We Don’t Know—and We Don’t Care—about Women’s Bodies

I have been in pain for years. I gaslit myself—despite myself—into thinking I was broken.

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For the last five years, I have experienced chronic pain. Pelvic pain, specifically. It has been intractable. Ever since the birth of my daughter, in 2019, my body has been protesting—sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly. I think of pain as a bodily imperative—a “make it stop” state that asks, even begs, for relief. I have sought such relief in numerous ways, for years, from umpteen doctors and physical therapists. I had all but given up, and wrote off my body as being broken.

Then the symptoms got worse. I knew I had to do something.

This week, I finally managed to stumble upon the right specialist. Both she and her nurse were humane, warm, and friendly. I felt comfortable throughout the appointment, despite the inevitably personal nature of many of their questions and the tests and physical examination. Forty-five minutes later, I heard words that made me feel sane, and heard, and cared for: I had my diagnosis.