Hi.
Some days, the hardest part of my life isn’t motherhood, or work, or the endless lists I carry in my head.
It’s my body.
The body I wake up in every morning — already tired, already sore, already asking more of me than it feels able to give.
Living with adenomyosis and endometriosis is like living inside a quiet battle no one else can see.
From the outside, I look fine.
From the inside, I’m negotiating with pain before my feet even touch the floor.
There are days when getting dressed feels like a small victory.
Days when standing at the sink to make breakfast feels like too much.
Days when the ache doesn’t just sit in my body — it crawls into my mood, my patience, my energy, my sense of who I am.
For years, I didn’t even have a name for what I was feeling.
Just pain that kept coming back.
Fatigue that never fully left.
A sense that my body and I were working against each other instead of together.
Now I have the diagnosis.
And somehow, that hasn’t made things easier — just clearer.
Clearer that this isn’t in my head.
Clearer that I’m not weak.
Clearer that this is real.
But clarity doesn’t always come with solutions.
Treatments haven’t brought relief.
Medications haven’t given me back the life I want to live.
And now I’m standing in a place I never imagined I’d be —
having to think about a hysterectomy while still needing my body every single day.
Not just for me —
but for my children.
For our business.
For my husband, who carries so much already.
For a life that doesn’t pause just because I need rest.
Sometimes the weight of that feels heavier than the pain itself.
Because planning a recovery when you don’t have family support, when your partner is the one holding everything together, when your life depends on you showing up —
that’s not just a medical decision.
That’s an emotional one.
A logistical one.
A terrifying one.
There are moments when I sit quietly and think,
How do I rest when everything depends on me not stopping?
And still… every day, I keep going.
Not because I’m strong in the way people imagine strength to look —
but because motherhood doesn’t wait for pain to pass.
Because bills don’t pause.
Because life keeps moving, even when your body begs you to slow down.
Some days I manage it with grace.
Some days I manage it with tears in the bathroom and a deep breath before I walk back into the room.
And yet, in the middle of all this, there is something I hold onto:
The knowledge that I finally know what I’m fighting.
The relief of being believed.
The quiet power in having a name for the pain that once felt invisible.
I don’t know what the next chapter looks like for my health.
I don’t know what decisions I’ll have to make or how I’ll find the space to heal.
I only know this:
I am learning to live in a body that fights me —
and still treat it with kindness.
I am learning to ask for help —
even when I don’t like needing it.
I am learning that slowing down isn’t giving up —
it’s surviving in a world that keeps asking more.
And maybe one day, I’ll look back at this version of myself — tired, hurting, still trying —
and realise she was braver than she ever gave herself credit for.
And you are too.
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