What do you do when life hands you chronic pain? For me, the answer was to transform it into purpose. This is the story of how I turned my suffering into a platform for change, creating something meaningful to help others.
I had my first cramps at 10. It was night-time, and I was on school camp at Sovereign Hill. Suddenly, pain ripped through my insides, leaving me terrified. I hadn’t even hit puberty yet, so I had no clue what a period was. But it soon arrived.
For years, I thought the pain I was experiencing was normal. I assumed everyone suffered as I did. I heard bits from my older sister’s friends, but they never mentioned pain like mine. Their periods were light and short, while I bled heavily for more than seven days, passing large clots I could feel. I wore tampons with pads as backup and changed both every hour or two. The pain was unbearable, but I thought I was just weak and needed to toughen up.
As time went on, the pain worsened. It wasn’t just cramps; it was a deep, stabbing agony in my stomach, a pulling sensation in my legs, and a horrible throbbing in my bum. My muscles would freeze up, and I’d sit there for what felt like hours, a knife twisting inside me. Despite all this, I stayed quiet. I didn’t want to make a fuss and didn’t realise how abnormal this was.
By 19, the pain was unbearable. I consulted a gynecologist who recommended laparoscopy. It was 1999, and information on endometriosis was scarce. Ablation surgery was the standard, though now we know it’s less effective than excision.
When I woke up from surgery, my doctor told me they found a large tumour and that I’d need more extensive surgery. Endometriosis was never mentioned. A few months later, I had a laparotomy to remove the tumour. It was benign, but they also found endometriosis. At my follow-up, the focus was on the tumour. The doctor briefly mentioned endometriosis and advised staying on the pill until I wanted to conceive. I had no idea that the endometriosis would continue to spread or that staying on the pill would eventually complicate things.
In my twenties, I worked in magazines in Sydney, far from my family and friends in Melbourne. I focused on my career and ignored the pain creeping back. I was addicted to work, and there was no room to think about my health.
By the time I hit my thirties, I had met the man I wanted to spend my life with, and we were ready to start a family. I went off the pill and my period came back with a vengeance. The pain was indescribable, and it took over my life. I would clear 7-10 days from my calendar each month just to cope. But I kept quiet about what was happening, not wanting to make a fuss. I missed out on so much, and I never told anyone the real reason why. I cancelled plans, snapped at loved ones, and let people think I was just flaky, rather than admit I was sick.
I tried everything to manage the pain - magnesium sprays, bath salts, heat balms, and heat patches. I used every type of heat pack I could find, from disposable ones for on-the-go to wheat or electric ones at home. I took 2 Panadol + 2 Nurofen every four hours. But nothing truly helped. For the first few days of my cycle, I couldn’t sleep because of the pain. I’d pace the house, lie by the toilet, or sit with my thoughts, trying to understand what was happening to my body.
By now, I was aware of endometriosis. There was more research and media coverage, but despite being an educated, strong woman, I still felt like it wasn’t serious. It wasn’t something you could call in sick for. It wasn’t something I wanted to burden others with.
I decided I had to become my own advocate. I joined endometriosis support groups, which became my lifeline. They helped me feel less alone and provided valuable resources for treatments and recommendations. Looking back, I wish I had spoken up sooner. I wish I had told people what was happening and how it affected me.
When my partner and I started trying for a baby, it was a long and difficult journey. We tried for years with no success despite doing everything right. I was desperate, trying every alternative therapy I could find - yoni steams, acupuncture, Chinese herbs, crystals. I cut out alcohol, carbs, and sugar. But nothing worked.
At the same time, I was running a digital agency, working with some of Australia’s biggest beauty and lifestyle brands. The business was growing, but so was my illness. I had two close clients who supported me through my fertility struggles, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell them about my chronic pain. I didn’t want to appear weak, so I kept it hidden.
Eventually, I had to step back from work to focus on my health. I underwent multiple surgeries, but the endometriosis kept spreading. Scar tissue stuck my organs together, and my kidneys and bowel were affected. I lost my left ovary and 40cm of my bowel in one surgery. Recovery was long and painful.
We tried IVF, but after seven rounds and no success, the doctors said I needed another surgery. This time, it was a radical hysterectomy. It was my seventh surgery, and it came during Covid. My remaining ovary, uterus, cervix, and more of my bowel were removed. I went into menopause overnight and started HRT. I was officially biologically childless.
It was a test of resilience, and it almost broke me. But as I recover, I’m finding meaning in what I’ve been through. That’s how the rae Heat Pad was born. I wanted to create something better than what was available to help others who might be going through the same thing. rae is my way of flipping the script and turning my pain into something positive.
As the brand grows, so will our investment in better products and education, and hopefully helping others, even just a little. Jo xx
