This month marks one year since undergoing a hysterectomy at the ripe old age of 32. I originally thought this blog post could be something quippy and buzzfeed-like. Maybe “top 10 things I’ve learned since my hysterectomy” or “see ya later, ovulator,” but alas, my sentimental therapist heart has other plans.  

It’s important to me that I start this by recognizing and admitting my privilege in this space. My hysterectomy (and subsequent oophorectomy) was my choice and one that I was able to make after already having had a successful pregnancy that resulted in the birth of my daughter. I was able to find a surgeon that was willing to perform a hysterectomy on a woman that was still in her childbearing years. I have health insurance that covered the majority of the cost. I have a strong support system of family members, friends, and colleagues.

AND

I was only 32. I was still in my childbearing years. I was grappling with what it means to be a woman without a uterus. I was trying to understand whether that was something I actually even cared about or if it was simply something I had absorbed through various messages growing up. I felt complete and whole with my daughter as an only child, but was inundated with conversations surrounding my fertility (or lack thereof) and what all of my other options were. Long story short, I found myself wondering: why was my worth connected to this organ that was causing me distress? (Spoiler alert: the answer is it wasn’t, but boy, it took some work to get there - if my therapist could break confidentiality she’d tell you the same).

Let’s pause and provide some context. I had been managing a diagnosis of endometriosis for almost 20 years and was exploring a hysterectomy for suspected adenomyosis. Endometriosis occurs when endometrial-like tissue is found outside of the uterus. Adenomyosis occurs when endometrial tissue is found within the uterine wall. Endometriosis is chronic and does not have a definitive cure, adenomyosis can be cured with a hysterectomy. 

I have such a vivid memory of waking up after the surgery and feeling the void in my abdomen where my uterus once lived. I could almost picture the emptiness. It was as if a physical (and mental) weight had immediately been lifted. In that moment, I felt relieved. Which then transitioned to grief. And back to relief. And then pity. And then an overwhelming sense of “oh shit, what did I do?” And to be completely honest, all of those emotions are still present today. Some more so than others, but the process has never been, nor will ever be, linear. There is no emotional state to be achieved and attained. They are simply to be acknowledged and recognized, validated and understood. They ebb, they flow, and they exist on the spectrum together. And you better believe I still routinely fear that I have bled through my pants in public because some teenage horror stories never die.

Now, back to this notion of self-worth as a woman.

We live in a world where “womanhood” is often directly connected to our ability to bear children. We’re routinely reminded that this is what our bodies are meant to do, that this is what they’re made for. It’s well-intentioned (maybe?), but it also puts us in a box. Where does it leave those that aren’t able or simply don’t want to? We can end up burdened with expectation and resentful of our lived experience. We can be made to feel less than. We’re forced to judge ourselves through the lens of a patriarchal society that we didn’t necessarily create, but are subjected to.

The moment I chose the hysterectomy is the moment I chose to be the best mom for the daughter I have as opposed to a child that doesn’t exist, but it also happens to be the moment I chose to see myself as something other than just a woman who can bear children. I chose to see a woman with her own passions and desires. A woman who is worthy of a life without pain. A woman who can show up and just be. A partner. A daughter. A friend. A sister. A therapist. A human.

If you take away one thing from this blog, I hope it’s that you are innately worthy.

Period. And so am I. And so are all the women who came before me and all who will come after. Our worth is not contingent on external factors, it exists because we do. 

So, to my uterus, I bid you adieu. You provided me with a mission and served as a great first home for my daughter, but beyond that, you kind of sucked. May your memory be a source of motivation to continue advocating so that my daughter doesn’t suffer the same fate. 

And to those reading this in a similar position, we see you. We understand the weight of these experiences and we are here to help you make sense of the nuance associated. Reach out and connect - we’d love to provide a space to help you heal and grow. 

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