When I agreed to a partial hysterectomy, the discussion involved removing the womb and fallopian tubes but leaving the ovaries and cervix. My smear was clear, there were no pathological concerns, and the intention was to preserve as much of my natural hormonal function as possible.

I had given my consultant permission to make any clinically necessary decisions during surgery, but in my mind, I still believed I’d wake up with my ovaries intact.

In the weeks leading up to the operation, I tried to keep life as calm and grounded as possible. We had been blessed with a close friend’s wedding in Thailand, a pause, a breath, a moment of warmth before what I knew would be a big step. I didn’t tell many people what I was about to go through; I simply didn’t have the emotional space for lots of conversations. I needed to stay centred, calm and focused.

I avoided reading too deeply into the surgical techniques or possible outcomes. Not because I didn’t care, quite the opposite. I understood enough clinically to know what was required, and I didn’t want to overthink what I couldn’t control. My job was to calmly and peacefully show up. The surgeon’s job was to navigate what he found.

And so, I went into theatre peaceful, prepared, and grounded.

The next thing I remember after being put to sleep was opening my eyes in the lift on the way back to my hospital room. I had no memory of the recovery suite. I was then delighted to be reunited with Nicholas, and it was a comfort to see him by my side.

What we didn’t yet know was that the operation had taken a turn none of us anticipated.

When my consultant walked into the room later that day, he explained gently and clearly that they had discovered deep infiltrating endometriosis, far more extensive than any scan had ever shown. It was wrapped around both fallopian tubes, surrounding both ovaries, infiltrating the uterosacral ligaments, and even pinning one ovary to the pelvic wall.

Removing the ovaries wasn’t just advisable; it was necessary to ensure I was free from future discomfort and possible further complications.

And just like that, my planned partial hysterectomy became a subtotal hysterectomy (where the cervix is left in place) with bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy (removal of both fallopian tubes and ovaries).

In that one moment, I realised I had entered surgically induced menopause at 41.

There were no tears, no anger, no sense of loss in that moment.

I was simply grateful.
Grateful to be alive.
Grateful to have come through the procedure safely.
Grateful that the surgeon acted in my best interest.

I even wrote a message to loved ones within 24 hours of the operation, and it ended with:
“Despite everything, I give thanks and praise. I am sincerely grateful for safety through my procedure. Lots of love, Ness.”

I think, in hindsight, my mind temporarily protected me from the full emotional weight of the news. In that moment, gratitude was the only thing I could hold.

What hit me more deeply than I had anticipated was seeing the impact on Nicholas.

He had walked many steps of this journey with me, many appointments, the most difficult days, every moment when I was pushing through pain I’d learned to call “normal.” And when he heard the news, the weight of it showed on him in a way only another man could recognise. Nicholas contacted some of my very close relatives to share that my operation had been a success, but that the outcome had been a full hysterectomy. And my dad messaged me the next day to ask if Nicholas was okay.

It reminded me that surgery isn’t something you go through alone. Your family feels it too, sometimes in ways we don’t immediately see.

That first night in hospital, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. It had been mentioned that I may possibly go home the same day as the operation, but due to the change of plan and undergoing a full hysterectomy, I was advised to stay in one night, and my situation reviewed the following day. Between the nausea, the abdominal pain and the practical challenges of learning to move again, even a new way of sitting myself up in bed, I needed every ounce of support the nurses offered. However, the next morning when my surgeon saw me sitting up in my pyjamas eating breakfast, he was genuinely delighted. All those small moments matter.

But recovery was humbling.

• Learning how to get out of bed without bending.
• Realising how important squatting is when you can’t hinge your torso.
• Adjusting to bowel movement changes because your organs are literally repositioning.
• Living on a lighter diet because your gut simply cannot tolerate more.
• Navigating the waves of energy and discomfort.

And through it all, I was acutely aware of how fortunate I was to have the support of my family around me. Many women go through this with little or no help, and I felt that emotion deeply.

It took days, maybe weeks, for the reality of my operation to fully sink in:
I was menopausal at 41. Not because of biology, not because of time, but because of surgical necessity. That comes with its own emotional journey, its own symptoms, its own learning curve, and its own resilience.

In my next article, I’ll share openly about starting HRT, navigating early menopause, and what it means to enter a stage of life far sooner than you ever imagined.

Because if there’s one thing this journey has taught me, it’s that telling the truth of our experiences helps other women feel less alone.

If you’re navigating women’s health challenges, endometriosis, hysterectomy decisions, menopause (natural or surgical), or HRT, and you want evidence-based support delivered with care... please reach out.

You don’t have to navigate Women’s Health challenges in isolation; you are definitely not alone.