Six years ago in the depths of winter, I was waiting for an Uber ride outside the Mall of America in Minneapolis, fanning myself in 20-degree weather. The elderly woman next to me, looking confused, asked if I was hot. She held her jacket tightly as she looked at me strangely, as if I were an extraterrestrial.

Guest UserSeptember 28, 2020women writers, women's health, grief, menstruation Comment

Waves

Before endometriosis, I never knew what people meant when they said their stomach was “swimming.”