To The Woman Suffering On Mother's Day
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Introduction
To the woman who suffers on Mother’s Day,
I share my story.
Trigger warning: infertility, sexual violence, heavy emotional themes
My Story
Let’s rewind to the spring semester of my Freshman year of college. April to be exact. I was 18-years old, freshly broken up with my high school sweetheart, off the very first birth control pill I had secretly gotten myself on, and on dating apps to explore what else was out there. In a twisted turn of fate, I was raped three weeks later. I didn’t comprehend it then, I thought “I was too smart to have let that happen to me. That’s not what just happened.” I told one friend who wasn’t sure how to help. I was already in therapy for depression, so I told my therapist who struggled to have me recognize the severity of the situation. I stuffed the experience in a box in the back of my mind and moved on.
Fast forward two months. I was getting back together with my high school sweetheart and discovered sex suddenly hurt a whole hellova lot on the right side of my pelvis/hip region. We were on summer break now, so I needed to find a place that I could go to without flagging my parent’s insurance. (I didn’t want them to know I had been having sex). I made an appointment with Planned Parenthood. I had my exam and PP referred me out. (Fuck). When I finally got to the OBGYN appointment and had an ultrasound (SURPRISE! Ultrasounds are also vaginal!? I missed that warning in movies!), I had an ovarian cyst the size of a tennis ball on my right ovary. (For context, a standard ovary is about the size of an almond). I also learned my ovaries were polycystic - aka they had a bunch of little cysts all over them. And if I didn’t want to worry about the cyst on my right ovary popping and causing something even worse, like an ovarian torsion, then I needed to have surgery. (Que my embarrassing call to my mom to tell her the news – it shouldn’t have been embarrassing, but it felt that way because I never talked about these things with my mom. She was supportive.)
I had the surgery a week later, right before I turned 19. I learned that not only did they diagnose me with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS), and Pelvic Floor Dysfunction (my pelvic floor muscles were super tight), but also, I had a condition that was called Endometriosis. OH and by the way, if I want to have children in the future, I best be trying early because this will make it difficult to conceive. (For those that don’t know, endometriosis is where cells similar to your uterine lining (endometrium tissue) grow outside of your uterus. It causes all sorts of issues).
NINETEEN YA’LL. I was 19 when I was told “best get to having babies if you want them.”
I had barely finished my freshman year of college.
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I knew I didn’t want kids right then, but I wanted the option to have them, y’know? But that felt bleak.
The rape was the triggering event that sent my body into a spiral for the remaining 4 years of college (I completed a bachelors of science, and a one-year MBA). Between the time I was raped at 18 and the time I got married at 23, I had had 4 laparscopies to remove the endometriosis and cysts on my ovaries, and one hydrodistention on my bladder (I would not recommend this).
Another important detail I forgot to mention is that when my husband and I got married, we agreed, no kids right now, but maybe in 5 years.
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Gosh, there are so many details I am skipping, but it’s fine. So anyway, I got married. I’m done with school. My body was rejecting each birth control option I tried. What I was “allowed” to eat sucked. I had a cabinet of pills to take each day. And then Covid hit, and I think: there has to be more to life than this.
I find a new endometriosis specialist and we have to go through all the routes I’ve done before because fuck insurance. And we wind up with me getting ready to go into my fifth surgery.
I was 26 years old when I had my right ovary and both tubes removed.
I decided that I couldn’t deal with another 25 years of shitty birth control options, and worrying about getting pregnant, that I said screw it. Take it out. If I want a child, I’ll do IVF. That was what doctors told me I might have to do anyway since the beginning, might as well just confirm that as my only option. This gave me the peace of mind about unexpected pregnancies. (I had been through enough. I didn’t want to have to go through a miscarriage or an abortion - both my husband and I weren’t jumping to have kids, but again, I wanted to maintain one option). This approach allows my natural hormone cycle to exist while also alleviating the endometriosis symptoms.
I grieved the loss of all the things – parts of my body being taken from me, the option for the ability to conceive naturally, and more.
And I got over it.
Until …
I had left my husband and come back under the agreement that we would not have children together. A few months later, I had a phantom pregnancy – I had tried to go vegan and lost too much weight accidentally. It threw off my hormones, and my body started acting and telling me I was pregnant. But when we went for an ultrasound…nothing. No one had believed I was pregnant besides my best friend. My husband thought I was trying to manipulate him. My mom thought similarly, or that I was crazy. And I get it. I was having a hard time reconciling that I could be pregnant given the surgery I had had, but I also found research that said it was possible. And let me tell you, the amount of different lives that flashed before my eyes in those moments was incredible.
I imagined him playing with his son. I imagined him spoiling his little girl. I imagined the conversations and lessons I’d want to teach. The family gatherings. The love and support we’d both give and receive. I imagined how hard it would be, but also how beautiful it would be too.
I grieved that entire 9 months.
But just like my late friend Nancy told me in the midst of my grief before her passing:
It’s time to dream a new dream.
I write this 2-months shy of my 29th birthday (10 years later)
I am happy. I am healthy. My relationship with my husband is stronger than ever.
My relationship with my body is one of kindness, grace, and compassion. I explore food like I’m exploring a new national park I have never been to. I nourish my body with as many things as I can. My periods have stabilized and my cycles are predictable. I am peacefully content.
This ten year journey is the sequence of events that led to me becoming a Shaman.
Had I not been raped, I wouldn’t have completed all the extra trainings, certifications, and education that I did in discovering how to break free from survival and have a healthy partnership. I wouldn’t have the understanding that I do about trauma in the body. And I wouldn’t have found my way to becoming a healer for others.
There are a ton of details I left out, and for those, you’ll have to join me on your own personal Radiance journey. Until then, I trust my story will remind you that you are not alone, and that hope exists. You just have to be willing to take the next step.
To the partners of these women
Buy us the damn Mother’s Day card.