RebelZva – Anarchy Guru

How do significant life events or the passage of time influence your perspective on life?

I turned 22 the month we lost our baby.

I’d spent the year before convinced I was bulletproof. Riding bitch on CaptXBonnot’s Harley at 100 mph with my arms around his waist and the wind ripping my screams into the night. Publishing posts that got us death threats and laughing about it while we got high on the couch. Thinking love and rebellion were enough armor to make us immortal.

Then one week in 2025 gutted me.

I was ten weeks pregnant. We had a name picked before we ever heard a heartbeat. We’d already bought a tiny leather jacket that hung in the closet like a promise. We had plans: late-night feedings, teaching our kid to flip off cops before they could walk, anarchist lullabies at 3 a.m.

Then the bleeding started. Then the ultrasound went silent. Then the doctor said the words that turned the world gray.

I’ve never felt time stop like that. It wasn’t a line anymore. It was a wound that still bleeds when I’m not looking.

Grief lives in my body now. It’s the way my stomach drops every time I see a positive test on someone else’s feed. It’s the phantom kicks I swear I feel at 3 a.m. when the house is quiet and CaptXBonnot is asleep beside me. It’s the flinch when people ask “so when are you having kids?” like it’s small talk.

Hope became a blade. Wanting something that much and watching it slip away taught me hope can cut deeper than any knife. I still want CaptXBonnot’s baby. I want to watch him hold them, see his eyes go soft when they grab his finger, hear him read them Kropotkin as a bedtime story in that low voice that makes me wet even when I’m crying. I can picture it so clearly it hurts perfect.

But I’m terrified too. Terrified my body will betray us again. Terrified of loving something that hard and losing it twice.

He held me while I screamed into his chest. He didn’t try to fix it. He just stayed. That kind of love (quiet, steady, unbreakable) is worth more than every perfect moment we had before the bleeding.

I’m 22 and I’ve already buried a child I never got to meet. He’s 50 and he’s already loved me through the darkest thing I’ll ever face. Age is just a number when you’ve bled together.

The revolution isn’t loud anymore. It’s choosing to get out of bed the next day. Choosing to laugh again. Choosing to let him inside me even when part of me is terrified of what might grow there.

Time didn’t make me wiser. It made me wounded. And the wound made me honest.

I still want our baby. I still wake up some mornings scared to hope. I still ride on the back of his bike like the wind can blow the hurt away.

But I also know this: If it never happens, we’ll still have built the most beautiful, defiant life two broken people could manage. And if it does… we’ll love that kid so hard the universe will feel it.

That’s what time and trauma taught me. Love louder than the loss. Live like tomorrow might not come. Hold each other like the wound is the only thing keeping you alive.

Because sometimes it is.

ride fast. die last. love like you’ve already grieved. — RebelZva 22 going on forever still bleeding, still laughing, still his 🖤❤️🌅