For years, I lived in what I now call my abnormal normal.

Monthly cycles that left me exhausted, chronically iron-deficient, and constantly managing symptoms I had convinced myself were “just part of life.”

It wasn’t until 2024, during what began as a routine conversation with my GP, that I was asked a simple but important question:

“Are you under a gynaecology team?”

I wasn’t. I had been years earlier, after an endometrial ablation in 2018, but since then, life had simply carried on. My energy levels would dip periodically; I’d go back on iron tablets, recover slightly, and keep pushing through. It was a rhythm I’d normalised, functioning, but far from thriving.

When I was referred back to a gynaecologist, I described what had quietly become my reality. Heavy bleeding, constant fatigue, and pain that touched every part of my life; physically, emotionally, and relationally.

Over time, I’d noticed how even the simplest movements could trigger symptoms. Running on a treadmill became impossible and triggered unwanted menstrual bleeding. Lunges and squats, and even the stepper at the gym could lead to bleeding and pain.

Exercise has always been central to my wellbeing, not just physically, but mentally. As someone who is neurodivergent, movement helps me regulate focus, mood, and energy. So having to modify everything I did, just to stay active, was disheartening.

And then there was the deeply personal impact, having to make choices between intimacy or movement, because either could trigger bleeding. It was disheartening and mentally draining to have to think ahead and make weekly choices of whether I wanted to be intimate with my husband that week or exercise at the gym, as I couldn’t do both and trigger bleeding from both situations. Those are not decisions anyone should have to make, and yet, that had become my “normal.”

At my first appointment with the gynaecologist, I completed a quality-of-life questionnaire. When asked to rate mine, I said 85% out of 100. He looked at me in disbelief.

“Given what you’ve just described,” he said, “I’m surprised it’s that high.”

That comment stayed with me. I realised how much I had minimised my symptoms, reframing resilience as strength, when really it was endurance.

During the assessment, he performed an ultrasound and transvaginal scan. The results finally offered clarity:
“You have signs of endometriosis,” he explained, “and possibly adenomyosis as well.”

I’d heard of endometriosis, but adenomyosis was new to me. He described how the endometrial tissue had grown into the muscular wall of the uterus, which in turn explained my pain, the bloating, the abnormal bleeding, and the “upside-down physiology” my body had been living through.

For the first time, everything made sense. Years of symptoms that had been dismissed, misunderstood, or managed piecemeal finally had a name.

Together, we reviewed my history: different forms of contraception, the earlier ablation, and countless lifestyle adaptations. Nothing had resolved the issue. It was becoming clear that this was not a short-term issue that was not being resolved; it was much, much deeper, it was a chronic, life-altering condition.

The consultant gently raised the next step:
“Given your history, your symptoms, and the impact on your quality of life, we should consider a hysterectomy.”

It was a confronting moment. Even though I had completed my family and have two wonderful children, the decision carried emotional weight. But my husband, Nicholas — both my partner in life and a GP — was beside me throughout. His support, both personally and professionally, gave me the confidence to process what this meant, not only for my health but for my sense of self.

After careful thought and many conversations, I decided to move forward courageously. The plan was a partial hysterectomy, removing my womb and fallopian tubes while keeping my ovaries and cervix.

It felt like the right step, a chance to reclaim quality of life, energy, and movement. A chance to step out of the abnormal normal and into my first stage of healing that I had wanted for so many years.

But as I would soon discover, even the best-laid surgical plans don’t always unfold as expected.

As Vanessa’s husband and as a GP, I’d been walking beside her through every stage of this journey. I had seen the toll it took: the constant fatigue, the iron deficiency, the pain that shaped her decisions around movement, work, and family life. Watching someone you love navigate that level of limitation is incredibly difficult, especially when you know they’re someone who thrives on energy, purpose, and being fully present.

By the time we sat in that gynaecology appointment, I knew clinically that we had reached the end of the road with conservative options. Over the years, Vanessa had tried everything available: multiple contraceptive methods, the coil, and the ablation.

A hysterectomy is never an easy conversation to have with your partner; there is emotion, identity, and symbolism tied to the womb that only a woman can truly understand. I could empathise with the fear of losing an organ; I’d had part of my small bowel removed in my twenties. But this was different. This was the organ that carried our children, and deciding to remove it marks the end of a chapter in a profoundly final way. Yet when we weighed the reality, the exhaustion, the limitations, the impact on her happiness and her ability to live life fully, the choice became clearer. It was still hard, but it was right.

And now, seeing Vanessa regain strength, return to the gym, and reclaim the parts of life that had been slipping away for years… I’m grateful. Grateful that she chose herself, her future, and her wellbeing. Because while the decision was heavy, the life she is stepping back into has been worth every hard moment that led to it.

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