave behind what was never mine.
Each day I rise, steady and slow,
trying to be someone I want you to know.

I’ve come so far, I can see it clear—
the battles won, the silenced fears.
I’m proud of the scars that no one can see,
proof of the strength that’s blooming in me.
But still, there’s doubt, sharp and cruel,
whispering rules I didn’t choose.

Am I enough? Am I changing too late?
Will love slip through at the hand of fate?
I try, oh I try, with every breath,
to give you a love that defies death.
But what if my steps aren’t swift or right,
what if I lose you in this fight?

I ache for more than just “almost there,”
I want to be someone who shows they care,
without the weight of fear or mistake,
without wondering what love might take.
But even as doubt grips my chest,
I know I’m doing my very best.

So I hold onto this truth I’ve found—
growth isn’t perfect, nor always profound.
It’s quiet steps, a trembling climb,
becoming better, one piece at a time.
And if love is real, as I believe it to be,
you’ll see the best still rising in me.

I may not be finished, but I stand here strong,
with a heart that’s learning where it belongs.
And I promise, with all that I am and will do,
I’ll keep getting better—for me and for you.