Zebra Seeking Spoons

There are days I walk into rooms
holding more than a purse or a chart—
I carry symptoms no one can see,
a body translating itself
into a language I never chose.

I carry exhaustion in my bones,
pain tucked quietly beneath my skin,
and questions that echo louder
after hearing,
“Everything looks normal.”

I used to think I had to whisper,
to apologize for taking up space,
to shrink my hurt into something
more comfortable for others.

But chronic illness has taught me this:

No one lives inside my body but me.

I know the storms beneath my ribs.
I know the warning signs,
the crashes, the flares,
the subtle shifts before the ground gives way.

So I will speak.

I will ask another question.
I will request another opinion.
I will say,
“Something isn’t right.”
again and again if I have to.

Because advocating for myself
isn’t being difficult.
It isn’t demanding too much.

It is loving myself enough
to stand beside my own body
when it needs someone most.

And on the days my voice shakes,
on the days exhaustion steals my strength,
I will still remember:

I am not just fighting for answers—
I am becoming my own fiercest ally,
my own steady hand,
my own unwavering witness.

I am learning that sometimes
the strongest thing a zebra can do
is stand in the center of the room
and say,

“I know what I feel.
Please listen.”