The first organ I ever lost wasn’t taken by cancer. It was taken by a condition that affects up to 90% of Black women, something that too many people still dismiss as “just bad periods”. By the time I underwent a total hysterectomy, I wasn’t looking for a miracle. I was looking for relief.
For years, I lived with submucosal uterine fibroids — a particularly disruptive type of fibroid that grows into the uterine cavity. They stole my energy through relentless blood loss, dictated my calendar with irregular bleeding, and forced me to plan my life around a body that appeared determined to betray me.
Like so many Black women, I accepted far too much pain before realizing that what I was experiencing wasn’t normal.
When people hear the word “fibroids”, they often consider a common gynaecological condition that causes inconveniently heavy periods. But for millions of Black women, fibroids are far more than an inconvenience. They are a chronic health condition that can derail careers, damage relationships, affect fertility, and significantly diminish quality of life.
Though my story is personal, it reflects a much larger public health crisis.
An estimated 80 to 90% of Black women will develop uterine fibroids by age 50, compared with roughly 70% of white women. Black women also tend to develop fibroids a decade earlier, experience larger tumors, and are significantly more likely to undergo hysterectomy because of severe symptoms. Yet despite the prevalence of fibroids, research into why these disparities exist and how to better prevent and treat them has lagged behind the need.
The statistics are staggering, but they don’t wholly capture what it means to live inside a body that constantly feels like it’s working against you. For me, every month became an exercise in survival. Heavy bleeding wasn’t just uncomfortable: It was exhausting. The fatigue from chronic blood loss infiltrated every part of my life. Instead of living freely, I planned around my symptoms. I learned where every restroom was before an event. I carried extra clothes. I silently calculated whether I could make it through a meeting without an emergency.
So much of living with fibroids happens behind closed doors. That’s part of the problem. Black women have long been conditioned to normalize pain. We inherit stories from our mothers, grandmothers, aunts, and sisters about “bad periods” without realizing that many of those stories were actually stories of undiagnosed fibroids. We are encouraged to be strong rather than supported. In fact, strength has become one of the most celebrated qualities of Black women. But strength should never require unnecessary suffering. Resilience should not be mistaken for consent to inadequate healthcare.
Too often, our symptoms are minimized. Heavy bleeding is dismissed as “just part of being a woman.” Debilitating cramps become “something to manage.” Persistent pelvic pain is treated as routine. Meanwhile, fibroids continue to grow and become more disruptive. Research increasingly points to a mixture of genetic, hormonal, environmental, and social components that contribute to the disproportionate burden Black women experience. Scientists are also investigating the effect of environmental exposures, chronic stress, and structural disparities in healthcare. While no single explanation accounts for the disparity, one thing is clear: Biology alone cannot explain the difference. Access to medical care, delayed diagnosis, implicit bias, and decades of underinvestment in women’s health research all play a role.
Fibroids cost women time at work, economic security, mental well-being, and sometimes the opportunity to preserve their fertility. They affect intimate relationships and self-image, and they often force difficult medical decisions.
When conservative treatments are no longer enough, hysterectomy often becomes the only permanent solution. That was my reality.
Although I knew surgery would end the pain, it also meant grieving the loss of my fertility. Even though I knew I had made the right medical decision for myself, I felt a combination of relief, grief, and other unexpected emotions. I wish more people would talk about that.
I wish more people understood that a hysterectomy is rarely someone’s first choice. Many people spend years trying medications, hormonal therapies, myomectomies, uterine artery embolization, or other treatments before deciding on a hysterectomy.
In recent years, the National Institutes of Health has increased its investments in research focused specifically on the racial disparities surrounding uterine fibroids. These efforts seek to explain why Black women bear such a disproportionate burden and to develop more effective, less invasive treatments.
But research alone isn’t enough. We need physicians who listen. We need earlier diagnoses. We need culturally informed care. We need employers who recognize that reproductive health conditions affect workplace participation. And we need Black women to know that suffering in silence is not a requirement for strength.
Looking back, I wish I had understood sooner that my pain deserved investigation rather than endurance. I wish someone had told me that leaking through pads every hour wasn’t “normal.” I wish conversations about fibroids had been as common in my community as conversations about high blood pressure or diabetes. Most of all, I wish Black women didn’t have to fight so hard to be believed.
My hysterectomy gave me my life back. It also gave me a voice. If sharing my experience encourages another woman to ask questions, seek a second opinion, or refuse to accept debilitating pain as normal, then this journey has meaning beyond my own healing.
Black women deserve more than being told to endure. We deserve answers, investment, and for our pain to be believed the first time we say it hurts.
SOURCE: THE OVERREACH MONITOR: A CATHOLICS FOR CHOICE WATCHDOG, by Nicole McCurdy, 5 August 2026.