March has always carried a complicated mix of emotions for me.
On one hand, it marks Endometriosis Awareness Month, something I care deeply about and have devoted so much of my life to advocating for. On the other hand, this year especially, it marks ten years since my diagnosis. Ten years since surgery. Ten years since the moment someone finally looked at me and essentially said, you’re not crazy.
Ten years is a long time to live with something that most people have never even heard of.
For those of us living with endometriosis, March can feel heavy. Awareness months are meant to bring visibility to important causes, but when you are personally living with the condition you are advocating for, the experience is different. It’s not just posting infographics or sharing statistics. It’s reliving your own story over and over again. It’s remembering the years of unanswered questions, the appointments, the dismissals, the pain that people can't see, and the moments when you began to doubt your own body. And sometimes, if I’m being honest, it’s exhausting.
One of the hardest parts about endometriosis is that those of us who live with it are often the ones who have to advocate the hardest for it. We are the ones raising awareness. We are the ones educating others. We are the ones pushing for research, better care, and recognition of how serious this disease actually is. Because for a long time, no one else has and that responsibility can weigh heavy.
Not because we don’t care. Quite the opposite. Many of us advocate so fiercely because we care so deeply. Because we know firsthand what happens when this disease is misunderstood or dismissed. Because we know how long it can take to be diagnosed. Because we know what it feels like to sit in a doctor’s office and feel like your pain is being minimized or explained away. But advocating for something that you are also actively suffering from is a unique kind of emotional labor.
Living with endometriosis is already exhausting. It is a chronic, inflammatory, whole-body disease that impacts far more than just the reproductive system. It affects energy levels, mental health, relationships, work, and daily life in ways that are often invisible to the outside world.
Then on top of that, during March especially, many of us feel this quiet pressure to show up as advocates.
To share our stories.
To educate others.
To post about it.
To explain it again and again.
And while I’m proud to do that work, I would be lying if I said it doesn’t sometimes feel overwhelming.
There are moments when I wish we didn’t have to fight this hard just to be heard. Moments when I wish the burden of awareness didn’t fall so heavily on the people already living with the disease. Moments when I wish the medical system, research institutions, and broader public health community had invested in this condition decades ago.
Because if they had, maybe the millions of people living with endometriosis today wouldn’t have had to spend so many years searching for answers.
Still, despite the exhaustion, I keep coming back to the same truth: this work matters. Every conversation about endometriosis matters. Every time someone learns what the disease actually is, it matters. Every young person who reads a story and realizes their pain might have an explanation, that matters more than anything.
When I think about the person I was ten years ago, desperately trying to understand what was happening to my body, I think about how powerful it would have been to see someone openly talking about this disease. To know I wasn’t alone. To know that what I was experiencing had a name. That’s why so many of us keep speaking up.
Not because it’s easy.
Not because we aren’t tired.
But because we know how much silence has cost our community.
Advocacy has become such a central part of my life that sometimes I forget how unusual that is. Many people discover their purpose through careers or hobbies. Mine came through navigating a disease that I never asked for but that ultimately shaped the person I became.
Endometriosis has taken a lot from me over the years. There’s no denying that. But it has also given me something unexpected: a deep sense of purpose.
It taught me how to advocate for myself when no one else would.
It taught me how to listen to my body.
It taught me resilience, persistence, and empathy for others who are quietly carrying their own invisible battles.
And it connected me to a community of some of the strongest people I have ever met.
So while March can feel heavy, it is also a reminder of how far we have come, and how far we still have to go.
Ten years ago, I was just beginning to understand what endometriosis was and how it would shape my life. Today, I understand something else too: advocacy doesn’t always have to look loud or perfect. Sometimes advocacy is simply telling the truth about how hard this disease can be. Sometimes it’s admitting that we’re tired. Sometimes it’s giving ourselves permission to rest while knowing the work will continue.
Because this fight has never been about just one person. It’s about a community of millions of people who deserve better answers, better treatment, and someday, hopefully, a cure. Until that day comes, many of us will keep speaking up. Not because we aren’t exhausted. But because we remember what it felt like when no one was speaking up for us.
