A few months ago, something inside me just felt… off. Not just a little soreness or twinge, but that kind of pain that won’t quit, the kind that makes you stop and stare at yourself like, what the hell is going on? My body was yelling at me, and I wasn’t about to ignore it. So I called Dr. Serena.
Sitting in her office, I braced myself. I thought maybe it was just some leftover trauma or inflammation acting up. But when she rolled the ultrasound over my stomach, her face changed. That easy confidence she usually carries got sharp, like she was reading every inch of me and wasn’t impressed. She adjusted, measured, stared at that screen, and I could feel my stomach twist with every second.
Then she turned it toward me. “See this?” she said, pointing at this shadow on the screen. “This is where the tissue is strained. Tiny tears. It’s subtle, but it explains the pain and why your body isn’t bouncing back.”
She moved it down a little. “And here, your cervix isn’t holding up the way it should. Stress, pressure, it’s showing. That’s why it hurts.”
I just blinked. The truth hit me slow, but one thing I knew for damn sure—Malcolm did this.
“So… basically my man broke my uterus?” I said, half laughing, half bitter.
Dr. Serena gave me that look—the one that says, girl, you ain’t ready for this level of truth. “Leata, this isn’t just Malcolm. This is your body. Your health, your healing. Yeah, he added stress, but your body reached its limit before that.”
I crossed my arms. “Sounds like a ‘big meat’ problem to me.”
She didn’t flinch. “Your cervix was already vulnerable. Trauma, hormones, just the way your body works. This wasn’t going to hold forever. Malcolm alone didn’t cause it—your body did what it had to do.”
I wanted to argue, but deep down, she was right.
“So… what now?” I asked.
“No sex. At all. For at least a year.”
I sat up like she slapped me. “A year?”
“Yes,” she said steady. “Your tissue needs to heal. If you keep stressing it, you risk long-term damage. Chronic pain, scarring. We’re talking permanent weakening. You don’t want that.”
She leaned in, voice calm but firm. “Think of it like a sprained ankle. You wouldn’t run on it. Your uterus can’t repair if you keep pushing it.”
And that’s when the plan started—anti-inflammatories to calm the swelling, hormones to keep things steady, nutrition to feed the repair, and pelvic therapy to strengthen everything supporting it. I won’t lie—insurance didn’t cover half of it, but I found someone who helped my body and my mind.
Healing became more than physical. It was mental. Emotional. Spiritual. Listening to my body, slowing down, actually caring about what it needed—that’s where the real work was. I started to see this not as losing something but rebuilding. Stronger. Wiser. More me.
Now, looking at the year ahead, I don’t see it as a setback. I see growth. A chance to really know my body, take care of it, and approach intimacy differently. Healing takes time, it forces you into corners you never expected. But I trust it. And with Dr. Serena in my corner, I know I’m not walking this alone.
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