April 23, 2025
By: Tessa Myles

This morning, I bled.

It was the first time in over two months. Forty-five days late, which for me is unheard of. I’m usually clockwork—annoyingly reliable in that way. But not this time.

The worst part? A piece of me was relieved. Because the longer it didn’t come, the more my brain started spinning out: Am I pregnant? (No.) Is it perimenopause? Stress? Something worse?

And through all of it—through the missed days, the mood swings, the dreams I kept waking up from drenched in sweat—there’s been this other thing. The red marks on my arms. Angry little blotches under the skin, almost like bruises that forgot to turn purple. They itch, but scratching doesn’t help. They’ve been there for months.

Doctors shrug. “Could be stress,” one said, without looking up from his clipboard. Another suggested a reaction to detergent. I’ve changed soaps, diets, even stopped wearing my favorite lotion just in case. Nothing.

So now I walk around with these arms that look like I’ve been stung by a thousand invisible bees, and a body that’s sending signals I don’t understand.

I’m tired of Googling symptoms. I’m tired of feeling like a stranger in my own skin. And still—I bled today. That’s something. That’s a rhythm returning, even if it’s off-beat.

Maybe my body is trying to tell me something, and maybe I’m finally ready to start listening. Even if I don’t like what I hear.