It began during the first lockdown in 2020. A time when the world stood still, yet my body erupted in relentless pain. What started as a suspected UTI or cystitis – never fully confirmed – led to a series of referrals to all types of urologists. Some prescribed antibiotics, others insisted there was nothing wrong.
I spent over two years on continuous antibiotics just to manage these supposed infections, trying to function, all while raising five children and running a growing business, La Coqueta. I underwent surgery after eventually being diagnosed with fibroids, only to find the pain returning – more intense and unpredictable than before. Desperate to articulate my suffering, I categorised my pain into types – A, B, C, and D – and began keeping a diary in the hope of identifying a pattern. Looking back now, I see it wasn’t just my body that was in crisis – it was a system that repeatedly failed to hear me.
I scoured the internet and saw doctors from every possible speciality. It’s painful now to accept that perhaps 20 per cent of those doctors dismissed my pain outright – perhaps writing me off as a middle-aged woman with five children, behaving like a total perimenopausal psycho. A turning point eventually came when my father called me about a surgeon in Madrid who specialised in chronic pelvic pain. I flew to see him, and he diagnosed me with pelvic congestion syndrome.
Follow-up tests revealed a narrowing of my iliac artery, which is often seen in women who have had a lot of children. Having had five children in five years, I certainly fit into that category. I had a stent fitted and my ovaries embolised. That was the first night I felt warmth in my feet in as long as I could remember – a small shift that felt like a miracle. But soon, the pain returned, just as suddenly as it had first arrived.
My gynaecologist, always supportive, referred me to a trusted surgeon who had operated on her. The doctor noted that my PET scan revealed a suspicious mass.
Post-surgery, I awoke to the words: “It doesn’t look good. After 32 years of surgery, I have never seen anything like this. We need to wait for the results.” Two agonising weeks later, I was relieved to learn it was “just” a poorly located fibroid. Recovery was brutal; the wound near the perineum took an eternity to heal. For a long time, I endured intermittent pain, countless doctor visits, medications and scans – feeling like the most scanned patient on the planet.
%2520copy.jpeg)
In October 2024, an MRI revealed endometriosis affecting my left ovary and adenomyosis. The doctors’ recommendation? A radical hysterectomy. Given the literature linking such surgeries to dementia, and having watched my own father’s battle with Alzheimer’s, I was terrified. (If you’ve read Lisa Mosconi’s book The Menopause Brain, you’ll know women who undergo a full hysterectomy are at greater risk of developing dementia.) It felt like another impossible choice. Still, the pain left me with no alternative, and my surgery was scheduled for a month and a half later. I did everything I could to prepare. Louise Newson and JJ Virgin’s podcasts, along with Dr Lauren Streicher’s complete guide to hysterectomy, were invaluable resources.
It wasn’t just medical experts who gave me strength. If I hadn’t come across Alexa Chung’s deeply honest account of her endometriosis journey, or Angelina Jolie’s brave decision to share her story around preventative surgery and hysterectomy, I’m not sure I would have found the courage to move forward. Their openness gave me permission to be vulnerable too, to accept that something was seriously wrong and that it wasn’t all “in my head”.
Post-surgery, I was determined to recover swiftly. Surrounded by women recovering from cancer surgery, I felt fortunate. Still, the hysterectomy was brutal. The fibroid had been lodged behind my bladder, making the surgery complex. Recovery took much longer than I expected, and menopause hit me like a train: hot flushes, acne, memory lapses. Between this and caring for five teenagers, I looked fine, but I wasn’t. I was supposed to be the strong one. The capable one. The mother, the founder, the decision-maker. Instead, I was falling apart quietly, trying not to let anyone see.
The hysterectomy also didn’t solve all my problems. The pain persisted, and I found myself in the hospital once again, this time with a streptococcal infection. OxyContin helped me with pain management, but sadly, I was on it for far too long. Christmas was my milestone – I couldn’t bear another moment on the hysterectomy ward. But the holidays were hard. I felt exhausted. I had an intense, constant urge to urinate, my bladder hurt and I was becoming depressed.
In January, I went back to my surgeon, who confessed he was all out of ideas. I admire him for that – not many doctors of his stature would admit it. One day, after yet another painful sleepless night, I broke down on my local high street in Marylebone. A friend – a Pilates instructor called Sam Deville – called me at just the right time. I told her everything. She gently insisted I see the women’s health physiotherapist, Megan Vickers, and start doing Pilates. Sceptical but desperate, I reluctantly agreed. That visit changed my life.
Megan assessed me – squatting naked, boxing in the air while she examined me. My friend Sam was behind me, assessing my posture. I’ll never forget Sam saying, “Please don’t worry, we’re here for you. We’re going to help you. This is what women go through sometimes.” It was simultaneously the most undignified and empowering moment of my life. Miraculously, Megan managed to replicate my pain – something I had been waiting five years for. She identified a sluggish pelvic floor that was pressing on three nerves and prescribed a regimen of physiotherapy and Pilates. For the first time in years, I felt hope.
It’s still not over – I was later diagnosed with a labral tear in my hip and hyper-mobility. Yet another layer of physical damage, missed for years. More decisions. More unknowns. I’ve chosen to delay surgery for now and am focusing on rehab, but the mental toll is heavy.
Menopause, in my case, didn’t arrive slowly. It slammed into me, surgically induced and unrelenting. It’s not linear, and I’ve had to learn, in real time, how to recalibrate my body. I’m on HRT and I’m working closely with specialists. I still forget things, still have days when I cry without warning, still can’t always explain my pain, but I finally feel that I have good professionals around me – people on a mission to help me and others who, like me, may have fallen through the cracks of both the NHS and private healthcare.
Perimenopause, endometriosis, adenomyosis, pelvic dysfunction… These are not niche issues. Yet women are still being told it’s “just hormones”. That we’re exaggerating. That we’re difficult. If all of this has taught me anything (besides medical terminology I never wanted to master), it’s that we need to tell our stories. Pain that is unseen is so often dismissed, and I urge every woman to trust herself: seek out professionals who listen, and surround yourself with people who believe in you. Be your own advocate.
I am the proud founder and creative director of a multimillion-pound retail business, I parent five teenagers, I am deeply involved in my business and I spin a thousand plates. But the greatest challenge I’ve had to deal with was simply being heard.
