The most challenging part of endometriosis hasn't been anything physical. It's been learning to accept that it's part of who I am now, and I'll never escape it. I have to live with it.

A lot of people talk about not allowing a disease or disability to "define" you. And that's a great thing. I don't want to limit myself before I try something because my body might choose to be a total asshat. (That's the best word I could think of to describe it, to  be honest.)

But at the same time, I don't want to do myself a disservice by not recognizing that yes, I do have limits, and yes, everyone does, and no, I'm not a sham of a feelgood, carpe diem millennial™, just because I don't have it in me to travel everywhere, remain in constant motion or commit to 90 different things like I used to force myself to do. 

This picture was taken during the 60 minutes I actually spent outside of my house on Friday.

I woke up that morning in a state of pain and fatigue I hadn't experienced in years. Knowing that working at the office was out of the question, I crawled to my home office and set up shop at my desk. But as I tried to compose emails and actually do my job, my heavy eyes began to close, and my body contorted as it tried to find a comfortable position.

I knew I was completely useless. I made it a whole two hours into work before messaging my boss that today just wasn't going to happen. I rarely call in sick, but on Friday... I just hadn't felt like that since before I was diagnosed with endometriosis.

Immediately, I went back to bed, only waking to put some food in my system and then go back to sleep. Despite painkillers and a heating pad, my whole body shuddered with pain, and I reached behind me to grab onto our non-existent headboard for support. What was going on?!

There was a brief respite around 5 p.m. when I left the house for a whole hour to attend an event I was obligated to be at. (And look how nicely I cleaned up!) But the whole time, I felt nauseous, and I hunched over where I stood, as my body tried to sort out every awful symptom.

I lasted there as long as I could before returning to my dark and cool bedroom, where bright lights wouldn't further irritate my pain.

Now a week later, I still have no idea what set off such a severe flare-up. Had I been in just a little more pain, I probably would have had to visit the hospital. When I was a kid and experienced early endometriosis symptoms, nothing but sleep would ever ease up my crippling pain that coursed through my entire body. That's how I felt on Friday - for the first time in years.

All of that is to say that, unsurprisingly, I haven't felt that great yesterday. I have a lot of things I wanted to pack into one blog post, but I thought I'd talk about just one of them for now.

As I've been dealing with abnormal amounts of pain and fatigue lately, it's been irritating to also deal with the list of things I have to do and my desire to actually get them done. My husband, Andrew has been amazing at picking up for my slack around the house while I sort my body out, but there are some things that I just have to do for myself.

Like, for example, put on my own makeup. Or dry my hair. Andrew is unfortunately useless in these departments.

These really shouldn't be difficult tasks. Neither should making my dinner or cleaning off the counters be such challenges. But what makes them so hard for me is the fact I have to stand in one place while my entire pelvis is on fire.

Moving around and walking honestly aren't as hard for me. I think it's why I can sometimes (but not recently, obviously) manage a work out, even if I've been hurting that day. But standing... nope. Can't be done.

After talking to my mom about this, she had the perfect suggestion, and I have no idea why I didn't think of it on my own. Mom, being a cancer patient, has the same issue with standing that I do. So to make it possible to get things done in the kitchen, she got a bar stool.

Immediately, I jumped onto Facebook Marketplace to see what I could find. And lo and behold, someone was giving away for free this poor abandoned bar chair!

Andrew drove off to rescue the chair and bring it back to our loving home. I don't think he quite understood initially why I needed it, but as always, he was willing to do what I needed to make myself feel better.

The chair - which I've affectionately named Tony for absolutely no reason whatsoever - is now stationed in my kitchen, ready to report for duty. So far, he's helped me put on makeup before my physical therapy appointment and make dinner last night. Knowing that I have a chair to support me makes it easier to even start these tasks when I'm in pain and when moving doesn't seem like a fun things to do.

I felt a little ridiculous needing a chair - at 25 years old - to do routine chores. But I got to a point where I just wasn't being productive anymore, and I didn't enjoy having to shout recipe instructions to Andrew from my place on the couch. I want to do these things myself. I want to take care of my home and enjoy making food and do my hair and makeup in the morning.

So if I want all of these things, I can't be too prideful anymore. I have to meet my body halfway. And I can't be ashamed of what it needs.

I won't need Tony every single day or every single week. But it's good to know that, like my actual supportive husband, he's here for me when I do need him.

Before I get into my stream of conscience, two things that might interest you. FIRST, a newsletter for those who want to read more of my writing outside of this blog or see what I'm reading this week. And SECOND, if you weren't already aware of it, another newsletter that sends updates from this blog to your email inbox.

Thank you for your time.

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As anyone with a chronic illness knows, taking care of yourself is exhausting. Whether it's the day-to-day wake up, drink coffee, shower, get dressed, drink additional coffee, or finding the energy to do things just because they're fun and you enjoy them, it's honestly tough. 

When you're fighting pain and fatigue, managing that becomes your priority - and rightfully so.

I've talked about the idea of self-care and taking time for yourself before, but I've found sort of a different approach to it. Rather than going out of my way to care for myself, I'm trying to find joy in my daily rituals.

I wake up in pain most days of the week. While I lay in bed until the last possible second, and my dog paws at my face, it's not always easy to motivate myself to face the morning. 

I mean, my limbs seriously can't move. Or at least not without causing more pain. And if I roll over and pull my heating pad off the floor, the warmth will quickly lull me back to sleep before I have a chance to rebound from my pain. (I also have blackout curtains in our room, and I have no idea why I made this terrible decision.)

To give myself incentives for waking up and being an adult, I started laying out clever Tracy Traps. These come in various forms.

1. Good coffee

I have yet to teach myself to appreciate coffee on its own. So for me, cinnamon-flavored coffee is my morning mug of choice. I even have an assortment of fun little mugs that bring me joy. (You know those Starbucks "You are here" mugs? Yep, those!)

As I'm trying to crawl out of my blanket cocoon, it's comforting to know that I have something - however small - to warm me from the inside out. And I can't possibly have coffee without my breakfast, so I get extra gold stars for actually feeding myself something healthy and taking my medication.

2. A comforting shower

Somehow, showers are one of the most exhausting things ever. I think it's the fact I'm standing in one place for awhile. And I don't have time for a bath in the morning because, as I said earlier, I'm too busy being pawed in the face by a dog who would like me to wake up and take her outside.

To motivate myself here, I picked up better quality shower gels and lotions from Bath and Body Works. (PSA: Their semi-annual sale is amazing, and I get a year's worth of stuff for like $30.) For whatever reason, this helps me find joy in something that's unfortunately a chore for many people with chronic pain. Maybe it's because I like everything around me to smell wonderfully all the time? It would explain my candle obsession...

3. Clothes I actually like

On days when I'm not obligated to be a real person, it's easy for me to put on something purely with comfort in mind. And I really enjoy and need that some days, but I've also found it can keep me stuck in a rut. There's something empowering and energizing about simply wearing clothes I look nice in, blow-drying my hair and putting on makeup. (That last one is the absolute hardest, and I'm still not sure why.) 

For a while, I didn't really understand how someone could find joy in clothing. I wore things I liked, but I always played it safe. Lately, I've challenged myself to wear things that are a little bolder and little less mainstream because that's how I've always wanted to dress. (If you know who Noel Fielding is, he's been my inspiration to break out of my comfort zone.) And I end up being proud of myself and finding joy in something that's hard to do when you're fighting pain and fatigue.

I also get literally 90 percent of my clothes from thrift shops, which is a joy on its own for me. 

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You may not find joy in the same things I do. It might not even be "things" for you and might be experiences or people or feelings or something else. But whatever it is, I encourage you to find ways to weave them into your daily routine. It makes self-care a lot less daunting and much more natural.

Comment on this post or my Facebook page, and tell me what you do for self-care.

(TW: disordered eating, body image, etc.)

So once again, my life's insistence on being in constant motion has kept me from writing. This is kind of a weird time for me, both work-wise and otherwise. I feel like the pressure and stress have eased up a bit, but I'm still pretty busy. (As an illustration, my pup, Juno and I toured the entire state of Illinois last Tuesday through Sunday, and she's still sleeping off that trip.)

Luckily, my husband, Andrew and I were able to take some time away from life and go to a music festival in Cincinnati, which is where the above picture of me was taken. Unlike Bonnaroo, which we hit up a few years ago, Bunbury is pretty low-key. We saw a bunch of bands I'd been waiting a long time to see (The Killers and Grimes, to name my favorites), but we didn't have to endure camping in the hot sun for a whole weekend.

But I still took naps on the grass during sets I didn't care about to manage my endo pain.

While my endo pain mostly stayed away, I was forced to confront another issue that I regularly deal with: my body image.

Before I hear a chorus of "Ohhh Tracy! But you're so thin!" let me say that I know. I've heard that my entire life. And honestly, I don't think I took issue with my body until after I graduated college and started living on my own. It wasn't necessarily because of endometriosis, but it happened to coincide with it.

When endometriosis really made its presence in my life known, it added a new layer of discomfort with my body. Obviously, its pain and fatigue are difficult to deal with. But when your body rejects certain foods and drinks, or when it bloats without warning, or when it just doesn't want to do other things it's "supposed to" do, you start to lose confidence in your body. You start to feel like it isn't yours. And then, if you're me, you kind of resent it.

I think that when you start to view your body as a foreign place, you start to feel cramped and anxious inside of it. That feeling intensifies for me when I'm out of my routine and my comfort zone - like I was at Bunbury.

On day one, I felt great about myself. I was wearing a crop top for the first time that summer and prancing around with music-festival-induced joy. By day two, I was tired and not eating the way I usually do, so the body dysmorphia started.

In our hotel room, I stood in front of a mirror and picked at myself, grabbing at my sides and neck and anywhere else I determined there was "fat." Andrew chided me with "Would you quit it? You look beautiful." But I didn't want to hear it.

You see, no matter how often I hear "You're thin" or "You're pretty" or whatever, it doesn't connect with me. It's like in my brain, I know they're probably right. But in... my heart? My other brain? It doesn't connect.

I've never had a full-blown eating disorder, but I have had bouts of disordered eating. I think they label it as "orthorexia" - when you try to eat so healthily that you end up depriving yourself of adequate nutrition, calories, etc. When I was first diagnosed with endometriosis - and in the months prior when I knew I was sick but didn't know why - I'd go through a few weeks of that, stop for months and then pick up again.

It's almost like I was fighting a body that I thought was failing me. And whenever my energy runs low and my pain runs high, and I can't make it to the gym as frequently as I want, or I can't eat the way I want, these issues start up again.

It's especially frustrating to be dealing with all of this at a music festival. Aside from the fact that, I mean, I'm supposed to be having fun, I'm surrounded by people in crop tops, cute sundresses and short shorts. And seeing them makes me pick apart my body again.

Andrew took a few pictures of me that weekend, and in between sets, I'd zoom in on my imperfections, as if staring at them would make them go away. If Andrew caught me doing it, he'd gently tell me to put my phone away or try to tug it out of my hand. But as soon as he wasn't paying attention, I'd open up the picture again and stare.

I know I hold my body to high standards. Despite having a chronic illness with painful and frustrating symptoms that always fight my best intentions, I push my body to a level no one expects out of me - except for me. For a while, I forced myself to go to the gym five times a week, regardless of how awful I felt or how much pain I was in. I’m all for fitness, and exercising does immensely improve my endometriosis symptoms. But I was practically abusing myself.

I spend a lot of time scrolling through Instagram and comparing my stomach and muscle tone to others'. I can't help but say to myself every time I see someone stronger and thinner than me, "Look at that person. If she can do that, so can you."


All of this is rooted in fear. I know I'm afraid of losing complete control over my body, when I've already lost so much. I'm not entirely sure why I seem so convinced that will happen, but it's probably because my family has a long history of complicated, ongoing illnesses. And so I guess I've always been waiting for my turn, and well, it came with endometriosis.

But the good news is that after a while of being frustrated with my body, I eventually hit a respite. And that came in the form of Grimes' set.

After a few hours of silently hating myself at Bunbury, Andrew and I crossed to the other side of the park to finally see Grimes. Up until then, I’d only really considered myself a casual fan of her music. I knew her most popular songs, but I hadn’t ever seen her live or delved into her lesser known music. But even still, I know she’d put on a killer show, and I wanted to see it, no matter how terrible I felt. 

The pre-show music cut out, and the crowd around me erupted as a trio of dancers came out on stage to synthesizers and strings. I felt genuinely excited for the first time that day and craned my neck to see any sign of Grimes. Minutes later, she pranced out with a huge smile and a sprite-like energy that immediately captured her audience and set their feet to dancing.

Grimes couldn’t possibly care less about what you thought of her appearance. She was clearly wearing an outfit she thought was fun and fabulous, even though I’d never find it on Pinterest. She wasn’t wearing makeup, while I put on a full face that would only melt under the sun. She grinned and glittered with every button she hit, even though she apologized several times over for hitting the wrong one with the lights hard to see under the bright sky. But she never seemed to falter. She flowed.

Or as Andrew put it, “I feel like she wouldn’t give a shit if no one was here. She’d keep doing what she’s doing. She’s doing this for her.”

I decided that day that I wanted that.

As I finally threw caution to the wind and showed off my sick dance moves, a line of women about my age pushed their way out of the crowd. One of them suddenly grabbed my arm, and I bent my head down to hear her. “You look so cute.” 

Flustered and mildly embarrassed, I stuttered a thank you without returning the compliment. In my moment of Grimes-inspired vulnerability, no one shamed me. No one screeched at me to cover up the parts of my body I was ashamed of. No one mocked my dancing. In fact, it was celebrated. 

Grimes’ show ended a few minutes after it was supposed to, but I wanted more. I wanted to stay in that state of vulnerability and acceptance and actually loving my body for what it was. But I decided it didn’t have to end after the last song or the last day of a music festival. I wanted to take it home with me. 

I’ll always struggle with accepting my body. Now well into my 20’s, it’s ingrained in me. But it doesn’t have to be my resting place anymore. I can remember the way I felt watching Grimes, awestruck and inspired by her I-couldn’t-give-two-shits music and persona. That’s something worth wanting to emulate — not some touched-up abs on Instagram. 

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to better yourself. I'll always want to do that, especially with my endometriosis. But there is something wrong with wanting to be something that isn’t yourself. Today, I choose vulnerability. Today, I choose me.

This was adapted from a piece I wrote on Medium.

Wow. I knew I hadn't blogged in a while, but I didn't know I hadn't posted anything in May.

To be honest, endometriosis and I haven't been on good terms lately. We're fighting. Hard. And it's made me not really want to talk about endo or my life with it because I'm just not sure how to process everything right now.

For the past three-ish weeks, I've felt like complete crap. I've been hurting in new places and new ways. I've been tired and crabby. I've been discontent and unsure what to do with anything I was experiencing. 

And I knew that, inevitably, I'd have to confront the way I've been feeling because, shockingly, ignoring your medical problems rarely ever gets rid of them.

But even knowing this, even having years of experience in juggling symptoms, my recent response to handling my medical care has mostly been "I don't want to."

"I don't want to get tested for interstitial cystitis. I don't want to have a scope done. I don't want to go through more treatment."

"I don't want to go back to physical therapy. I don't want to give up hours a week and be even more sore and exhausted. I don't want to be poked and prodded all day, only to have it not even help."

"I don't want to go back to my doctor. I don't want her to change my medicine. I don't want her to suggest Lupron."

Don't worry. I was driving myself nuts, too.

I think this is a lovely insight into my current state of mind: an interesting mix of me being totally exasperated with the state of my endometriosis, just a little under two years since my diagnosis, but me also thinking that I clearly know everything about endo now since I've been sick for so long.

I obviously know exactly what my experience will be when I try physical therapy again. Or when I'm diagnosed with another condition. Or when I visit my doctor.

Because I can see into the future and know exactly how things are going to play out.

Mmhmm. Yep.

Since I'm a psychic and I have nothing to learn from this world, I proceeded to be a complete pain in the ass for a few weeks while I whined about my body. I felt totally beat up after multiple weeks of traveling. My pain got in the way of my gym routine. I even lost my appetite for whatever reason, resorting to mostly eating stuff I could microwave in under one minute.

How does the quote go? "If you keep doing what you're doing, you're going to keep getting what you're getting." Or something like that.

However it goes, I needed to understand it long before I actually did. I wasn't going to feel better if I kept trying things that weren't working.

I think I finally had enough of myself because I asked a fellow endo sister for the name of her physical therapist.

I knew it was time for me to go back to a PT. I needed to stop putting it off and thinking I could self-manage my pain with exercise and diet. Yeah, both of those things help me a lot, but it was time to bring in someone who actually knew what they were doing.

So this week, I finally got an appointment, screamed at myself in a mirror for a few minutes to get myself psyched up and met with my new PT.

I only had an introductory appointment, but I can already tell that I like her better than my last physical therapist.

Before, I didn't only dread physical therapy because it made me feel physically miserable. It also made me feel miserable about myself. I don't blame the PT's because they were obviously doing their jobs by helping me. But I felt talked down to and like I was having my hand held through the process.

Somehow, through that experience, I ended up feeling like my body wasn't my own. I felt totally removed from it, almost like I was rejecting it. I guess I was just so frustrated and defeated, and I wanted nothing more to do with it. I spent an hour a week being told what else was wrong with me, being put in more pain and feeling like this was as good as it was ever going to get. 

Probably could have used another type of therapy at the time, now that I'm thinking of it...

Now, I feel like my PT and I are figuring this thing out together. It's a team effort more than a "Here are all the things wrong with you, Tracy. Please put up with me fixing you while you just hang out."

While I "graduated" from physical therapy, I didn't feel like the effects were long lasting. I'm sure a good chunk of that was my fault for not doing enough homework and at-home exercises. But truthfully, my heart wasn't in it. My brain wasn't in it. 

Instead of viewing it as "Here's a way for me to feel better and be happier," the entire experience quickly turned into "I'm broken, and I need fixing."

No wonder I felt burnt out after a few weeks.

So now, I'm seeing my new PT twice a week, starting next month. I most assuredly will be sore and exhausted and, at times, defeated again. But I'm bound and determined to view it more positively.

(AND my physical therapist said I had a very strong six-pack muscle, so I'm already feeling pretty great about myself.)

That's, of course, not the end of it. I still have to confront my doctor. While my PT is pretty sure I don't have interstitial cystitis, there's still something out there that's making me feel so miserable.

This is the scary part for me. I like my medication that I'm on now, but I guess I need... something else? Something additional? I don't know.

My last ultrasound didn't show an immediate need for surgery. But it didn't rule it out. It's been almost two years since the surgery that diagnosed me, and a lot could have changed in me since then.

That's the part that really sucks about endometriosis. You really don't know what's going on, unless you cut someone open. And like I said in an earlier post, that's led me to wonder, "Is this it?" Just a lifetime of surgeries?

At some point, I have to accept the cards that I'm dealt. I have to admit that I can only do so much on my own. I have to surrender to the care of people who went to school for years and years to treat me.

And if I'm not getting answers, I have to keep looking. Stopping won't get me anywhere at all.

Hopefully, I'll be compelled to write more on this blog, despite being so frustrated and tired. 

I'm leaving this gif of a beautiful Benedict here to encourage me.

(TW: lots of talk about infertility, miscarriages, IVF, etc.)

Dear friends, family, colleagues and other persons of interest,

I am never having kids.

No, I probably won't "change my mind." No, I'm not the least bit sad about this. And yes, I've thought this over for a long time.

So let me repeat myself. I am never having kids.

My husband, Andrew and I reached this conclusion a few weeks ago, and I decided to use National Infertility Awareness Week as a time to talk about it. Because while most of our decision centered on a general aversion to raising a baby, it also involved 1) my questionable fertility, 2) our poor alternative options and 3) my overall health.

Before I get into my story, please note that I am absolutely not trying to talk you out of having kids or going through fertility treatments. I am all for women making their own decisions and choosing what is best for them. This is just a play-by-play of how I came to my own personal choice, and my tone will probably come off as sarcastic and vitriolic because that's how I do. But please, please, please don't take medical or financial advice from me, and please do your own research before coming to a conclusion.

Okay. Glad we settled that.

So once upon a time, I was figuring out finances for our household. I am a big saver, and I like to plan ahead for things. Having come to the realization at a young age that literally anything can happen at any given moment, I secured a solid "emergency fund" for us and then moved on to our next big future expense - a house.

As I started to map out how much we needed to save to afford a down payment on a house, a little voice in the back of my head said, "Yeah, okay, but what about your uterus?"

"What About My Uterus?" should honestly just be the title of my autobiography. It comes up in every. major. decision.

You may know by now that endometriosis is a leading cause of infertility among women. Typically, this is because scarring and adhesions block the Fallopian tubes, making it difficult to impossible for a woman to conceive. But other times, the general quality of a woman's eggs are depleted because of endometriosis, so an egg may never develop into a fetus.

On top of that, tube blockage can cause ectopic pregnancies (in which the egg implants outside of the uterus), miscarriages, stillbirths and other pregnancy complications. 

Looking at my likely infertility, I knew that Andrew and I would have to start saving money. The lovely thing about infertility is that it adds insult to injury. 

"Oh, you can't have a baby on your own? That's fine. How about you try in vitro fertilization?"

Full disclosure: I've never tried IVF. I have friends and Twitter buddies who have, with mixed results. But from talking to my friends, reading a lot and delving into other resources, I've learned four things about IVF: 

According to this Forbes article, IVF costs approximately $12,000 per cycle before medication, which runs between $3,000 - $5,000. Other parts of the process can costs thousands of dollars more, and choosing to "freeze" your eggs or embryos can add to that.

I've heard through various article, blogs, website, resources, etc. that three is the magic number when it comes to IVF cycles. Women are often 66 percent more likely to conceive after three IVF cycles. 

So. Three. That's three times you have to pay the aforementioned thousands of dollars.

Let's say it cost you $20k a pop. So $20k times three = $60,000. That's more than my student loans from my private liberal arts college. (Which are, you know, also in the tens of thousands.)

And if/when IVF does finally take, please keep in mind that you're adding the cost of actually giving birth to that child to your approximately $60,000. Luckily, health insurance will cover part of that... but probably not all of that.

There are many states out there that require varying levels of health insurance to cover fertility treatments. My state, however, is not one of them, leaving women to figure out the fun part of "how am I actually going to ever afford this?"

You do have some financing options, albeit complicated ones. If you'd like to learn more about them, check out Resolve's resources.

So at 25 (me) and 30 (Andrew) years old and less than two years into marriage, Andrew and I can't really afford three rounds of IVF. I mean, I honestly don't really know anyone our age who can. 

But let's pretend I could handle the financial burden and physical pain of IVF on top of my already chronic physical pain and other health-care costs.

The emotional pain of IVF... that's something I'm definitely not ready to handle.

Unfortunately, just because an embryo comes out of IVF does not always mean it's going to be viable. It doesn't always mean the baby will survive to term. And while three cycles may be the magic number for IVF, it's frequently more for many, many women.

I like to think of myself as an emotionally strong person. But that doesn't mean I don't crumble into a ball and cry because a major organ in my body isn't functioning in any way, shape or form that can be described as "normal." I hate it. I really, really do. And I really don't think I can deal with more frustration and feelings of failure.

That's the insult to injury. Young women are robbed of so much with conditions like endometriosis - things they never expected to lose. And after navigating the agony and frustration that come with these diseases, women who want to have a baby then also have to face the pain and disappointment that usually accompanies IVF and other fertility treatments.

In their prime fertility years, these women are force to navigate their health, and their developing career, and now additional financial burdens, and now their ability to have a kid. To me, it's injustice.

It just... it just sucks, guys. There's nothing else to say. It just make me so. angry. for these people.

Anyway, where was I?

"Alright, Tracy. So maybe all of that isn't going to work out right now. Have you ever thought of, you know, just trying to see if you can have kids naturally?"

Well, that was part two of my inner turmoil over babies.

I recently visited my ob/gyn, who tossed around the idea of sending me through another surgery to remove any endometriosis growth. Again, this is a progressive and incurable disease, so it's likely that a second surgery wouldn't be my last surgery. At this point, I'm not going in for one any time soon, and I'd like to put it off as long as possible. Since, you know, I'll likely be doing these for the rest of my life, unless an excision specialist suddenly moves to my state and is in my network.

The thing about surgery is that it is helpful when dealing with general endometriosis symptoms... but it can cause more fertility problems. Scarring = more blockage = fewer babies

It's why my first ob/gyn wanted me to get on Lupron as soon as possible - to temporarily shut down my uterus, stop the endo growth and preserve my fertility for a little bit. I won't get into it in this post, but Lupron is a total mess of a medication that I am not anxious to be put on. But DO Google it, if you'd like to learn about its heinous side effects.

So now, my overall treatment was a question mark. Was I willing to sacrifice my future kids in order to have surgeries and ensure that I could lead a healthier, happier, less painful life? So that I could keep working, traveling and doing the things that I love? So that I could live the way I want to?

I mean, am I even in good enough health to be a mother? Do I have the strength and energy to do this every single day? Can I even go through with giving birth? My mom had pregnancy complications. What's going to happen to me, when I'm already at a high risk for more complications?

After considering all of this, I realized something. "If these are major, life-altering concerns for me, I am absolutely not ready to have children."

I pretty much knew that I didn't want kids ever, even when I was young. I'm honestly terrified of being pregnant and giving birth. And I've had an aversion to small children ever since I was a small child.

For a little bit, I decided I would just wait until I'm 30 and then decide. But as my first ob/gyn reminded me, I don't have that luxury anymore. I needed to decide, like, right now.

And this long conversation with myself confirmed my suspicions. I didn't want this for my life.

If I were wringing my hands over money and chance and statistics, then I wasn't ready to go through with any of this. At all.

At this point, I did what I usually do when life becomes too overwhelming. "Annnnndreeeeeewwww!"

And you'll be shocked to know how much you'll talk about your uterus some day. You're going to blog about your uterus, and people are going to read it. I'm sorry. Please don't be embarrassed. It'll be great. I promise. You need this to hang onto your sanity.

I should probably tell you that you might not have kids. You might not be able to conceive on your own, and if you do, you might have trouble carrying that baby to a full term. But I want you to know that you're still going to fall in love and get married. And your husband is never going to hold your likely infertility against you. "Family" might not look the same to others as it does to you, but it's going to mean the same.

You'll have to give up some of the busyness that you thrive on, so that you have energy to do the things you truly love. You'll have to prioritize reasons to leave the house, so that you can travel that weekend or attend a party without being exhausted or suffering a flare-up. Oh, and please start letting go now because you're too young to be so stressed.