You Paid for It in Cortisol

(for the women who stayed in the room)

You didn’t raise your voice—

you raised a mirror.

And she flinched.

Not at the glass,

but at her own reflection

unveiled in the quiet violence

of your steadiness.

You didn’t throw the first blow,

you spoke the first truth.

And that was enough

to tip the room

into performance.

She took the moral high ground

by elevator.

You took the stairs,

with a bleeding heart and burning lungs.

They say nothing happened.

But your body knows better.

You paid for it in cortisol,

in the knot behind your ribs,

in the trembling hours afterward

where your nervous system

rewound every syllable

in a theatre of what-ifs

and should-not-haves.

You left your dignity on the table

like a cheque no one wanted to cash.

And still—

still you returned

with your spine intact

and your fury folded in your pocket

like a quiet revolution.

Let them call it overreaction.

Let them name you difficult.

Let them pretend they didn’t feel

the temperature shift

when the truth entered the room

wearing your mouth.

You know what it cost.

You know what it saved.

And still,

you would pay it again.

Not because you owe them.

But because you refuse

to owe yourself

a single silence.