For most of my adult life, I’ve been told that pain was just part of being a woman.
Heavy periods? That’s normal.
Bloating, cramping, back pain, exhaustion? Just get on with it.
And so I did.
Until I couldn’t.
Last year, I made one of the biggest decisions of my life: I’m having a hysterectomy.
I didn’t get here overnight. It took 20 years of symptoms being dismissed, appointments where I felt like I had to beg to be taken seriously, one medication after another, and a slow realisation that my period was affecting my quality of life more than I wanted to admit.
Let me be clear — this blog isn’t a dramatic farewell to my uterus (well, maybe just a little).
It’s a conversation I wish someone had with me years ago.
It’s a breadcrumb trail for any woman quietly wondering if what she’s going through is “just normal.”
Spoiler: it might not be.
The Symptoms I Normalised
- A pain that knocked me flat — sometimes monthly, sometimes randomly
- Fatigue that made work and socialising feel like a marathon
- Bloating, sore breasts, and a faintness that felt alien in my body
- Sharp pelvic pain that came and went with no rhyme or reason
And still, I functioned.
I worked.
I smiled.
I powered through — because that’s what we’re taught to do.
The Diagnosis I Didn’t See Coming
In 2020 I started this journey and was diagnosed with endometriosis, a chronic condition that explained every symptom I’d been gaslit out of believing. Suddenly, everything made sense. And yet, I felt a strange mix of relief and rage.
Relief that there was finally a name for what I was experiencing.
Rage that it took this long to get it.
I tried everything medically to manage this disease, and after a laparoscopy in 2023 to remove the endo, I felt better — for a few months. Until I didn’t.
Nine months later, standing out the front of a business launch, I was on the phone with my gynaecologist planning another surgery to remove what I assumed was returning endo.
“Your ultrasound isn’t showing endometriosis,” she said.
“Well then what is it?” I asked, completely stunned.
“It must be the adenomyosis.”
Adenomyosis? What even was that — and why hadn’t I been told about it?
Cue frantic Googling in the car.
And a conversation that followed:
“Because there hasn’t been enough research… your 2 options are a hysterectomy or ablation .”
Soul-Searching and Shedding Shame
I grew up in a large family — my mum had 10 kids — and in a church environment where marriage and children were the goal. That path isn’t wrong, but I never had a desire to have children. It just wasn’t part of the life I saw for myself.
For over 10 years, I’d been saying to my GP:
“I want a hysterectomy.”
And for 10 years, I was told:
“It won’t happen – you’re too young. You might want kids one day.”
It maddened me. That my voice, my autonomy, was overruled by a possibility I never identified with.
It is also wildly unfair that teenagers under 18 years could take steps to change their sex (or gender-affirming medication), but an adult woman in chronic plain had to fight to have your uterus removed.
So when I was finally told that a hysterectomy was my best option, I thought I’d feel relief.
But instead, I felt like a failure — as a woman, a sister, an auntie and a human. This was surprising to me.
I started counselling. I wanted to be informed and self-aware going into this major surgery. I talked to my family, who have been supportive, educated themselves, and understanding.
Yes, there is grief. But also peace.
More than that — I’m excited.
Why I’m Sharing This
Because I want better for other women.
Because no one should have to suffer quietly.
Because choosing a hysterectomy doesn’t make you weak, dramatic, or less of a woman.
This decision is about reclaiming my health. My energy. My life.
Over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing my experience — from prepping for surgery to recovery to navigating what life looks like on the other side. The parts that feel raw, and the parts no one talks about (like constipation, hormones, and identity shifts).
If you’re on a similar path, I see you.
If you’re not sure whether to speak up — let this be your nudge.
You’re allowed to ask questions. You’re allowed to say:
“This isn’t normal.”
Because sometimes, it really isn’t.
Let’s stop normalising pain.
Let’s start having real conversations.