When people hear “five years,” it seems fleeting—just a blink, a few chapters skimmed in a life already written. But when those years are measured not in birthdays or vacations, but in hospital lights that hum endlessly, pill boxes arranged by color and time, and the sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to your skin like an unwelcome memory, time shifts. It thickens, moves slower than your heartbeat, and fills your lungs like smoke you can’t exhale. It becomes weight, something you carry rather than experience. Each day blends into the next, a loop of alarms, feeding schedules, medical appointments, and quiet moments of silent panic that no one else sees.

Your existence becomes both hyper-visible and invisible at the same time: visible in the way you bend over a wheelchair, invisible in the way the world overlooks the years of labor and quiet sacrifice that have molded you into something unrecognizable. My name is Marianne Cortez, and at thirty-two, I sometimes feel like a woman trapped inside a reflection that doesn’t belong to me. My posture is permanently bowed, shoulders rolled inward as though bracing against a life that has demanded more than it should.