“Do you experience pain when you ovulate?” The ultrasound looked at me inquisitively and seemed surprised when I started to chuckle. The laugh wasn’t about laughing at her, rather it was amazement that she was trained to see things inside my uterus differently and something that she saw indicated I might be experiencing ovulation pain. Still not understanding what she was seeing or what prompted the question, I responded to her by letting her know that indeed I experienced pain when I ovulated–in fact, the pain was so excruciating, it almost always took my breath away. As an afterthought I mentioned, “it’s way worse when I ovulate from my left ovary.” She simply nodded her head and made a note on her chart. 

I didn’t think much of it–I likened it to experiences with my acupuncturist who seemed to be a mind reader. He would stick a needle somewhere or feel my pulse in my wrist and ask me a question about myself that he already knew the answer to. It always amazed me how accurate he was. I assumed the same thing was happening.

Three weeks later, during another transvaginal ultrasound, this time with the surgeon I was consulting with, I was asked that question again: “do you experience pain when you ovulate?” I repeated my answer, and she, too, nodded her head and made a note in the chart. 

Ten minutes later, seated in her office, I asked her why she had inquired about ovulation pain. Still not fully grasping the size of the fibroids in my body, my surgeon told me that the fibroid placement in my uterus was such that they were sitting up high, closer to my fallopian tubes. This, she explained, was why I didn’t experience heavy, painful periods (which are one of the most common symptoms of fibroids).

The surgeon then used her hands to show the size of the fibroids: a large lemon and a newborn baby-head. I mechanically nodded along as puzzle pieces began to fit together in my mind. My understanding around the pain I experienced during ovulation was finally making sense given the size and where the fibroids were located.

***

A long time ago I came across an article somewhere that said some women can feel when they ovulate, including some women who experienced slight pain. I found it fascinating when I read that because I immediately resonated. At the time, while the pain wasn’t nearly as excruciating as it was leading up to my hysterectomy, I wondered why I experienced so much pain and cramping when I ovulated. I expected it when I was menstruating, not when I was ovulating. The brief statement in the article helped it to make sense. 

What I glossed over, however, was the word “slight”. 

My gauge for pain was already way off because of fundamentalism and the elevation of suffering. “Slight” pain for me would have been how I would have described it when I fractured my wrist and then sprained it on top of the fracture. Or when I had severe period cramps coupled with intense migraines. I didn’t consider them incredibly painful though; never once did I take time off or even let off the gas pedal for my pace of life despite how poorly I felt around “that time of the month”. So I figured the pain I experienced when I ovulated was “slight”.

I began to wonder how many other things in my life I had written off as slight–both physical and emotional pain. It took me nearly a decade to realize the immense amount of narcissistic and spiritual abuse I experienced from a former pastor of mine and how much I suffered as a result. Being abused by him was, instead, called being pruned and refined–especially since it was from a spiritual authority.  

For years I didn’t deal with the heartbreak and pain of being cheated on by my first love–the man I envisioned marrying; the pain reared its ugly head when I was cheated on again a decade later. Emotional pain led to physical pain but I had ignored it because I thought God was punishing me for my sins or for making an “idol” out of desiring a husband. 

Or the immense pain I experienced as a result of extreme digestive issues–my doctor’s only solution: take a stimulant laxative every day for the rest of my life. For nearly 7 years I suffered severe stomach cramping and needed to be close to a bathroom for the first half of each day. 

I never registered these things as suffering or pain. At best, I could recognize the pain as “slight”--but never something enough to cause me to pause. Never enough to make me question if what I was enduring was normal. 

But then there was the pain–immense pain–I endured in almost every sexual experience. Pain so excruciating that I sometimes thought I would vomit. Pain that made me wish I was asexual and aromantic. I loved so many parts of being physically connected to another human, but when the “end result” would lead to penetrative sex, the pain made all of the pleasure disappear. But I powered through…because I believed that was what I was supposed to do. I was told many women experienced pain or discomfort during sex–which meant that I was just “one of many women.”

It wasn’t until I had penetrative sex with a partner where, for some reason (or probably many), our bodies fit together in such a way that no pain was experienced, that I even realized sex without pain was possible. 

I then started to realize that my pain wasn’t “slight”. There had to be something wrong. 

More foreplay. Different lube. Switching positions. New partners.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. 

Maybe it was stress. I’ve had so many big things going on over the last several years–maybe my body was too burnt out to allow for things like sexual pleasure. 

The pain remained. 

Maybe it was past sexual trauma or purity culture. I had done so much trauma resolution work and recovered from the things that happened and all I had been taught. I wondered if maybe there was still something my body was holding onto?

The pain remained.

Maybe it was hormones–the doctors said I was too young to be going through perimenopause, but the symptoms were there. 

The pain remained. 

Maybe it was the IUD? Maybe it was misplaced, or my body was adjusting to it, or certain positions would just not be comfortable with an IUD and partnered sex. 

My symptoms were dismissed and the pain remained. 

***

By the time that I drove home from my surgical consult in January, I was starting to dip my toe into the understanding of the magnitude of what was happening–both physically in regard to the size of the fibroids and the necessary treatment options as well as the recognition that fibroids of that size meant damage. And not “slight” damage. 

I’ve had what I call “mystery symptoms” for many years. Symptoms that have no obvious origin, that doctors look confused over and no amount of cleanses, detoxes, medicine, regimens, new diets, alternative care, trauma resolution, exercise, or body-acceptance touched.  

I mentioned something about my upcoming hysterectomy to my “close friends” on Instagram and a long-time friend immediately replied saying she wondered if this would “solve” the mystery symptoms I had for nearly a decade. She knew the struggles I had gone through and her curiosity became the permission I needed to consider if all my mystery symptoms were somehow connected to the fibroids. 

I wanted to balance this possibility with careful consideration. I didn’t want to assume that everything was tied to my fibroids but I also wanted to leave the door open that perhaps everything was tied to my fibroids. I realized, however, that trying to find research and medical opinions for every one of my symptoms and its potential connection to fibroids was not the best use of my time. 

Instead, I told myself that I needed to simply be curious.

***

As I laid in bed the night after my surgical consult, I felt a familiar back pain start to set in. It was something I had felt for many years but believed it was the result of over-working my body, sitting too much, not stretching, poor posture—or a whole host of other things. And to be certain, all of this could have contributed. 

But on that night, with my intention of curiosity guiding the way, I set my attention to the area of pain and simply noticed it. I realized that the pain felt like I had a softball in my lower back and hip area with pain radiating outward—as if the pain had a nuclease and everything emanated from there. It dawned on me that the pain nuclease was right at the spot where the larger of the two fibroids were located in my uterus.

Later, as I was practicing slowing down and becoming more attuned and aware of how my body was feeling, I realized that there was a dull band of pain that ran all the way across my lower back. It was the pain that, if I sat too long on certain surfaces, would begin to radiate, grow hot and begin shooting up my back. This was a pain-experience that had doctors stumped and confused, giving me answers ranging from taking ibuprofen, to reducing stress, to practicing better posture, to getting a standing desk because sitting for long periods of time was so painful.

***

Early on in my career as a therapist, I was introduced to the work of Mark Nepo; he wrote a book called “The Book of Awakening”. Each day is a different reading and a mindfulness or reflective practice to engage in. Often he talked about pain and suffering–he was my first introduction to thinking about pain and suffering in a different way. Initially his suggestion that pain was a bridge between the inner and outer world–a messenger that told us what needed more support, reinforcement, and attention–seemed audacious to me. I believed that pain needed to be powered through. But I was interested in learning and growing so I considered his ideas and began engaging in some of his reflective practices. 

At some point, one of his readings suggested that the “key” to dealing and healing pain was to lean into it. He recognized this was counter intuitive and even rebellious. I liked rebellion and so I began my practice of leaning in rather than resisting.

An analogy I use with my clients is that of a Chinese finger trap. It seems simple enough. A hollow woven straw tube; on each end has a hole where the pointer finger from each hand is placed. The goal is simple: remove your fingers. Intuitively, the person with the finger trap (usually) tries to yank their fingers out with force, gusto, and quickness. They are dismayed that this only leads to the finger trap becoming tighter around the fingers. Now panicked, the individual tends to pull harder, even stretching the finger trap out, but with each forced tug, the trap gets tighter and tighter. 

Though it is counter intuitive, the key to the Chinese finger trap is to lean your fingers in toward one another and slowly remove one finger at a time. Resistance makes the trap tighter; leaning in ultimately gets us free. 

I believe the same is true with pain.

I resisted pain for such a long time. There were many reasons for this: spiritual bypassing, not having a model for knowing how to deal with pain, admonishment from spiritual authorities that a focus on pain or not being joyful about my suffering meant I wasn’t a faithful believer. I resisted pain because society and medicine told me that’s what I was supposed to do; research is clear that women who express pain and health concerns are less likely to be taken seriously and often have to advocate much harder in medical settings than males. Not being taken seriously was, of course, my experience which made it easy to buy into cultural ideas of pain resistance.

In my desire to ignore and resist feeling the pain, the pain became bigger, more intense, and more present.

Leaning into the pain forced me to be accurate and honest about the things that happened, including my own part in my pain when that was the case (another great concept I learned from Mark Nepo!) Leaning in is what helped me realize my trauma, the abuse I had endured, and the way it impacted me. Leaning in is what helped me learn how to feel and process emotions. Leaning in helped me navigate the discomfort and fear of relationships so that I could be connected to others. 

Leaning in was the thing that always worked for me.

***

After making the decision to have a hysterectomy (more on how that came about in a future episode) I committed to myself and my body that I would listen, with hyper-attunement, to every cue and signal my body was giving me. I lamented that even in my attempt to practice embodiment on a daily basis, there were so many moments that I glossed over, ignored the needs of my body, and silenced the innate cues that clued me in to what was going on inside. I had roughly two months between making my surgical decision and the day of surgery to practice listening.

The final time I ovulated while I still had a uterus, I let myself lean into every ounce of pain that my body felt.

So when my breath was taken away from the excruciating pain of ovulating, I both reminded myself to keep breathing as well as letting the breath move toward the pain.

When I began cramping, I allowed myself time to lay down–it turns out my desire to bulldoze through this experience in the past covered up dull, lingering pain that lasted for hours and indicated that I needed some Aleve, a heating pad, and a break.

When my migraines came, I slowed down and closed my eyes instead of searching for more tasks to do and cross off my list.

I realized that I was seeing, experiencing, and feeling new emotions and sensations by simply listening to my body. And then I began to weep. It was a grief-relief sandwich: my body felt so much relief to be listened to and acknowledged. But in that relief came grief for the understanding that in nearly three decades, my survival mechanism of silencing pain was like the resistance of the Chinese finger trap. It didn’t go away; it only got bigger.

I wasn’t trying to be a glutton for punishment or someone who was finding enjoyment in pain. Rather, I wanted to honor the cues that my body had been giving me; I wanted to listen to the messages she had been screaming that something wasn’t right. For so many years I had pushed through the pain, silenced it, and made myself believe that it was all in my head and I needed to just get over it. But I couldn’t do that anymore. My body had been telling me, for years, that something was wrong and I had mis-taken its cues as a nuisance and even though I only had one more time left to listen, I wanted to be sure that I did.

***

Stay tuned for the next episode of The “Glory” of Suffering! To access missed episodes (or to re-read them) click here!