I bled and it is my strength.

I never knew my body as a whole; only in scattered pieces: my hair, my shoulders, my skin, my eyes, my nose, my cheeks, my lips, my figure, my chest, my hands, my fingers, my feelings, my thoughts, my entire being, unfamiliar to me.

I was never truly aware of myself until I was forced into that awareness.

Puberty made me conscious of my breasts as they grew into my body, but instead of acceptance, I felt shame. I bound them tightly in layers, trying to flatten what was naturally mine.

That was my first act of suppression, my first injustice against my own body. I could hardly breathe, yet I endured it.

I did not feel safe within myself.

Where did this discomfort come from?

From my mother.

A woman whose body had been worn down by the burden of bringing daughters into a world that demanded sons.

Each unmet expectation hardened her, and the weight of society turned into anger that fell upon us.

And I became its quiet recipient not because I deserved it, but because I felt deeply, observed closely, and could not look away.

When I first bled, I met it with denial.

I carried the burden alone, knowing my mother would meet it with frustration rather than care. So I smiled through the pain.

Even in discomfort, I stepped outside, fulfilled her tasks, and returned home with quiet strength. I hid my weakness so well that even my pale face could not betray me; hoping, perhaps, for a small gesture of warmth that never came.

Was it her fault? I still do not know.

But I choose to tell this story; for myself.

I forgive myself.

I honour my strength.

And one day, I will celebrate my daughter’s first blood not with silence, but with love.