The Dreamer's Pen

It still hasn’t fully hit me.

Three days ago, I lost my left ovary and fallopian tube. The words feel surreal, like they belong to someone else. My mind knows it happened, but my heart hasn’t caught up yet. Maybe because the pain is louder than my thoughts, or maybe because I’m not ready to process what this means for me, physically, emotionally, and in ways I don’t even understand yet.

But my body knows.

It reminds me with every ache, every shift, every unfamiliar sensation. Healing isn’t just about stitches and scars, it’s about learning to exist in a body that doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

Before surgery, the pain was constant. A dull, throbbing weight in my pelvis. Sharp cramps that stole my breath. A pressure so heavy it felt like I was being pulled downward. Some days, it was manageable. Other days, it made everything unbearable, walking, sitting, even breathing too deeply.

Then there was the bloating.

It wasn’t just discomfort—it was visible. My stomach stretched so much that I looked pregnant. I remember standing in front of the mirror, pressing my hands against the swelling, trying to convince myself that it would go away. That my body wasn’t betraying me. That I wasn’t broken.

But no matter how much I tried to hide it, my body told the truth. Clothes didn’t fit right. People glanced at my stomach. I felt trapped in a body that didn’t feel like mine.

Now, post-surgery, the swelling hasn’t completely gone down. My stomach still feels foreign, my skin still feels too tight. The incisions are tender, bruised reminders of what I’ve lost. I thought removing the source of the pain would bring relief, but all I feel right now is emptiness.

Even before this, I never felt fully at home in my skin. Pain, bloating, hormonal imbalances, they all made me feel like I was at war with myself. And now? Now, I look in the mirror and see a body that has survived something, but I don’t know how to love it.

Before surgery, I felt too big, stretched beyond my control. Now, I feel small, fragile, like I might break apart at any moment. The scars will fade, but the way I see myself has already changed.

I used to pick apart my flaws. Now, I stand in front of the mirror, searching for the person I was before all of this. But she’s gone.

And I don’t know how to grieve her.

Losing an ovary isn’t just about what’s physically missing. It’s about what’s disrupted, what’s thrown off balance, what suddenly feels uncertain.

My hormones are shifting, and I can feel it. The mood swings are intense. One moment, I feel like I can handle this, the next, I’m spiraling—frustration, sadness, self-doubt, all crashing over me without warning. I can’t tell if it’s grief or just my body adjusting. Either way, it’s exhausting.

And then there’s the fear—what does this mean for my future? Will my body ever feel normal again? Will I struggle with fertility later on?

The unknowns are endless.

Three days ago, my body changed. And I don’t know how to feel about it yet.

For so long, I’ve felt at war with my body. Now, I’m just trying to find a way to live in it again.

Three days ago, I lost my left ovary.

But I also lost something else—certainty, security, trust in my own body. And now, I’m left trying to figure out what it means to move forward.

Maybe healing isn’t just about recovery. Maybe it’s about learning to live with what’s missing.

Maybe it’s about finding a way to love myself, scars, pain, and all.