People often say you never forget your first deeply personal experience. Mine, however, is marked not by joy or curiosity but by fear, chaos, and an overwhelming sense of vulnerability. Where others might recall a mixture of excitement or nervous anticipation, my memory is instead dominated by the sensation of tears streaming down my face, by the quiet trembling of my hands, and by the urgent movements of medical staff surrounding me as they tried to stabilize a situation that had spiraled out of control. A moment that should have been intimate, natural, and even empowering instead became a frightening sequence of events — a blur of panic in a bathroom, the cold antiseptic smell of a hospital room, and hours of examinations that seemed to stretch into an eternity. The incident left a mark far beyond the physical recovery, etching itself into my memory in vivid, almost unbearable detail.
