This isn’t just a blog post.
It’s a love letter. A rage cry. A truth bomb.
It’s what happens when a Black woman is pushed too far by a system that was never designed to care for her.

I’m sharing my story not because it’s unique—but because it’s not. Because so many of us are walking around with silent wounds from reproductive trauma, and nobody talks about it. We just carry it. We just survive. And I’m tired of surviving in silence.

This is for every woman who’s ever wondered if what she went through was “normal.”
This is for every Black woman whose pain was ignored.
This is for you.

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My Reproductive History – A Journey Through Pain and Powerlessness

For years, I was on the birth control shot. It was easy—until my doctor explained the long-term risks. So we decided to switch to an IUD. It felt like the smart choice: long-lasting, low-maintenance, and no more three-month appointments.

But when she tried to insert it, something was wrong. She couldn’t get into my cervix. Scar tissue from an earlier colposcopy—a procedure I had to remove pre-cancerous cells—was blocking the way. That colposcopy had already been traumatic. It left more than scar tissue.

So I had to be put under anesthesia to have my cervix dilated just to get the IUD placed. After the procedure, they told me the pain would be mild. A few days later, I knew something wasn’t right. The pain didn’t let up.

After an ultrasound and an X-ray, I got the real answer: the IUD had perforated my uterus. It wasn’t in the right place. It was in my abdominal cavity.

Now, I need another surgery to have it removed.

And now I still don’t know what I’m going to do for birth control.

What I do know? I’m tired. Tired of the pain. Tired of the lies. Tired of how normal this kind of trauma has become.

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Why Is This Always So Damn Hard?

Black women’s bodies have always been used—studied, tested, ignored.

The so-called “father of gynecology,” J. Marion Sims, performed brutal surgeries on enslaved Black women without anesthesia. Anarcha. Lucy. Betsey. They were treated like lab rats. That history isn’t ancient—it’s the foundation of modern medicine. And it still shows up in the way Black women are treated today.

We’re still fighting to be believed when we say we’re in pain. We’re still managing birth control in relationships—while men have the privilege of “pulling out” and no consequences. We’re still enduring pills, patches, implants, mood swings, weight changes, blood clots—all to avoid pregnancy. Pregnancy we’d be expected to carry, care for, and be judged for either way.

And that’s not all:

• Pap smears and mammograms? Violent and violating.
• Periods? Monthly blood, cramps, fatigue, and shame.
• PCOS. Fibroids. Endometriosis. Menopause. Pain that goes undiagnosed for years—if it gets diagnosed at all.

This isn’t just inconvenience. It’s systemic. It’s cultural. It’s criminal how much pain we’re taught to accept as “just part of being a woman.”

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The Psychological Toll – When the Body Keeps Score

So what does that pain do to us?

It wears us down. Breaks us in places we don’t talk about. Our mental health suffers under the weight of our biology, our history, and this damn healthcare system.

We carry trauma from our own bodies and from our ancestors. Medical abuse. Pregnancy loss. Birth trauma. Childbirth fears. All of it lives inside us. And for Black women, it’s layered with the stress of racism, poverty, and social judgment.

We’re 3 to 4 times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women.
We’re more likely to have high blood pressure, autoimmune disease, fibroids.
We’re more likely to be misdiagnosed, undertreated, or ignored.

And through it all, we’re told to be strong. Be resilient. Be grateful. Keep going.

But we’re not machines. We’re human.

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A Love Letter to Women—Especially Black Women

To every woman who’s had to explain her pain just to be heard—
To every Black woman who’s been strong for so long she forgot what rest feels like—
To the one crying in the car after a doctor’s visit, or holding her breath during another speculum exam—

This is for you.

You are not imagining it.
You are not overreacting.
You are not alone.

Your body deserves peace.
Your pain deserves attention.
Your story deserves to be told.

You don’t always have to be the strong one.
You don’t always have to hold it all together.
You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to say, “This is too much.”

You are not broken. You are not disposable.
You are a miracle.

So rest. Reclaim. Resist.
Say no. Say yes. Say whatever you need to say.

And if no one else tells you this today:

I see you. I hear you. I believe you. I am with you.