The Body of Her Own
Written & Told by
Rose Caldwell & Leila Gray
Visuals & Imagery by
Rose Caldwell, Leila Gray, Audrey Ellis, Emma Wallace, Naomi Benson,
& Scott Bryant
With care and reverence, her story is shared by
Scott Bryant at the request of Rose Caldwell & Leila Gray
Preface by Rose Caldwell
Too often, women’s stories of their bodies are recorded by someone else’s hand. This one is ours. Every word, every ache, belongs to the women who live it. Read it not as confession, but as record — of what it means to inhabit a body that remembers.
I sat at my vanity, staring at my reflection, but I didn’t see myself.
The light streaming through the blinds seems to soften everything around me except the harsh angles of my face. It’s funny how light can make things appear clean when they’re not. I brush on foundation, covering the slight dark circles under my eyes, a habit I can’t break even when I tell myself I don’t care.
It’s not the makeup that bothers me—it’s the silence. The kind that creeps into your mind and forces you to notice things you’d rather ignore. I focus on the brush in my hand, the soft sweep of powder against my skin, but my thoughts drift to places I wish they wouldn’t.
A Call from Leila
My phone buzzes beside me, shattering the quiet. I glance down, and it’s Leila Gray, one of my closest friends.
“Hey Rose, are you sure you’re okay? I mean, after everything?”
Her voice is like a warm blanket, always soft and filled with concern. But that warmth feels like pressure today, something heavy on my chest. I grip the phone a little tighter.
“I’m fine. Really. I’ve just been tired.”
That’s what I was: tired—the most straightforward word to use when you don’t want to talk about what’s going on. My lips curl into a half-smile, but I wonder if Leila can hear the lie behind it.
“You don’t have to act like it’s nothing,” she says, quieter now. “When I left Danny, I tried doing that too. Pretending I was fine. It only made everything worse.”
I blink, surprised. Leila rarely talks about Danny—especially not like this.
“He used to touch my wrist when we argued like he was gentle, but it wasn’t. It was his way of holding on, of controlling the conversation. It took me months to stop cringing every time someone touched me there.”
Her words hang heavy, and I can’t meet her eyes. My fingers brush over my wrist’s bruise, a reflex I can’t suppress. She notices but doesn’t say anything.
She once told me how Dan chipped away at her confidence and made her feel small in her skin. But she rarely opens that door, not even with me.
“I’m not pretending,” I lie, the words sticking in my throat. But they sound hollow, even to me.
Leila sighs, a sound filled with too much understanding.
“Okay. Just don’t let it swallow you, Rose. I’m serious. You don’t have to handle everything on your own.”
I breathe, her words sinking in more profoundly than I want to admit. She doesn’t understand—she can’t. But she’s trying, and that means something. My voice softens, more honest now.
“I know.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t sound fine. You should take some time off.”
I force a laugh. Right, take time off. Is there any amount of time that would fix this? Work is the only thing keeping me together right now, even if it feels like it’s unraveling me simultaneously.
“I’m not the one who needs time off. Besides, work helps. Keeps me busy.”
The smile on my face feels too tight, stretched over something fragile.
“Busy isn’t always better. You haven’t even processed what happened with Jaxon, have you?”
There it is—Jaxon. His name hits me like cold water. The air feels thinner. My fingers tighten on the makeup brush but force myself to stay calm.
“I’ve processed it. I’m done with him. It’s not a big deal.”
The words are sharp, and I can almost hear Leila’s sigh. But it is a big deal. Every part of me screams that it wasn’t supposed to end like that. It wasn’t supposed to end with bruises.
“Right. Just make sure you’re okay, alright? You know you don’t have to handle everything on your own.”
I take a breath. Leila doesn’t understand. I don’t even understand. My voice is softer now, though, more honest.
“I know.”
I glance at my wrist, the bruise still faint but fading. My fingers trace it lightly, and I take a deep breath. The tremors have stopped, but the memory lingers, the weight of it pressing into my skin.
I pull on my coat, my movements steady now. For the first time, the silence doesn’t feel suffocating. As I leave, the mirror in the hallway catches my eye, its fractured surface reflecting shards of me. I pause, staring into the cracks.
“You’re still here,” I whisper to myself, my voice steady. “And that’s enough.”
The reflection doesn’t grin. It doesn’t mock me. It simply exists, whole and mine.
The First Sign
At work, everything feels too bright and too clean. With its glass walls and minimalist decor, the sleek office space used to feel like a place I could breathe. Now, it feels sterile, like there’s no room left for me to hide. A strange tingling sensation spreads across my shoulder when James Reed, one of the project managers, taps my shoulder. It’s subtle but enough to make me notice.
“Hey, Rose, can you come into the meeting room? I need you to walk us through the new project.”
I try to focus on his words, but my thoughts feel scattered. There’s something wrong. I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Sure. I’ll be right there.”
James smiles, casual and unaware. As he walks away, I glance down at my shoulder where he touched me, feeling a lingering discomfort. My skin tingles again, almost like it’s rejecting the touch. I shake it off, forcing a smile as I gather my notes for the meeting.
But the feeling doesn’t leave. It clings to me like a shadow I can’t shake.
Later That Day, In the Bathroom
By the time I get home, the day feels like a blur. My body feels heavy, my skin tingling in strange, unpredictable bursts that make my stomach churn. It started in the office—little flutters in my arms and legs, almost like they were waking up without me.
The sensation spreads—
up my spine,
around my ribs.
I stand at the bathroom sink, washing off the makeup I applied so carefully this morning. The cold water feels good against my skin, grounding me.
As I reach for the towel, my hand jerks sharply, sending it tumbling to the floor. My breath catches. The tremor is stronger now, insistent, almost rhythmic. I glance at the mirror, half-expecting the bruises to spread further. My reflection, though, seems wrong—subtle, nearly imperceptible differences. A slight tilt to the grin, a flicker in the eyes that isn’t mine. It almost feels like a delay, like the glass is taking just a fraction too long to catch up to my movements. The light above flickers, and for a moment, I swear I hear a whisper, low and guttural, brushing past my ear.
You let this happen.
My breath catches. I whirl around. There was nothing.
I freeze, watching in the mirror as my hand twitches uncontrollably. The muscles in my arm spasm, the movements almost rhythmic, like a heartbeat I can’t control. A pit forms in my stomach. My body shouldn’t be doing this. I try to force it still, pressing my palm flat against the counter, but the tremors don’t stop. Panic rises, clawing its way up my throat.
And then I see it—a bruise, dark and blooming across my shoulder. Right where James touched me.
No.
It wasn’t there before. I would have noticed.
My breath catches.
I step closer to the mirror.
My grip tightens on the sink.
My heartbeat roars.
The purple stain under my skin pulses, like something alive. My fingers brush over it, and a jolt of pain shoots through me, sharp and electric.
No no no—
“What the hell?”
I press harder, as if I can push it away, but the pain only deepens, spreading outward like ink bleeding into paper. My body isn’t mine anymore. It’s turning against me.
The room tilts.
The walls press in.
A scream curls in my throat—
but I don’t let it out.
Because if I scream, it makes this real.
My phone buzzes on the counter, but I can’t focus. It’s Leila again. Her concern would drown me right now. I can’t explain this—not even to myself.
The Doctor’s Visit
The waiting room hums with fluorescent light — too bright, too clean, too cold. The quiet is worse than the sound. I can feel my pulse in my wrists as I sit there, thinking about the bruises spreading like ink stains.
When Dr. Swann finally calls me in, his tone is calm, professional — almost soothing. He’s tall, middle-aged, maybe mid-forties, his voice smooth enough to make you believe everything’s under control. It almost works.
He sits behind his desk, typing as I explain what’s been happening — the bruises that appeared overnight, the tremors, the exhaustion that doesn’t go away. His eyes flick toward me occasionally, but most of his attention is on the screen.
“So, you’ve been feeling tired,” he says, the rhythmic tap of his keyboard underscoring his words.
“You mentioned bruises and some tingling in your arms and legs. Any recent changes in exercise? Sleep? Diet?”
“No,” I say, too quickly. “I woke up with them. They’re spreading.”
I push up my sleeve. The bruises have deepened overnight — dark, purplish constellations across my arm. He leans in slightly, squints, then sits back again.
“Hmm. Circulation issues, maybe. Have you had recent labs done?”
I stare at him. “Does that look like circulation to you?”
He glances again, then back at the monitor. “Sometimes these things are stress-related,” he says gently. “The body reacts in strange ways, especially in women. Hormones, sleep disruption, even your cycle can affect how the body heals.”
I feel something snap inside me — not loudly, but cleanly.
“So, hormones and feelings. That’s the diagnosis?”
He offers a small, practiced smile. “I’m not saying that. I’m saying we see this kind of thing all the time. Emotional strain can have physical manifestations.”
I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “And what—drink more water? That’s what everyone says. Like hydration’s gonna fix this.”
He chuckles politely, misunderstanding the sarcasm. “It’s not a bad place to start.”
My jaw tightens. “I’ve been drinking water. It doesn’t help.”
Dr. Swann sighs, like he’s trying to stay patient. “Look, Rose, I know it’s frustrating. But in my experience, these things usually resolve themselves once you rest and reset. Stress is powerful.”
“Stress.” The word sits between us like something sour.
He folds his hands, his tone still even. “I can refer you to a therapist if you’d like. Sometimes the mind and body—”
“Are connected,” I finish for him. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”
His smile doesn’t falter. “It’s not uncommon for women to experience this after a traumatic event. You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”
That one lands — not because it’s cruel, but because it’s almost kind.
And that’s what makes it unbearable.
My fingers curl into fists. “So you think my body’s doing this for attention?”
He pauses, frowns slightly. “Of course not. I’m saying it’s real to you. We’ll run some labs if it persists.”
I stand up before he can finish. “Don’t bother.”
My hand brushes a clipboard on the counter — it crashes to the floor. My breath catches. That wasn’t me.
Dr. Swann glances over, mildly surprised, but then smiles again. “Reflexes. Don’t worry — happens to everyone.”
He’s already typing something into my chart when I walk out.
I know what he’s writing.
And I know it’s not the truth.
My body feels heavier as I leave, but one thing is clear now:
it isn’t just the bruises.
It’s the system that doesn’t believe them.
Confrontation with Jaxon
The knock on the door sends a jolt through me, my heart racing. It was my ex, Jaxon. I don’t want to open it. I don’t want to face him. But I do. Slowly, cautiously, I open the door just enough to see Jaxon standing there, his face a mask of frustration.
“Rose, come on. We need to talk.”
His voice is calm—too calm—like he thinks he can convince me to let him in. My body tenses and my hands tremble again.
“There’s nothing to talk about. I told you, we’re done.”
I tighten my grip on the door, trying to keep control.
“You’re not being fair. Just let me in, and we can talk. I want to fix this.”
Fair.
The word rattles in my skull like a loose screw. I remember the night we fought over a drink order, of all things. How he’d told the bartender I “didn’t really want a whiskey neat”—that I preferred something sweeter. How he’d laughed when I tried to push back, a quiet, condescending chuckle, like I was a child who didn’t know her own tastes. It wasn’t about the drink. It was about control.
And now, here he was, standing in my doorway, still trying to rewrite my decisions. Still trying to make me doubt myself.
He pushes against the door—and something in me breaks.
My arm slams the door shut with a force I didn’t summon.
“Rose, what the hell? Let me in!”
The lock clicks. I didn’t touch it. I didn’t.
My pulse hammers in my ears. I watch my hand move, fingers twitching like a marionette’s. My body isn’t listening to me anymore.
Jaxon steps closer, and my arm snaps forward—shoving him hard. He stumbles, startled.
The air warps. In the hallway mirror behind him, I catch my reflection — half a second late, smiling.
The lights flicker once. My breath fogs the glass.
“Stop,” I whisper, but it’s unclear who I’m talking to.
My grin. But twisted, sharp, wrong.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?! Have you lost it?”
His words barely register as I try to steady myself. The grin in the mirror widens, mocking me. My body tenses, fists curling on their own, my reflection moving out of sync. My breath comes in shallow gasps.
“I’m not doing this!” I scream, but Jaxon backs away, his fear only fueling the horror building inside me.
But I can’t answer. My body moves again, hands balling into fists, my arms twitching uncontrollably. I scream, my voice cracking with desperation.
“I’m not doing this! I’m not!”
Jaxon’s face shifts from anger to fear as he backs away from me, but my body surges forward again, throwing a chair across the room with a force that isn’t mine.
“Rose, this isn’t fucking funny! What the hell is happening?”
His voice trembles now, but I can’t stop. My body jerks forward—too fast, too sharp—my hand lifting without permission.
I stop it. Inches from him.
Every muscle locks.
“Just go,” I manage. “Please.”
Jaxon doesn’t argue this time. He backs away, something like fear finally breaking through his voice.
The door slams.
Silence rushes in.
I collapse, my body finally still—but not quiet.
The fight isn’t over. I can feel it—this is just the beginning.
The Final Confrontation – I Face Myself
The room is dark except for the flickering light overhead. My apartment feels heavy and suffocating. I stand in front of the mirror, but the reflection staring back at me isn’t mine. Her grin is twisted and cold like she’s mocking me. My body trembles, jerking in small, violent movements, entirely out of sync with my reflection.
The hallway mirror catches me as I pass.
I almost forgot it was there.
I brought it down from the attic last week—no reason why. Just… felt like I should.
The mirror used to belong to my grandmother. I never wanted it—but I kept it anyway.
The ornate frame, chipped and worn, had always felt heavy like it carried too much history. I’d left it untouched in the attic for years until I remembered why I brought it down. Was it curiosity? A need for connection? Whatever it was, I regret it now.
“It’s not me… it’s not me…”
I can barely whisper the words. The bruises have spread across my entire body, dark and throbbing like they’ve taken on a life of their own. My reflection moves on its own, lifting a hand as if to reach through the glass. I step back, my breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts.
“Why are you doing this to me?!”
I scream, my voice breaking. My body convulses, limbs jerking uncontrollably, but my reflection remains calm, watching me with cold, detached eyes.
The mirror begins to crack, splintering like a web as my body contorts—blood seeps from my skin, mirroring the fractures in the glass.
“You’ve ignored me for too long.”
Her voice is mine, but twisted, darker, filled with anger and pain.
“What… what are you?”
I gasp, my body trembling violently as the reflection steps closer.
My phone buzzes through the chaos, vibrating on the counter. My gaze flicks toward it, and I see Leila’s name flashing on the screen. My hand jerks toward it, but I can’t control my movements—it’s like the reflection knows.
“You can’t hide from me anymore,” the reflection hisses.
I slam my fist into the mirror.
The glass shatters.
Blood beads across my knuckles.
My hand won’t stop shaking.
I fumble for my phone.
“Leila,” I manage. “I need help.”
“I’m coming over,” she says. “You’re not alone.”
The glass holds what’s left of me in pieces—split, uneven, but still there.
For the first time, I don’t try to look away.
Her voice is a whisper but echoes in my mind, filling every corner of my thoughts.
My body jerks again, harder this time. My muscles lock, my hands slamming against the floor as I fight to regain control.
The reflection presses her hand against the glass, and I feel my hand lift, moving without my control. My fingers touch the cold surface of the mirror, trembling.
But something shifts inside me. A surge of anger, of pain, of everything I’ve tried to bury. My hand tightens into a fist, and without warning, I smash it into the mirror, shattering the glass completely. Blood drips from my knuckles, but I don’t stop. I won’t stop.
“Get out of me!”
“You can’t kill me, Rose.”
And I whisper back: “Watch me.”
I scream, my voice raw and broken, but I feel something shifting inside me. The reflection shatters, the pieces of glass scattered across the floor, and for the first time, I feel free.
Aftermath
I stand in the middle of my apartment, blood dripping from my hands, but I’m steady. The bruises are fading now, retreating under my skin, but the memory of them lingers. I glance at the shards of glass on the floor and the broken mirror, and I’m no longer afraid of the fractures.
I step toward the window, the morning light filtering in, soft and warm. My reflection in the shattered glass is fractured, but it’s mine. For the first time, it’s mine.
“I’m still here…”
The words are soft but filled with something I haven’t felt in a long time—strength.
I grab my phone and hesitate momentarily, but then I dial Leila. Her voice answers almost instantly.
“Rose?” she asks, concern lacing her tone.
“It’s me,” I say, my voice steadier than expected. “I need to tell you something.”
The silence on her end is brief but warm.
“I’m listening.”
I kneel beside the shards of glass, the fragments glinting like tiny suns. Each one reflects a different piece of me — the frightened woman, the defiant one, the survivor.
My reflection flickers once, faintly, but the grin is gone. Only the calm remains.
I lift one fragment, small enough to fit in my palm.
The light catches my face — fractured, yes, but mine.
“I’m still here,” I whisper. “And this time, I’m the one watching.”
I set the shard on my vanity, where it once belonged. The mirror no longer mocks.
It reflects.
And that’s enough.
I take one last look at the reflection.
Then I step into the light.
I don’t look back.
Reflecting on The Body of Her Own
By Rose Caldwell
I know what you’re thinking. You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all of this now. Why, after everything I’ve been through—after the bruises, the reflection that wasn’t mine, the nights spent wrestling with a body that didn’t feel like it belonged to me—I’m here, sharing my story. Because it’s my own story. And I was in control of it all along, even when it didn’t feel like it. Even when no one believed me — when everyone wanted to tell me that it was just stress, just anxiety, just something I couldn’t handle, they wanted me to silence it – to silence me.
But I wasn’t silent. Not when they told me to get over it. Not when they handed me prescriptions for things they couldn’t understand. Not when they dismissed me, like so many women before me.
There’s something powerful in being heard — and being seen. For so long, I felt invisible in my body, trapped by it, as if I didn’t have the right to control what was happening. But I do. And I always did. I just needed someone to believe me long enough to let me tell my story.
I was always in control. This was always my story. And now it’s yours to hear.
And now I’m still here. Still fighting. But for the first time, I’m fighting for myself.
– Rose Caldwell
Scott Bryant 
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