Want to hear this post instead of reading it? Just hit the play button below, and I’ll happily read it out loud for you.
Today I had a hysterectomy after living with endometriosis and abnormal bleeding for 33 years. Thirty-three years of pain, disruption, planning life around my body instead of living inside it freely. Thirty-three years of learning how to tolerate things I never should have had to tolerate.
If you’re doing the math, yes—this started when I was still a kid. And like a lot of women, I learned early how to minimize what I was feeling. I learned how to push through. How to keep going. How to normalize things that were never actually normal. Somewhere along the way, I stopped expecting relief and started managing symptoms like it was my responsibility to be “low maintenance.”
This year, something finally shifted.
I found a doctor who listened. I want to say out loud because good listening should never be surprising—but sometimes it still is. He didn’t rush me. He didn’t dismiss me. He didn’t offer platitudes or tell me to wait it out. He listened carefully, asked thoughtful questions, and treated my lived experience like real data. That alone felt healing.
Together, we talked through options. Real ones. Sustainable ones. And we landed here. Surgery wasn’t the first choice. It was the right choice.
But before I could get to surgery day, I had to survive pre-op prep, which included one of the most unholy beverages ever created by modern medicine.
The nurse handed me a full box of what she described as “vanilla protein shakes, similar to Ensure.” Along with it, she gave me a cheerful pamphlet explaining all the fun ways I could jazz it up—add peanut butter! Blend with a banana! Mix with coffee creamer! Make it a smoothie! What she did not mention is that these shakes taste like vanilla mixed with a jar of pennies and a tuna sandwich.
Friends. This was not vanilla.
This was a metallic vanilla fish shake. 🤮
For five days before surgery, I was required to drink this twice a day. Twice. A. Day. I tried everything the pamphlet suggested. Peanut butter just made it taste like a fish had briefly thought about being a Reese’s cup. Banana only added emotional betrayal. Nothing could mask it but I finally alternated between banana and berries to make it better or in some cases, just shotgunning it to get it down fast.
I gagged. I negotiated. I stared at the bottle like it had personally wronged me. But I drank it anyway, because apparently healing sometimes involves swallowing your dignity along with industrial-strength protein.
By the time surgery day arrived, I felt spiritually bonded to that shake in a way I hope to never experience again.
The procedure itself went well, and for that I’m deeply grateful. Recovery, however, has decided to humble me immediately. The hours of vertigo afterward were not fun. Not “this is mildly unpleasant.” More like “the room is auditioning for a carnival ride I did not consent to.” It was disorienting and exhausting and made me acutely aware of every life choice I’d ever made. Thankfully, it passed, and my body eventually found its footing again.
And now I’m here. Healing. Processing.
Because this wasn’t just a medical event. It was the closing of an era.
My womb was home to two babies. That matters to me. Those years mattered. The pause between pregnancies mattered too—the waiting, the hoping, the quiet ache of longing that lived alongside pain for longer than I realized. I did become a mother—twice—but there was a season where possibility felt suspended, and that season shaped me.
So no, this doesn’t feel like straightforward loss. And it doesn’t feel like uncomplicated relief either. It feels layered. Tender. Like packing up a room you loved but couldn’t stay in anymore. You’re grateful for what it gave you. You’re honest about what it cost you. And you pause for a moment before turning out the light.
This body made room. It made life. It made me a mother. That part of the story doesn’t disappear just because this chapter is closing. There were years when my hands were full and my heart still wondered if there might be more, and years when pain took up more space than possibility. That waiting wasn’t despair, and it wasn’t loss. It was an ache. A long, quiet pause that shaped me in ways I’m still discovering. Letting this go isn’t erasing what was or who I’ve been. It’s choosing healing. It’s honoring the work this body did, even when it hurt. I’m still a mother. I’m still whole. I’m still capable of growing and becoming in new ways.
What has surprised me most is how deeply held I feel.
My village has been incredible. The check-ins. The meals. The rides. The quiet “I’m here” messages. My husband deep-cleaning the bathroom without being asked—which is honestly the most romantic gesture imaginable at this stage of life. The people who showed up with humor, patience, and no expectations except that I rest.
Being cared for like this is its own kind of healing.
There’s also something powerful about choosing yourself after decades of enduring. About saying, “This is not something I have to keep living with.” For a long time, I thought strength meant pushing through. Being tough. Being fine.
Turns out, strength can also look like stopping.
It can look like trusting your body enough to believe it when it says something isn’t right. It can look like asking better questions. Finding the right help. Letting yourself be cared for. Letting yourself heal.
Today was a big day. A brave one. A hopeful one.
I’m resting now. Healing. Grateful the surgery went well. Grateful the vertigo passed. Grateful for good doctors, modern medicine, and a village that knows how to love loudly and quietly at the same time.
And I’m stepping into whatever comes next with a little more ease, a little less pain, and a deep respect for the body that carried me this far—even as I say goodbye to one part of its story.
This isn’t the end of me.
It’s just the end of something that worked very hard for a very long time.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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