It was in the retelling of Françoise’s story that the words got stuck in my throat. I exhale but it doesn’t help. More than a day after she’d told me of her journey, I found myself at a blockage. It wedged in my throat and I couldn’t physically say it, as though the articulating of it finally made it real and pass through me too. It tore a piece of me to get it out. Yet Françoise is not broken, she’s one of the most vibrant, uplifting women I’ve ever met and despite everything she has been through she gives back on every level. In an Insta world of digestible soundbites, how do you find the words to describe being violently penetrated with a glass bottle while six months pregnant, losing the baby, your fertility, your home and maybe your mind?