Beforeword: “The Chosen” retells the biblical account of a woman who bled for twelve years—likely battling what we now know as endometriosis. Doctors failed her. Society shunned her. But her faith pressed through the crowd and reached for the hem of healing. With one touch, she drew virtue from Jesus. The way this act was portrayed in “The Chosen” tugged at my heart and inspired this poem about a bold, desperate, and unshakeable kind of faith. Mark 5:25–34

Twelve years.
Twelve long, leaking, limping years.
Not of just blood,
but of being bled—
by shame, by silence,
by systems that said:
“You’re unclean.”
“You’re unworthy.”
“Stay unseen.”

She was hemorrhaging more than her body could bear—
her hope dripped slow, like her dignity,
into dusty streets that never remembered her name.

But this—this is a story
of a woman who reached
when religion said “Don’t.”
Who touched
when culture said “Stay back.”
Who dared
to believe healing was not just possible—
but personal.

She said,
“If I but touch the hem…”
Not his hand.
Not his face.
Just the fringe of grace.
She didn’t need center stage,
just the edge of mercy.

And when her fingers found the thread—
Power moved.
Time froze.
Heaven stood still.

And He said,
“Who touched me?”

Not out of rebuke,
but revelation.

She came trembling,
expecting judgment,
but found joy.
Expecting condemnation,
but got confirmation.

He didn’t call her “woman.”
Didn’t say “healed one.”
Didn’t say “formerly unclean.”

He called her—
Daughter.

And the world shifted.

Because God doesn’t rename without reason.
When He calls you something new,
it’s not just a title—
it’s a territory.
It’s the unlocking of destiny.
An announcement of assignment.
A sign that your suffering was not wasted—
it was womb.

Daughter.

That’s not just comfort—
that’s commission.
That’s “Welcome to the family.”
That’s “Your faith just opened a door.”
That’s “You have access to more.”

Because every new name in the Bible
was a passport into purpose:
Abram to Abraham—father of nations.
Jacob to Israel—wrestler turned warrior.
Simon to Peter—reed to rock.

And now:
Unknown to Daughter.
Outcast to Heir.
Bleeding to Blessed.
She didn’t just get healed—
She got elevated.

So now, when you feel unseen—
When your wounds whisper you’re not worthy—
When the crowd calls you forgettable—
Remember:
Faith rewrites stories.
And sometimes all it takes
is a reach.

For the God who knows your name
is waiting to call you something greater.
Something weightier.
Something woven in love.

Daughter.

Because your healing isn’t the end—
It’s your beginning.
Your new domain.
Your new name.

Walk in it.

---

Afterword: for more on this story, read it here.

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In creative solidarity, Dee