polaritydisturbed

[polaritydisturbed]

The Master regenerating into Missy and embracing full chaotic elegance vs. the Doctor regenerating into 13 and immediately licking a rock. True gender equality.

The Master regenerating into Missy and wearing skirts and doing makeup and using her "feminine wiles" (her words not mine lol) to do evil with her silly little Mary Poppins aesthetic vs the Doctor regenerating into 13 and just. Continuing to wear pants and eat dirt. I love them both so much

[polaritydisturbed]

If Disney really wants to do something with Doctor Who they should make a Disney Channel style sitcom about Rose’s daughter Mia (from the books) and bring back Billie Piper and David Tennant to be her whacky sci fi sitcom parents

[polaritydisturbed]

donna noble is so so important because she chose the stars, she chose the adventure and the horror and the running, and she wanted it forever. and when she got left behind she built something so brilliant the doctor came back to spend forever with her anyway. and now she has her best friend and her family and all the stars, always.

[polaritydisturbed]

[polaritydisturbed]

Doctor Who Rose | 1.01

[polaritydisturbed]

“So, Doctor, when you regenerate… what’s it like?”

(This was just something rattling around in my head that I needed to get out—my take on what regeneration might feel like from the Doctor’s perspective. Not tied to any particular Doctor, so just imagine it in the voice of your favorite. It’s a bit introspective, a bit poetic, because let’s be honest—regenerating into an entirely new person has to be weird as hell.)

“So, Doctor, when you regenerate… what’s it like?”

“Well, it starts painfully—almost always. Whatever ended me, whatever pushed me so close to death, Usually hurt . A lot. Some deaths are quick, brutal, over before I even realize what’s happening. Others are slow, creeping in like a tide that never quite recedes, every part of me unraveling thread by thread.

But when it’s old age that takes me, it’s different. Less agony, more… weariness. A dull, inevitable failing of everything inside me, like time itself is pulling me apart.

And then, it starts.

For a fleeting moment, I feel incredible. More than incredible— unstoppable . Every cell in my body surges with energy, more alive than ever before. But then the fire comes. Not just heat, but something deeper, something woven into my very essence. It’s like pins and needles—only they’ve been dipped in napalm and set alight. My body is desperate to change, to remake itself, and holding back, even for a second, feels wrong—like trying to hold in a breath that’s already run out. Every cell strains, burning with the need to become something new.

And then—release. A supernova of self. Golden light, burning outward, shedding everything I was in a single, violent burst.

I couldn’t tell you how that part feels . My nerves are being rewritten, so there’s nothing to feel. Just a void, a numbness. For a few seconds, I’m not anything at all.

Then I take a breath.

And everything is different .

Not wrong. Just… foreign.

The air tastes unfamiliar, like the atmosphere has shifted in some imperceptible way. The clothes on my back, ones I’ve worn a thousand times, feel stiff and new, as if they don’t quite belong to me anymore. My nerves tingle, hyper-aware of every sensation, as if experiencing the world for the first time. My limbs feel too long, too short, too heavy, too light—disjointed, uncertain, they respond a fraction too soon or too late, unfamiliar with their own weight. 

And then I hear it—my voice.

Inside my head, it still sounds like me, the me from before. But what escapes my lips? Different. Strange. It takes time to reconcile, for the sound to settle, for my mind to catch up to my mouth. And in that gap, sometimes… I forget. Who I was, who I am. A fog rolls in, thick and impenetrable, and I have to claw my way through it.

And then comes the part that unsettles me most.

The things I once loved—the tastes, the textures, the songs that used to bring comfort—they don’t resonate the same way. A favorite drink is no longer soothing. A melody I once hummed absentmindedly feels distant, like a memory just out of reach. I know these things should bring me joy. I remember the feeling they once gave me. But suddenly… they don’t.

And that’s terrifying.

Because when you’re scared, you reach for comfort. A favorite food, a familiar song, a warm coat that once fit just right. But what happens when nothing feels the same? When the things that made you you are just echoes of sensation, hollow and unfamiliar?

I have to start over. I have to learn myself again—what flavors bring pleasure, what sounds bring peace, what fabrics drape comfortably over this new skin. And discovering that can be thrilling , exhilarating even.

But in those first moments—when I’m standing in the wreckage of who I was, and I don’t yet know who I’ll be—

Hard to feel like me. That comes with time. But beneath it all—the fire, the forgetting, the shifting weight of a self in transition—something endures. A pulse, steady and unyielding, thrumming beneath every change.

A drive to seek, to shield, to stand when others fall. To mend what is broken, to challenge the darkness, to hold onto wonder even when the universe feels vast and indifferent.

It takes new shapes, new voices, new hands—but it never vanishes. It is the force that moves me forward when everything else is uncertain. When memories blur and familiarity crumbles, that part of me remains, burning steady in the chaos.

So even when I stand on unsteady ground, uncertain of the face in the mirror, I am never truly lost. Because I am not just a collection of features, not just a voice still strange to my own ears.

I am the choices I make. The hands I grasp. The light I refuse to let go out.

And no matter how many times I begin again, I will always find my way.”