Blood, Body & Becoming a Woman at 11

Date: October 7, 2025

I didn’t get the chance to grow into my body. It arrived before I was ready, and the world made sure I never forgot it.

By 5th grade, I was already a C cup. By middle school, I had Ds, wide hips, a round bottom — my body announcing “woman” before my mind could even process it. Clothes were never just clothes. They became choices I had to overthink, because I knew eyes were watching. Teachers, strangers, men on the street — grown men.

When I started my period at 11, in 6th grade, the women in my family celebrated. It was supposed to be a milestone, the official mark of me becoming a woman. But along with that celebration came an understanding: I could now get pregnant. At 11. And I carried that truth like a weight.

What I didn’t know was how heavy my period itself would be. Seven, sometimes nine days. Flowing so heavy I’d bleed through my clothes. Cramps so bad I’d be rocking back and forth on the floor in my middle school English class, tears in my eyes, popping Midol, Advil — even whatever classmates had on hand. Nothing worked. Sometimes the pain was unbearable enough to send me home from school, and later in life, even leave work. Pain shaped me. Pain forced me to push through when I could, and collapse when I couldn’t.

And then there were the catcalls. The nastiness. The vileness that came whenever I ignored or refused an advance. As if my “no” was a personal offense. As if my body was public property because it had developed early. That culture taught me quickly: womanhood wasn’t just bleeding and cramps, it was surviving men’s entitlement to my existence.

At the same time, I was learning my body in private. Through masturbation, I understood myself before anyone else did. But sex itself — I didn’t rush. My grandfathers were open about it, almost too open. One always said, “You can have sex without having a baby.” The other, born in 1912 on a Texas plantation, told me stories about white men paying him to sleep with their wives. Sex wasn’t a mystery in my family. It was conversation. It was stories. Because of that, I didn’t crave it. I saw girls my age give themselves away and lose their minds over little boys, and I refused. I refused to let anybody have that kind of power over me.

That refusal shaped how I carried myself into sex later. I wasn’t going to be the girl getting fucked — I was going to do the fucking. For years, I never allowed myself to cum during sex, because I saw it as submission, as giving up control. My power was in not letting anyone touch me deeper than I allowed.

But here’s the truth: as I sit here now, 30 years old, a mother, I’ve started to question how much I’ve denied myself. For years, sex was a tool for manifestation, for control, for protecting my own power. But it wasn’t until recently I realized — I wasn’t receiving all the benefits sex has to offer. I wasn’t allowing myself pleasure. That’s a different story, though. Another blog. (“I Do the Fucking” — coming next.)

What I know is this: becoming a woman early forced me to ask questions long before I had answers. Why was I bleeding? Where did babies come from? What responsibility did I really carry? I thought those answers would help me choose better. And yet, here I am — a single mother, raising a child with a man I thought would never abandon his responsibilities. Not me, not the relationship — but his daughter. That broke me in a way I didn’t expect. That’s another story, another blog. (“Parenthood, Depression & Choosing Wrong”).

But this is where my womanhood began: early, painful, public, and heavy with responsibility. And I’m still carrying it