Posted on by coachtgant

The Blood We Swallow

“They say a woman’s first blood doesn’t come from between her legs but from biting her tongue.” – Meggie Royer.

My first blood didn’t come from biting my tongue. It came from my mother’s fists.

I was 12, standing in the kitchen with my back against the refrigerator. My father was in the middle of one of his long-winded lectures—this time about respect. My brothers stood nearby, silent observers. My crime? I told my volleyball coach it was my mother’s fault I was late to practice. My mother didn’t let my father finish. She interrupted him, her face calm and expressionless as if attempting to hide her rage, though her eyes betrayed her. She punched me in the face—once, twice, again and again. I don’t remember what came after. I don’t know what words were said, only the sharp pain and the cold surface against my back. I remember looking at my brothers and father, expecting someone to intervene. No one moved.

No one said a word.

To this day, I don’t know what was worse: the punches or the silence. The way they all seemed to agree that I deserved it. And for what? What was my crime? Tarnishing her image? Speaking a truth she didn’t want to hear? I still don’t know.

This wasn’t an isolated moment. There was another time, the weekend my uncle came to visit. My mother beat me until my nose and face bled. I had told her I’d already taken the ham—or was it the turkey?—out of the fridge. I guess she didn’t like the way I said it. I ran to the upstairs bathroom, leaving a trail of blood in my wake, sobbing as I tried to stop the bleeding.

Once again, the house was full of family. Once again, no one intervened.

It took me decades to understand that her violence wasn’t always about me. My mother was married to an unfaithful man, a husband who left her needs unmet and her emotions unacknowledged. That weekend, my father was gone—absent as he often was—leaving her anger untethered and me as the only target she could control. She couldn’t confront him, so she turned it on me. But knowing that doesn’t make it hurt less. I never witnessed my father hit his wife, though they both beat me. It’s more than unsettling to hear her claims of being a battered wife as if my father were the only one throwing punches in our home.

But knowing that doesn’t make it hurt less.

Growing up under a covert narcissist meant that my voice, my needs, and my truths were threats to her carefully curated image. I was punished for being late, punished for my tone, and punished simply for existing in ways that didn’t serve her narrative. Silence was my armor. And biting my tongue a survival skill.

Her memory may be lacking. But my body doesn’t forget. Swallowed words and suppressed truths have a way of lingering. The blood from bitten tongues doesn’t just disappear; it festers. The wounds deepen when you hold back anger, frustration, or sadness. Until one day, it’s too much.

I think about those moments often. I wonder why no one spoke up, why no one stepped in. And I wonder how many other girls—especially those who look like me—are taught that silence is the price of survival.

But I also think about the power of breaking that silence, of finding the courage to say enough, to spit out the blood, even if it stains, to reclaim the words and truths that were taken from you.

This post isn’t just about the pain of biting your tongue—it’s about the freedom of stopping. It’s about letting the blood spill, no matter how messy, and learning to heal on your own terms. Because we’ve bled long enough.

Posted on by coachtgant

Finding My Voice

It’s been said that writers find their voice, but that’s not my experience. My voice isn’t something I’ve had to find; I’ve never lost it or searched for it. My main problem is not liking the sound of my voice.

So, I write. My voice has always been there, but it’s been overshadowed by self-doubt, procrastination, perfectionism, many perceived ‘rules’ about what a writer should be, and coated in a sassy, southern twang. Writing is my attempt to navigate through these obstacles and rediscover my voice. And I invite you to join me on this journey.

1. The Myth of Perfectionism

I’ve been operating under the illusion that my writing must meet specific standards—sophisticated, profound, appealing to a broad audience, and deserving of praise. Perhaps it’s my background in education, where I hold myself to a higher standard than I do others. Or maybe it’s my analytical nature, where I dissect every word like a clue in a crossword puzzle. I’ve since realized that perfection isn’t a voice—for me, it’s a muzzle.

For instance, in the first draft of the post you are now reading, I poured my heart onto the page only to delete it because it didn’t feel ‘serious’ enough. It had humor, a touch of sarcasm, and a little messiness—basically, me on the page. I wrote the way I’d speak when conversing with a friend. Then I thought, ‘Ain’t nobody gon take this seriously.’ The thing is, I don’t need to be taken seriously. Much like a conversation with a friend, I long to be felt and heard, even by an audience of one.

2. Embracing Curiosity and Experimentation

Uncovering your voice is messy. It means writing things you’re not sure anyone will care about. It means leaning into the parts of yourself you’ve been told to tone down. It’s been about mixing my love of humor with my instinct for deep thought, weaving mischief into meaning, and flossing my BLERDness with courage and passion.

I don’t have to fit into a box. I can write about the intersection of true crime documentaries and Blackness one week and a deeply personal essay on vulnerability the next. It’s me; I am the throughline—my curiosity, my humor, my empathy.

3. The Role of Vulnerability

Writing is an act of vulnerability for me. Uncovering my voice permits me to be honest, raw, transparent, and imperfect on the page. As scary as it is to work through dread and self-doubt, the journey is liberating and an empowering testament to our courage.

When I started this blog, I didn’t know if my posts would resonate with anyone. What I knew was that I wanted to be honest about writing, life, and the often strange yet beautiful, messy process of being human. The more I lean into that honesty, the more I feel I’m unveiling my voice.