"Knowing My Body Saved Me": What Fibroids Taught Me About Speaking Up

By Alliss Hardy

I was a proud recent graduate of Clark Atlanta University, and I was terrified. The night before

my scheduled myomectomy, a surgery to remove uterine fibroids, the doctor called with

devastating news: they’d have to remove my uterus.

No children. No plans for any. But that night, the choice was being taken from me.

My mom and I were stunned. We were already anxious about the procedure, but now I was

being forced to make a life-altering decision with no time, no emotional preparation, and very

few answers.

The first time we ever heard the word fibroids was from a white male Resident OB-Gyn and the

female Indian Attending, confirmed by another white male Attending physician after yet another

uncomfortable vaginal exam. I remember sitting up frozen, the word sounding foreign and

dangerous. Was it cancer? Would I need chemo? Was I dying? The doctor gave no immediate

clarification. Just silence. Then a brief, dismissive explanation.

This was my introduction to what we now call systemic racism. The docs showered me with

questions about my alleged sexual promiscuity, as if that were the cause of my fibroids. Endless

questions about the kids I didn’t have, if I wanted more, and completely dismissed my LGBTQ

identity. No, I don’t have kids! Do I want them? Now I think I do... but why do I have to decide

now?

The doctors spent maybe ten minutes with us—barely looking up from my chart and only

consulting with each other. It felt like I was just another patient on a schedule, another body to

move along. No one cared that I didn’t understand what was happening inside me. As a young

woman, while educated, no one asked how I felt or considered me and my wants or desires.

Then they tossed out a birth control prescription like it was a bandage.

Let me take you back. It was the year 2000. I was a teenager, missing school again... this time

due to unbearable menstrual pain that no pill could touch. I bled through pads in under an hour

and tampons weren’t an option. My body always rejected them anyway. My mom, watching

helplessly, booked an appointment at our Medicaid home place of health care, Denver Health.

That visit ended with vague language about my “hormones” and it being normal, was a

prescription for birth control pills and ibuprofen. I followed instructions because I didn’t know any better. Unfortunately, neither did my mom. Clearly she hadn’t been through this before. I tried to take the pills daily, but often forgot. Then they recommended the Depo-Provera shot. I agreed, because it felt easier than managing pills everyday.

Fast forward: I spent most of my college career unknowingly suffering from fibroids. How would I know. I had NO period, no symptoms, no nothing. The Depo shot had stopped my cycle, so

clearly the symptoms stayed hidden. When my school clinic couldn’t provide it, I didn’t think anything of it. But the pain roared back with a vengeance. A vengeance my college friends and

professors couldn’t understand. But I managed to stay in class, wear the pads and move

forward like women always have to do.

But this time, on my school break, I had an appointment for my annual checkup where they did

a vaginal exam. The doctor felt something. Called in another doc to feel to see if they felt the

same thing. Uncomfortable. Absolutely. Did I let it happen? For sure. They are doctors, they

know better than me right.... A vaginal ultrasound was requested and confirmed: fibroids. The

recommendation? Surgery.

I agreed. What choice did I have? Doctor knows best.

Then came the call, the night before surgery. My fibroids were too large. They said they wouldn’t

be able to save my uterus. A hysterectomy was the only option.

I broke down in tears. I told the doctor I needed time to think.

She told me to come in for my surgery time anyway and we’d talk in person.

I cried for hours that night. Not because I had always dreamed of motherhood—but because

that dream, that possibility, was suddenly being stripped from me. I kept thinking, Was this my

fault? Had I spoken this into existence by saying I wasn’t ready for kids? Was this my

punishment for wanting control over my own timeline?

My mom called the next person closest to me, my grandpa. HBCU grad, former NFL player, with

all knowledge and access to care. We were perplexed. None of us were ready to let go of that

choice. The choice legacy, Black excellence, living on from my body.

So we got a second opinion. Then a third.

And thank God I did. Thank God for my family. Thank God for advocacy. Thank God for

someone speaking up when your voice is stifled and small.

Instead of surgery, I went on medication. Eff those meds, they made me so sick (literally). Thank

goodness the meds successfully shrank the fibroids. About 6mo later, I underwent a procedure

that removed three of them. Size comparison— grapefruit, orange, and lemon. My uterus was

still intact. Relief. Gratitude. Thanks Dr.

But the story didn’t end there.

3 years later. Twelve more fibroids grew back.

Another round of medication. This time, chemo pills. Another surgery. This time, they removed

all fibroids. And my uterus? Still here. Still whole.

Today, I’m 41. No, I still have no children from my body and a diminished egg reserve. Thanks

meds (side eye). But that’s a conversation for another day.

Why am I sharing this?

Because knowing my body saved me. Because asking questions saved me. Because speaking

up saved me.

Because Black women are too often dismissed, misdiagnosed, and silenced in medical settings.

Because our pain is too often normalized, minimized, or ignored altogether.

We are told to take the pills.

Told not to ask too many questions.

Told we’re overreacting.

But we deserve more.

We deserve providers who listen.

We deserve full explanations—not rushed appointments.

We deserve to understand our own bodies.

We deserve the option to say yes.

The power to say no.

The time to say, “I need to think.”

Fibroids are not a one-size-fits-all diagnosis. Birth control and surgery are not universal cures.

The truth is, no one even knows exactly why fibroids develop—especially in Black women, who

suffer from them at disproportionate rates.

And yet, we’re expected to quietly bleed through white pants, pay taxes on menstrual products

like they’re luxury items, and smile through the pain.

But I know better now.

And I want you to know too:

Know your body.

Trust your gut.

Speak up—even when it’s hard.

Your body.

Your voice.

Your power.

Use them.