We are grateful for you, men — for the ones who listen without rushing to fix, for the ones who hold space, who lift us without strings. We see the hands that help, the shoulders that share the weight, the eyes that meet ours without shrinking or swallowing us whole.

But gratitude is not a gag. We are allowed to say that we are tired, too. Tired of walking with keys clutched like knives, tired of smiling just enough to survive, tired of being reduced to our thighs, our breasts, our blood. Our bodies are not invitations; they are not warnings either. They are homes — and they are holy, even when they are leaking or aching or stretching wider than some narrow dream of beauty.

We bleed each month, sometimes quietly, sometimes roaring, and it is not shameful. We grow curves without asking, and some days they feel like flags we never agreed to wave. We hear the whistles, the muttered words, the shouted claims that chase us down sidewalks like thrown stones. We are told to take it as a compliment, to lighten up, to laugh it off, but the laughter curdles in our throats.

We love, and we fight. We thank you, and we hold you accountable. We are whole. We are complicated. And we are tired of pretending we are anything less.