Six Years of Pain, Fear, and Survival: My Fibroid Story

Some years ago, my body became a battlefield.

For over six years of my life, I lived with uterine fibroids. Those years were not just difficult—they were the darkest, most exhausting years I have ever known.

My days were filled with pain. My nights with fear. My future was with uncertainty.

I was young, hopeful, and trying to build a life, yet my body was constantly reminding me that something was wrong. The pain was relentless. The discomfort unending. My monthly flow was heavy, draining, and frightening. I visited hospitals again and again, holding onto hope that one day a doctor would tell me something different.

But every medical counsel sounded the same:

“You need surgery.”

I heard those words repeatedly while knowing, deep down, that surgery was far beyond my financial reach.

I went through my university years carrying this pain quietly. I sat in lecture halls while my body ached. I wrote exams while silently counting minutes until I could find relief.

I prayed—earnestly—for a miracle to come my way.

Education was supposed to be a season of discovery, but for me, it was survival.And after school it still continues.

There were days I could not go to church. Days I could not go to work. Days I had to create excuses because explaining the truth felt too heavy, too embarrassing, too exhausting. Pain became my constant companion, and silence became my coping mechanism.

At the hospital, some doctors suggested I try getting pregnant so that “everything could be taken out during delivery.” But this was not an option for me. I was not married. I was not in a relationship. And even if I was, my body was not a solution to a system that fails women who cannot afford care.

Help did not come easily—from family or from those around me. Poverty has a way of isolating you in your suffering. It limits your choices. It turns medical advice into impossible demands. That chapter of my life taught me a painful truth: when resources are scarce, endurance becomes the only option.

So I endured.

Not because I enjoyed the pain.

Not because I was strong enough.

But because the resources never came.

Two things held me captive for years: lack of money and fear.

Fear lived in my heart constantly. Fear of surgery. Fear of complications. Fear of medical mistakes. Fear of the unknown, fear of infertility. I asked myself endless questions: Will I survive the surgery? Will I still be able to give birth? Will my life ever return to normal?

No one prepared me emotionally for these fears. I carried them alone.

I remember going to the office and slipping quietly into the bathroom whenever the pain became unbearable. I would cry silently, wipe my tears, and return to my desk as if nothing was wrong. It became routine. Pain. Tears. Silence. Resume.

Eventually, my boss noticed. He observed my frequent absences and my declining strength. He asked questions. My colleagues talked among themselves. And then something unexpected happened.

They came together.

My colleagues and friends raised money for me.

That collective act of kindness gave me a chance to breathe again. It gave me access to the surgery that had felt impossible for so long. It gave me hope when I had almost run out of it.

Some years later, after I got married, I became pregnant. And every time I look back, I remember the young woman who lived in fear for six years, unsure if motherhood would ever be possible for her.

I survived—but many women do not.

In Nigeria today, fibroids are painfully common. Many young women live with chronic pain, heavy bleeding, fear, and misinformation. Some are trapped by poverty. Some are paralyzed by fear of surgery. Others turn to unsafe, unregulated “native” treatments because proper medical care feels unreachable.

Recently, a friend referred some young women to me—women living with fibroids and drowning in fear. One of them shared how a neighbor lost her life after seeking alternative treatment. Their fear was real. Their questions were urgent. Their options felt limited.

I may not have the financial means to support them medically, but I chose to help in the way I could—through counselling, encouragement, and truth. By listening to them. By reassuring them. By helping them release the fear that had taken hold of their hearts through my experience.

This is my call to action.

To policymakers and health institutions: women’s reproductive health must be treated as a priority, not an afterthought.

Affordable and accessible healthcare should not depend on luck or charity.

No woman should live in pain for years because treatment is out of reach.

To communities: silence is dangerous. We must talk openly about fibroids. We must replace fear with accurate information and stigma with support.

And to every woman living with fibroids—especially those suffering quietly:

Your pain is real.

Your fear is valid.

Your life is valuable.

Please seek help. Please speak up. Please choose safe medical care. And if fear or finances are holding you back, know that courage sometimes begins with telling your story.

I endured.

I survived.

Others deserve the same chance.