Wacth Full Story here - My Body Gave Me Osteoporosis (Real Story)

I never thought it would happen that day. I told myself, like always, that I wouldn’t sneak into her closet. That I wouldn’t sit in front of that old vanity. But the quiet house pulled me in. The lavender scent on her clothes. The silk, the cotton, the skirts whispering my name.

I slipped into a pale blue skirt I hadn’t seen in years. It hugged my waist like it was waiting for me. Then the blouse. Soft, white, with little puffs at the shoulders. And finally, the lipstick. My hands shook as I smeared it on.

That’s when I heard the keys.

The door opened. Footsteps on the stairs. My heart stopped. I froze in the middle of the room, half-dressed, half-alive, knowing it was over.

And then the door creaked open. My mother stood there.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She just looked. And then, softly, she asked:

“Do you have a name for her?”

The word slipped out before I could stop it. Susan.

She repeated it like it was something precious. Susan suits you.

And instead of shame, there was silence. Instead of anger, her hand on my chin, correcting the corners of my lipstick. She whispered: You’ve always been my daughter too, haven’t you?

That moment didn’t solve everything. It began everything.

For years, Susan lived in fragments—hidden blouses, lipstick wiped away, nights spent whispering her name into the dark. But my mother never let it go. She taught me makeup at her vanity. She reminded me to breathe when I was too afraid to leave the house. And one day, in a coffee shop, a stranger handed me a cup and said, Here you go, ma’am. I nearly cried.

That was when I knew Susan wasn’t a phase. She was me.

I started hormones. Estradiol. Tiny pills that felt like keys turning in locks I had lived with all my life. Slowly, my reflection began to change. Softer skin, fuller cheeks, tears that came easier. For the first time, I wasn’t pretending.

Until it stopped.

The clot came like lightning—pain in my leg, a doctor’s face too serious. Deep vein thrombosis. You need to stop hormone therapy.

Just like that, Susan was put on pause.

I can’t describe the grief. To touch your truth and then be told you might lose it forever. I stopped dressing. Stopped showing up online. Nights were quiet, except for one message that always came: Goodnight, Susan.

My mom never let the name go.

And maybe that’s what saved me. Because one day, almost two years later, I found the strength to try again. This time carefully. Patches, tests, slow steps. And when I stood in the mirror after the first one, I saw her again. A little older. A little tired. But real.

Susan.

Seven years have passed since that first day. Seven years of stumbling, pausing, fighting, and surviving. And yet, every time I look in the mirror now, she looks back. Not as a dream. Not as a costume. But as me.

And maybe that’s the strangest truth of all: Susan was never gone. She was always here—waiting for me to finally see her.