In this powerful personal essay, guest contributor Boluwatife Olusola-Ajayi shares the raw, unfiltered reality of living with undiagnosed chronic period pain.
“You are now a woman,” my mother said proudly after my period started, but I didn’t feel pride. I felt only betrayal; like I was being punished for a crime I didn’t commit. I felt as though something had gone horribly wrong somewhere, and there was nothing I could do to fix it. Though there were burn marks on my lower belly from my hot water bottle, I still preferred the sting of the boiling water on my skin to the pain inside me.
My periods hurt, and they have for 14 years. I always find myself throwing up till my stomach is empty, leaving nothing but bile. Bitter, disgusting bile. Choosing to lie on the floor because I imagined its coolness would bring me some relief. It never did. I found myself turning and tossing every way, just like I did on my bed. In the early days, I passed out often. After long hours of dealing with the pain and the dehydration from the vomit, I felt my body give in. I knew relief was on the way when I felt a distinct sensation on my face that preceded my passing out. I’d wake up, still in a bit of pain, but the worst is usually over after that.
A childhood shaped by relentless pain
I went to the doctor early on, I was told to be lucky that I didn’t have to be hospitalised every month like some other women. I’m not entirely sure why we didn’t consult another doctor , but I learnt to accept this as my new normal. Some relief came when I discovered a particular pain medication. Unfortunately, it was always conditional; if I didn’t swallow the capsules within minutes, I was, for lack of a better word, finished. Desperate for more consistent relief, I started experimenting: turmeric, honey, warm water — anything. It worked for a while, but like other remedies I had tried, nothing quite fixed it.
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Beyond the pain, this condition stole a lot from me, too. During a major WAEC exam, my hands shook so violently from cramps that I could barely write my own name. It felt like what I imagine being pushed back and forth on a fence with jagged bottles would feel like. I had studied for months, but it didn’t matter. My brain couldn’t weave three consecutive sentences together. All I could do was cry while trying not to throw up all over my answer sheet.
I mapped my entire life around my cycle so I could nurse my pain at home without drawing public attention. Once, I miscalculated the dates, and my uncle had to carry me out of the stadium during my school’s sports event. At that moment, my legs no longer remembered why they were attached to my body. I still remember the confused stares and the whispers that followed us as we made our way to the car. For years, I lived without clarity, but as I grew into adulthood, the lack of answers weighed on me in a way I could no longer ignore.
How my search for answers led to my surgery
Two years ago, I began investigating, I was poked and prodded so many times that I knew all the laboratory instructions by heart. I knew what not to wear to make the process go faster. I was tested by lab techs who were too indifferent. Perhaps because what was monumental for me was simply routine for them. I had also not considered the hours I’d lose to long waiting times at the hospital.
After extensive testing, the doctors finally named the rare combination that had haunted me for so long. Teratoma and fibroids: two terrible twins. Both individual conduits of pain, they ganged up on my body in the cruellest way. As I watched my sister burst into tears during one of my hospital visits that confirmed the necessity of a surgical response, it was, perhaps, the first time I let the severity of my diagnosis sink in. So, I prepared for the first surgery of my life.I won’t bore you with the details of how anxiety sat me down and held my neck.
Almost halfway into the procedure, the machines I was hooked up to began to scream all at once. I started to feel faint, my ears ringing, almost as though I was leaving my body. I recall hearing different voices calling my name over and over while the machines beeped loudly in the background. A few seconds that felt like a lifetime later, I was able to reply, “I’m here”. The room quietened almost immediately, the doctors continued, and shortly after, discovered the presence of an endometrioma, a severe type of endometriosis. I had not hallucinated or exaggerated it. My pain was real.
Later, watching the video my doctor had made when the endometriosis was discovered, made it even more real. I sat in stunned silence, completely floored that all those years of pain had led to that moment in the operating room. When I could finally speak, I whispered “Jesus,” and held a shaking hand over my mouth while my heart thumped away in my chest. Seeing it meant the findings in my medical reports were not just complicated medical jargon on a page. It was right there before my eyes on the screen.
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For days after the surgery, I leaned on others for literally everything. I kept thinking, “I’d never have gone through with this if I had known just how much it would take from me.” For someone so deeply independent, I struggled so much. Going through recovery was a hard thing. A very hard thing. When I remember that I endured all that pain for most of my life, I just want to hug ten-year-old me. She didn’t deserve to have her transition from girlhood to womanhood plagued by unimaginable pain. I’m choosing to believe that the procedure was wholly successful. I am refusing to dwell on the possibility of needing more procedures. For now, I heal.
A sad reality when women’s health remains without answers
It should not take this long. There is absolutely no reason why, in 2025, so much is unknown about the female body. It makes no sense to me that, despite all the seemingly impossible feats humans have accomplished, doctors still cannot give clear answers. They use “may” far more often than “is” when explaining the causes of these issues. The fact that many of the available treatments are not permanent fixes is maddening. Doctors even admit, “This could come back, even after surgery,” despite the procedures being incredibly invasive, painful, and nerve-wracking.
Facing the possibility of having several procedures over the years, just to have a semblance of what life feels like without pain, is exhausting. I think of many women who have been dismissed or called weak or dramatic. Those who never got an answer. Those who carry their pain in silence. You’re not unstable. It should not be this hard.
Read more: “I was always in distress during my period” – The painful reality of living with endometriosis
