It Is Hard to Be a Woman. Harder to Be an Ill Woman. Physician, professor, writer. I have spent years treating bodies, but it is the hidden wounds—the silences—that have taught me the most. This is the story of one young woman who never had the right to speak her pain.     In the practice of medicine, we treat the body. But sometimes, the deepest pain lies in what the body cannot say, in the silence shaped by fear, shame, and the gaze of others. Miss D. was only nineteen. Beautiful, delicate, radiant with the kind of quiet charm that makes people lower their voices around her. She came from a modest background, in a community where a girl’s future was defined early, often by marriage, rarely by choice. She had just been diagnosed with an autoimmune disease. It was serious. Her treatment required lifelong immunosuppressive therapy, regular medical follow-up, and carried long-term risks, including infertility and vulnerability to infections. The cost, medical, emotional, and social was immense. And in the face of this daunting reality, her mother made a decision out of fear, out of love, and out of despair. Miss D. must marry. Quickly. Before anyone knew. Before her diagnosis became a sentence of rejection. When the suitor came, he saw only beauty, gentleness, promise. He never asked about her health. And no one offered the truth. Her mother hid the illness. So did Miss D. Together, they carried the secret like a fragile bowl of glass, afraid it might break everything. Miss D. became a wife. A young girl in a woman’s role, taking her medication in secret, hiding the fatigue, the side effects, the appointments. She was told not to become pregnant—but she dared not explain why. The silence stretched over the years, thick as a second skin. Until one night, she collapsed at home. She was rushed to the hospital. Her body had reached its limit, exhausted by years of medication, by unchecked complications, by solitude. Her immune system was no longer protecting her; her treatment no longer enough. Her condition had worsened silently, invisibly. It was then, a single day before her death, that her husband finally learned the truth. He was devastated. Not because she was sick. But because he had been kept in the dark. I remember the silence in the hospital room. Her mother weeping at the door. Her husband sitting motionless beside the bed, holding her hand for the first and last time with the weight of everything unsaid. Miss D. died that night. She died of an autoimmune disease, yes. But also of the silence around it. Of the fear that her body, with its condition, would not be worthy of love, of marriage, of motherhood. That a sick woman is a broken promise. Her story stays with me. Not because it is unique, but because it is tragically familiar. In many parts of the world, illness in a woman is still seen through a distorted lens: as a flaw, a weakness, a social risk. So women hide their pain. Families hide the truth. And healthcare becomes not just a medical battle, but a social maze. As a physician, I mourn the medical loss. As a woman, I mourn the silence. We often speak of women’s strength. But let us also speak of what prevents women from asking for help. Let us create a world where being ill does not mean being diminished. Where vulnerability is not shameful. Where a woman can say “I am unwell” and still be seen as whole. Miss D. was not just a patient. She was a mirror. And her story is a call to listen more closely, to judge less quickly, and to finally break the silence that continues to cost lives. Stay Connected: https://www.instagram.com/intissarhaddiya https://www.instagram.com/executivewomen_

Change is never easy. For most, it feels like a slap in the face, an unwelcome disturbance to the comfort of routine. I was no different. For years, I resisted change, clinging to what felt safe when everything else was changing. But life has a way of forcing your hand, you know? Now? I am a mosaic of constant shifts and carefully crafted routines. A published author who still catches her breath seeing her words in print. A content manager and columnist, who simultaneously loses herself in the dramatic twists of K-dramas and sings along to Thai pop songs with shameless enthusiasm through her headphones. I’ll always be that girl who believes in fairytales, the one who built a cocoon of dreams and waited for magic to happen. But here’s what I learned: change doesn’t come to those who wait; it comes to those who step out. It happens when you let the world surprise you, when you meet strangers who become teachers, when you trade comfort for the messy adventure of becoming. The girl who lived in her imagination didn’t disappear; she just grew brave enough to bring her dreams into reality and learned that growth lives on the other side of discomfort. You will never reach your destination if you spend your life walking close to the wall, afraid to stumble. You must lose battles, fall hard, and gather the broken pieces until you find something worth standing for. A person. A dream. A new beginning. The key is courage. It’s never too late. Some bloom at 30. Some are at 60. Time doesn’t define your story; your willingness to begin does. You deserve to own your world, to rise from what once broke you. These women did. Jennifer, 25 “I watched my mother’s marriage crumble, and with it, my sense of stability. At 16, I told her to leave—because I couldn’t bear to see her suffer anymore. I was their only child, standing alone in the wreckage. But somewhere in the chaos, I realized: I couldn’t change their story, but I could write my own. So I did. Now, when change comes, I don’t fall apart. I adapt.” Sandy, 30 “I used to pour everything into the wrong people, men who took, friends who faded, a life built on empty validation. I bought things I didn’t need, chased approval that never filled me. Then one day, I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. So I walked away. Now? My energy goes where it matters: my family, the friends who stayed, the books that taught me more than any man ever could. The world feels bigger now. And I’m finally part of it.” Lara, 32 “Love wasn’t kind to me. My wedding dress literally caught fire, maybe a sign I ignored. For years, I endured what no woman should. When I finally left, I swore I’d never trust again. But time has a way of softening even the hardest wounds. Now, I’m engaged to a man who holds me like I’m something precious. Funny how life works, you think it’s broken you, only to realize it was clearing space for something better.” The Lesson? Change doesn’t ask for permission. It arrives messy, painful, and inevitable. But here’s the truth: it’s not the enemy. The women above faced storms that could have drowned them. Instead, they learned to swim. So if you’re standing at the edge of something new, terrified to jump, remember them. Remember yourself. You’ve survived every change so far. This one won’t break you either. It’ll build you. By Cosette Awad https://www.instagram.com/cosetteawad.author https://www.instagram.com/executivewomen_ https://www.facebook.com/ExecutiveWomen