Is My Body a Blessing or a Battlefield?

There are days my body feels like a sacred temple.

And there are days, like today, that it feels like a battlefield.

I wake up heavy. Restless. My womb aching with something ancient and unnamed.

Vomiting. Mood swinging like a pendulum. Luteal phase in full swing.

And the thought comes uninvited:

Is this what being a woman is about?

To be in a constant state of readiness for something you didn’t ask for.

To bleed each month as if mourning something that never happened.

To carry pain like it’s an accessory stitched into our biology.

To be called too emotional, too much, too soft, yet still be expected to carry everyone.

Sometimes it feels like my body betrays me.

Like it’s not mine, just a vessel crafted for function:

To bear children. To absorb pain. To be pleasing. To endure.

Crafted not for joy or pleasure or freedom but for duty, for sacrifice. And society doubles down on this.

They tell us our worth lies between our legs or in a cradle.

And if we choose neither? We are questioned. Dismissed. Reduced.

And even our bodies seem to respond to that ;

Every cycle, all it does is prepare us for pregnancy. Don’t you get it?

Our biology plays into the very thing we’re trying to untangle ourselves from.

I’ve heard it all:

“That’s just how women are.”

“It’s biology.”

“You’re hormonal.”

But what if there’s more to this?

What if the weight we carry isn’t a curse, but a code?

A message written in the language of blood, breath, and bone.

But somewhere deep in my bones, in the places untouched by shame, I know this isn't the full story.

I know we come from women who danced barefoot on red earth, heads held high, wombs not just for babies but for magic.

We come from goddesses, from warriors, from Òrìṣàs.

Our cycles are not curses, they are rhythms.

Our moods are not weaknesses, they are messages that we need to decode.

We come from women who birthed nations and held secrets in their hips.

Women whose bodies weren’t battlegrounds; they were portals.

Our wombs weren’t only for babies; they held dreams, visions, and ancestors.

We are not broken. We are layered.

Yes, our bodies cry out.

Yes, they ache, they bleed, they shift.

But that doesn’t make them defective. That makes them alive.

Sensitive. Responsive. Divine.

The world taught us to see inconvenience where there is intelligence.

Taught us to shame what we didn’t understand.

But I’m starting to see it differently now.

I see my mood swings as messengers.

I see my cycle as a ceremony.

I see my softness as strength.

And maybe, just maybe, this body is not cursed, but coded.

Not fragile, but fiercely wise.

Still, I won’t lie to you.

It’s not easy to carry this vessel.

To look in the mirror and not flinch.

To unlearn years of conditioning.

To rewrite the story in a world that profits off our self-hate.

But I try.

I place my hands on my belly and whisper:

You are not the enemy. You are home.

I light candles. I cry without shame.

I write my body back into beauty.

And I listen.

Because somewhere between pain and power, there is truth.

A quiet, glowing truth that says:

You are not a mistake. You are a map.

A map of your mother.

And hers.

And all the women who survived by remembering who they were.

So maybe my body is both,

A blessing and a battlefield.

A sacred war zone where I fight for softness.

A divine space where I reclaim my power again and again.

And maybe that’s the point.

Not to choose between blessing or battle;

But to live the truth of both.