When the pain began, I told myself it would pass. I assumed discomfort was something I might need to tolerate, at least for a little while.

But the bleeding continued.

Fear arrived quickly. I remember standing in the bathroom, staring at the blood and trying to convince myself that what I was seeing couldn't be as serious as it appeared. My heart was racing. My thoughts became increasingly frantic.

My friend knocked on the door and asked if I was okay.

I wasn't.

The journey to the hospital felt unreal. Every bump in the road made me flinch, and the passing streetlights seemed disconnected from the crisis unfolding inside me. My friend kept talking, filling the silence because she knew I was frightened. I nodded occasionally, but I barely absorbed her words.

At the emergency department, time seemed to lose its normal rhythm. Nurses asked questions while moving quickly between tasks. I struggled to answer clearly, and the concern in their voices frightened me even more.

I began to understand that this was not something I should simply wait out.

The Shame I Had No Reason to Feel
Lying in the hospital bed, I felt exposed and vulnerable. I also felt ashamed, although I couldn't have explained what I believed I had done wrong.