This is my experience with endometriosis, fibroids, and the long road to diagnosis and recovery—including how the idea for Really Nice Tea began.
It’s personal and a little raw. But if this reaches just one person who feels less alone in their experience, the vulnerability hangover I’ll almost definitely get from sharing it will be worth it.
Women’s health deserves more attention, more funding, and far more compassion. This is my small contribution to the conversation.
The early signs
I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t feel bloated or self-conscious about my stomach. As a young teen, I carried what I thought was ‘extra’ weight around my middle. I told myself it was just ‘puppy fat’ — something I’d grow out of.
The first time someone asked if I was pregnant, I was 18 and travelling in Thailand. A market stall vendor smiled at me, gestured to my bloated stomach, and asked, “You have a baby?” An already self-conscious teen, I prayed the ground would swallow me whole. Instead I just smiled, shook my head and walked away.
Throughout my teens and early twenties, I had more “I don't have anything to wear, I’m not going out” meltdowns than I could count. At the time, they were brushed off as me just being ‘hormonal’ or a ‘moody’ teenager. I look back now and could cry for that young girl who felt so uncomfortable in her own skin. I used to shop in the Topshop maternity range just to find styles that hid my stomach. I was so self-conscious about wearing form-fitting clothes that I convinced myself they just weren’t my style — all the while feeling jealous of my friends who confidently wore belly tops and low-slung jeans. (I should say, this was the late ’90s / early 2000s — none of us stood a chance against the fat-shaming media.)
The struggle for answers
I was 10 when I got my period. I don’t really remember much about those early years, but by my teens, they were heavy and painful. I can still feel the embarrassment of leaking through my trackies onto a (male) friend's sofa. I must have been 13 or 14.
I also struggled with digestion issues. I have memories of lying on the floor in agony after dinner — or sometimes after not eating at all — clutching my swollen stomach (which, at times, really did look like I was six months pregnant).
I saw doctors in the UK who suggested the usual IBS treatments — gluten-free, dairy-free, no onion, no garlic (the list was endless). When I moved to Sydney in 2014, I saw naturopaths, kinesiologists, and psychologists. They all supported me in different ways, but nothing fully explained my symptoms.
For over a decade, I battled bloating, pain, exhaustion, and the frustration of endless trial-and-error treatments. Not finding answers was stressful — and that stress led to more bloating, more pain, more exhaustion. And so the cycle continued.
A breakthrough
A friend recommended an integrative GP based in Sydney. Over a three-month period, she suggested massage, acupuncture, meditation, yoga, and herbal supplements. She also ordered gut microbiome testing, which revealed I had SIBO (Small Intestine Bacterial Overgrowth), low digestive enzymes, and deficiencies in B12 and zinc—likely due to poor absorption caused by an imbalance in the gut.
We began an intensive gut-healing protocol, including herbal treatments and medical antibiotics. I was taking up to 12 different powders, tablets, and liquids every day. It was Christmas 2020—an already stressful time for everyone. I was feeling incredibly overwhelmed, but I was willing to try anything—and after a few weeks, my symptoms finally started to improve.
Then, out of nowhere, a severe four-day flare-up landed me back in the GP’s office. She suspected we were still missing something and sent me for an ultrasound.
The diagnosis
The first gynaecologist I saw lacked the empathy (read: any empathy) I so desperately needed. A few days later, by some miracle, I was reading Samantha Wills’ Of Gold and Dustthe—chapter where she shares the name of her surgeon—Dr. Haryun Won, describing her as “thoughtful, informative and calm.” I made an appointment that same day.
Samantha was right. Dr. Won was kind, understanding, and thorough. She sent me for another ultrasound, which confirmed two very large fibroids were growing in the outer wall of my uterus. Surgery was pretty much a non-negotiable. Without it, the fibroids would continue to grow, causing more pain, more discomfort—and possible complications if I ever tried to fall pregnant.
I finally had an answer. The years of pain, bloating, and discomfort weren’t just in my head.
I was booked in for surgery 10 weeks later.
The surgery
The day of the surgery, Sydney was still in lockdown. My partner could only drop me off at the hospital doors. I felt scared, but I knew I was in good hands.
I still don’t know exactly how long the surgery took. The last thing I remembered before the anaesthesia was the cold of the metal bed beneath me in the operating theatre. I woke up as I was being wheeled through the corridors to my room. I was out of it for most of the evening and don’t remember much from that first night in the hospital. Dr Won had called my partner to let him know how it went and he then made the rounds, letting friends and family know that I was ok.
Visiting me the following morning, Dr Won told me that they had successfully removed not two fibroids but one very large fibroid measuring a whopping 18 x 10 cm (think: roughly the size of your average fiction book) and weighing 800 grams (think roughly a large bag of sugar). She also said that she had found endometriosis on both ovaries and the back of my uterus, along with signs of adenomyosis. The good news? All my tests came back normal—no signs of cancer. The relief!
She was incredible and sat with me while I cried (read: sobbed uncontrollably) as the overwhelm of what I’d just been through began to sink in. The crying didn’t stop there—no one warned me that my hormones would be totally out of whack and I’d find myself with tears pouring down my face, often mid-sentence with a nurse, without even realising it was happening.
The recovery
Recovery was slow. I couldn’t have visitors due to Covid restrictions. I spent four nights in hospital—partly because they had to check I could walk by myself and go to the bathroom, but mostly because I didn’t want to leave. I felt incredibly vulnerable, and something about being surrounded by nurses and having pain relief on tap felt more comforting than going home and having to manage it all myself.
When I did get home, I couldn’t do much. I tried to make a cup of tea and couldn’t lift the kettle (next time you make a cup of tea, notice how much you use your stomach muscles to lift—wild!). I was in full recovery mode—not drinking, avoiding too much gluten and sugar to reduce inflammation—and so, partly to support my recovery and partly just because it tasted good, I started treating myself to all sorts of different types of herbal teas. It was winter in Sydney, and a hot cup of tea just felt so soothing for my sore, tired body. In hindsight, this was almost certainly the point where the idea for Really Nice Tea started brewing (excuse the pun!).
Dr Won had impressed on me the importance of going for a gentle walk daily. Even short distances felt impossible at first, and the stairs were a nightmare. But as with anything, it just took time. I spent days lying on my living room floor in the sunshine, reading and sleeping. Friends dropped off flowers, books, and treats—small gestures that meant everything.
After a few weeks of rest, I started to feel better physically. But after 15+ years of suffering—finally getting my diagnosis and the surgery that (I hoped) would ease some of that discomfort—I completely underestimated the emotional toll the whole process would take. There were lots of tears, sometimes expected, sometimes not. And in many ways, I’m still processing.
I still experience very heavy, painful periods, bloating, and low energy—although less often now—and I’m learning how to manage my endometriosis and adenomyosis day to day. But in a strange way, having a diagnosis helps. There’s something about the recognition, the understanding, the empathy—the simple fact that my suffering wasn’t all in my head—that brings a sense of relief. These are lifelong conditions we have to learn to live with, but a diagnosis gives us a place to start.
What needs to change
I believe we need more research, more funding, and more medical understanding for women’s health. We need better diagnosis methods and more support for those living with these conditions every day.
If you feel like something’s not right in your body, don’t ignore it. You know yourself better than anyone else.
Really Nice Tea is my small contribution to this bigger mission—to raise awareness of women’s bodies by encouraging us to slow down, tune in, and honour the changes we feel throughout our cycles. Because the more we notice, the more we know—and the more we can advocate for ourselves.