Let’s talk about the part nobody warned me about.

I’m eight weeks post-hysterectomy, and if one more person tells me to “give it time,” I might scream into a pillow so loud it shakes the neighborhood.

Because yes, I’m grateful I’m no longer doubled over in pain from fibroids or bleeding through my clothes.
Yes, I know I made the right medical choice.

   

But nobody told me I’d wake up feeling like someone stole my hormones, my libido, and my sense of self… and left me a bill I never agreed to pay.

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Phantom PMS? Apparently that’s a thing now.

Explain to me how I can have no uterus, no ovaries, no cycle, and still feel like I’m about to cry, fight, or run away every 28 days.

   

“You don’t NEED PMS to have PMS! Surprise!”

And the emotions? Girl. They come out of nowhere.

One minute I’m fine, the next I’m staring at a wall wondering why I suddenly want to flip the entire room over like a WWE wrestler.

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Then there’s the intimacy part, and this one hits deep.

I love my husband.
He’s my person.
But right now? Physical intimacy feels like a foreign language my brain refuses to translate.

It’s not him.
It’s not us.
It’s that my body feels like someone unplugged the part of me that wants and replaced it with a spinning beach ball that just says:

   

“ERROR: DESIRE NOT FOUND.”

Do you know how confusing it is to want to want your partner?
To miss the closeness but not the act?
To feel guilty because you can’t flip a switch that no longer exists?

   

There’s a grief in that. A quiet one. A lonely one.

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And yes, losing my ovaries made me feel old overnight.

Nobody prepares you for the identity shift that comes with surgical menopause.

You think you’re signing up for a medical procedure.
You don’t realize you’re stepping into a new era of your body, your hormones, your skin, your energy, your mood… your everything.

   

There are days I don’t feel 51, I feel 81. There are moments I catch my reflection and don’t recognize the Wanda staring back.

And sometimes?
It feels like the beginning of a chapter I wasn’t emotionally ready to read.

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So yes, I’m angry. I’m frustrated. I’m confused. And I’m allowed.

   

This season is a mind-f**k. A body-f**k. And honestly? A heart-f**k.

But here’s the thing I remind myself on the calmer days:

   

I am not broken. I am not done. And I am not losing myself, I’m rediscovering a version of me that isn’t ruled by pain, hormones, or expectations.

Right now I’m in the messy middle.
The part where healing feels like hell before it feels like freedom.

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If you’re here too, you’re not alone.

If your libido vanished like it’s in witness protection…
If your emotions are on a roller coaster you didn’t line up for…
If you’re grieving the body you had before the surgery…
If you’re scared this version of you is permanent…

   

You’re in good company.

This isn’t the end of your story.
This is the uncomfortable, unglamorous chapter where you learn yourself again, slowly, stubbornly, honestly.

I don’t have the answers yet.
But I’m here.
Showing up.
Talking about it.
And refusing to pretend everything is fine when it isn’t.

   

Because healing should be honest — not pretty.