I got my first period early, when I was 9 years old. It was long before any of my friends got theirs, and as a result took my mother and I by surprise. She had assured me that I wouldn’t start bleeding each month until I was older, 13 or 14 like she was.
The next two weeks were spent writhing with pain on the yellow tiles of my bathroom floor, disgusted by the thick blood that seemed to flow from me endlessly. My back ached sharply and constantly with pain that I sometimes felt so deeply it penetrated my chest. When I dragged myself out of bed, I was scared my legs would give out.
This is the first of many painful episodes I would later make sense of as endometriosis.
Endometriosis is a chronic condition in which tissue, similar to uterine lining, grows outside of the uterus. This causes lesions and scarring to form most commonly in the pelvic area. Still, there have also been documented cases of endometriosis found in the lungs, diaphragm, and in one extremely rare instance, the brain.
Well-known symptoms of endometriosis include chronic pelvic pain, heavy periods, bloating, pain with penetrative sex,and infertility. Less common symptoms include bowel issues and urinary issues. These are the ‘it’s just a bad period’ class of symptoms that see women and gender minorities’ very real concerns often dismissed until their pain becomes sufficiently disabling to warrant further investigation.
Endometriosis is also a very common disease, affecting approximately one in seven people with uteruses (and occasionally people without them too — endometriosis can recur even after a hysterectomy). Despite this, there is no known cause, no cure and no way to prevent it. The average time period between the onset of symptoms and receipt of diagnosis is six to eight years.
This is caused by structural medical misogyny, where women and gender minorities’ voices are dismissed by doctors and their pain minimised. The gender research gap exacerbates this problem, with General Practitioners (GPs) and even gynaecologists often having outdated or incomplete knowledge about women’s health conditions. The only option for definitive diagnosis is a laparoscopic surgery, which is invasive and expensive. It’s not even curative — the endometriosis lesions they cut out will probably grow back. As a result, people often spend years in limbo, waiting on a diagnosis and trying to manage their symptoms with blunt instruments like the contraceptive pill.
The overreliance on hormonal birth control in the treatment of endometriosis is complicated. Many women, including myself, rely on various forms of hormonal birth control to maintain a functional quality of life. I know that without my IUD, I would be frequently incapacitated by flare-ups.
I started taking hormonal birth control when I was 14. The preceding three years of heavy periods, each over a fortnight in duration, that left me anaemic, anxious, and frequently physically incapacitated from cramping and back pain. I was prescribed a combined oral contraceptive pill, Evelyn, with the promise of a lighter flow and reduced pain.
In the years that followed, I’ve switched pills once, had surgery for endometriosis twice, seen three gynecologists of varying quality and had a hormonal Mirena IUD inserted into my uterus. In desperation, I tried everything from diet changes to yoga and supplements, less because I believed they’d work, and more because I had run out of options.
Some alternative remedies helped manage symptoms or boost my overall health, but the most effective interventions were those backed by conventional medicine. Since my second surgery and IUD, I’ve been free from the disabling period pain that defined the decade before. I know this isn’t the end — many need ongoing surgeries as endometriosis returns. There’s no simple fix, but after years of being dismissed, receiving real treatment felt almost curative.
My experience shapes how I view hormonal birth control and other conventional treatments for gynaecological pain. While they can help, that belief is in constant tension with the negligent — and at times traumatising — care I’ve received.
My first prescription for the pill was presented as a complete solution, even though I remained clearly symptomatic. When it stopped working and my pain worsened, I had to fight for further care. I was offered only opioid painkillers, to be used sparingly due to addiction risks — despite the fact my pain was chronic and constant.
One particular gynaecologist, who only begrudgingly agreed to perform the laparoscopic surgery used to diagnose endometriosis after months of tearful requests and stern advocacy from my mother, refused to perform the second part of the surgery despite having my consent to do so and it being considered routine. After the surgery, he failed to inform me of a uterine abnormality that would later be discovered by a different, far better doctor, falsely reassuring me that “everything is absolutely normal”.
This experience is disastrously common. Women and gender minorities are repeatedly and painfully failed by medical institutions.
Only recently has the government begun funding endometriosis research. The 2024 National Action Plan for Endometriosis revealed that two-thirds of women face healthcare discrimination. A promised $500 million in funding, largely thanks to pressure from Greens-led inquiries, is welcome, but overdue.
This recent spotlight on medical misogyny and the chronic under-resourcing of research into conditions affecting women and gender minorities is obviously a welcome departure from the previous status quo, where menstruation and period pain were taboos women were told to just get over. But increasing funding and visibility is only part of the solution.
So much of medical misogyny is perpetrated by individual interactions with doctors and other medical professionals, and compounded by how our society fails to aptly grapple with gendered pain. Being labelled as ‘hysterical’ or a ‘drama queen’ by medical professionals deters women from seeking treatment that could alleviate their pain, drawing out diagnostic processes unnecessarily by years.
Even once you have a diagnosis, complete with surgical scars and whatever prescription your gynaecologist sent you on your way with, it is deeply traumatising to navigate the world with endometriosis. There’s a persistent fear that employers or teachers will understand your diagnosis not as a chronic illness but as merely a bad period, making it harder to take sick leave. Male friends and relatives often underestimate just how disabling flare-ups can be, and men can be dismissive of (and sadly, sometimes downright angry over) how painful endometriosis and the associated gynaecological conditions can make sex and intimacy.
Even with a diagnosis, endometriosis remains misunderstood. It’s often dismissed as a ‘bad period’ but its impact runs far deeper.
It isolates you not just from others, but from yourself. Many with chronic gynaecological pain don’t identify as disabled, even when their lives are deeply disrupted. For women and gender minorities, already alienated from their bodies by misogyny, chronic pain intensifies that disconnection.
As a cis woman, I often resent my anatomy for causing pain and for being a site of oppression. That tension makes it hard to name this as a disability, even when it clearly is.
This isn’t a hopeful ending, but it’s honest: pain is personal and political. More research and treatment are vital, but without addressing structural misogyny, they’re not enough. We need to believe and listen to those who live with it.
