For years, I was told the pain was normal. That it was just part of being a woman. That I should push through it. So I did, I smiled through knife-like pain that radiated through my pelvis, through cramps so severe they doubled me over, through days when simply sitting or lying down felt unbearable. I learned to carry it quietly, to show up when my body was begging me to stop. What I didn't know then was that I had a name for what was happening to me, and that name was endometriosis.

The symptoms read like a list no one should have to live with. Pelvic pain that spikes without warning to the kind of intensity that takes your breath away. A deep, bruised aching around my uterus and ovaries that never fully disappears. Pain during bowel movements is so severe that it brings me to tears. Bloating that swells my abdomen until waistbands become unbearable. Episodes of nausea and dizziness so intense that I've nearly fainted. In a full cycle, I have roughly four pain-free days. Four. The rest belong to this disease. When I finally got answers, the findings confirmed what my body had been telling me for years: adenomyosis, endometriosis on the rectum, a uterus pulled out of position, an ovary tethered, and suspected Stage III–IV disease. This was never in my head. It was never an overreaction.

Four years ago, this disease took something from me that I will carry for the rest of my life. I lost twins at 20 weeks. There are no words adequate for that kind of grief, and for a long time, I had no framework for understanding why it happened. Endometriosis was part of that answer, and receiving it didn't bring relief so much as it brought a painful clarity. I had been dismissed and overlooked for so long, and that cost me more than I can put into words.

The emotional weight of living with this condition is its own kind of suffering. There were days I hesitated to say I was in pain again, worried the people I love most were tired of hearing it. Days I felt broken. Days I quietly grieved the version of myself that existed before the pain became my constant companion. That kind of silent self-minimizing, sustained over years, leaves a mark that goes deeper than any scan can show.

What pulls me forward is my son, Emery. Motherhood has reframed everything, including what I'm willing to fight for. Every day I show up for him, even on the hard ones, is a quiet act of defiance against everything this disease has tried to take from me. He deserves a mom who is present, healthy, and whole. And I deserve that too.

This surgery could genuinely change my quality of life, and for the first time, it feels possible. I am humbled by the generosity behind this, and I don't take it lightly. Any support through this GoFundMe goes directly toward making that surgery a reality. I carry this opportunity with the weight of every woman who has been dismissed, every mother who just wants to feel well enough to be there, and every person still waiting for someone to finally believe them. I am so grateful. And I am so ready.