The issue of fibroids and black women is not new, so I won't bore you with the statistics. Just know that fibroids are almost three times more likely to occur in us than in our white counterparts.
Uterine fibroids are something I've always been aware of in my own family, as my mother and aunts have all dealt with them.
The little round devils would cause major pain, lots of bleeding, and stomach bulges that led to questions of pregnancy or overeating. And by the time I became a 20-something go-getter with a busy NYC social and dating life, I'd convinced myself that they would be strangers to me. I would will them away.
I had men to do, boss moves to make, and an image to maintain.
Back then, my period and I were besties, and she never gave me too many problems. We had a stellar arrangement: Keep it sexy.
I'd mastered when she was heaviest and what OTC pills to take when she was feeling extra feisty. I never gave in to those old-maid, conservative traditions of women who sometimes had whole wardrobes of loose dresses, frumpy sweats, and full booty-coverage briefs reserved for Aunt Flo. (And when it came to sex, those same women oftentimes wouldn't let their men near them when the time for their cycle came around.)
I wore what I wanted, from white-after-Labor-Day to sexy lingerie---no "period panties" over here.
If whoever I was dating at the time wanted to run the red light, I was down, as long as there were precautions taken to protect my 300-count sheets and personal health. I enjoyed clubbing at least three times a week in a good ole' body-con dress or wearing leggings and short tops---before Fashion Nova became a thing---even during "that time of the month."
I didn't mind being judged about my "alternative" attitude about my menstrual period, and to be honest, it was my body and my business.
I wasn't going to be restricted, shamed, or defined by one of the most natural, healthy, and beautiful things about being a woman.
By my early 30s, I'd matured tremendously and achieved quite a bit in terms of career advancement. I'd let go of the dating roster and the frequent late-night-early-morning routine, and I threw most of my energy into a new career as a self-employed consultant and freelancer. I changed my eating habits, got more into my spiritual health, and lost 30 lbs.
I thought I'd avoided fibroids, but by the time I hit 34, they were already plotting their grand debut.
I got my period one month, as usual, but this time it was heavier and lasted longer. I thought nothing of it at first and brushed it off as a product of stress from all the transitions I'd gone through as a budding entrepreneur.
That is, until they crashed my 35th birthday, causing light-to-heavy bleeding for 13 days. (My normal period lasts five.)
Not only did my period stick around, but she caused a lot of damage in the form of ruined sheets, a favorite freak 'em dress I had to trash, an emergency blood transfusion at the ER, and---above all---a self esteem that went from Sassy Sexy Sue to Debbie Darkness.
I went through at least two packs of extra-heavy overnight pads (with the wings), multiple boxes of tampons, and so many pairs of panties. I was even forced to buy---dare I say it---cotton briefs, which reminded me of the typical underwear people over 60 wear. I wanted to do nothing but work from home and sulk.
This ain't sexy and it ain't me, I told myself.
I thought the worst: Will I have to get a hysterectomy at 35? I have no kids.
I was in the throws of a new relationship---deeply in love---and me and my man would often chat about our desire to have families with kids of our own. The sex is great and uninhibited. Will he dump me?
I love to travel and do it often for client work. Will I have to wear Depends on every flight? Will I be leaking more than Black Girl Magic on a conference stage?
That ain't sexy.
My life is over. I would never feel empowered or confident again.
I finally told my boyfriend about it---crying on the phone with ridiculously doom-focused theories on our future. Turns out, he knew women who had fibroids, and he was compassionate about the whole thing. He even got candid in sharing graphic details of what he knew about them. He wasn't turned off at all and was nonchalant about my fears. "Babes, I care more about your health than some sheets I can replace," he said. "We'll be fine."
(I was not expecting such a response since I knew of a young woman who'd had bladder issues and when her man woke up one morning on pee-soaked sheets, he was utterly disgusted. It caused a major breakdown in their relationship.)
I talked with my mom as well, who gave me advice on how she dealt with them. Then I had a come-to-Jesus conversation with a physician about my options.
The journalist and medical-industry skeptic in me did some online digging of my own, and I found out that the discomfort fibroids often caused could be lessened with exercise, a great diet, and supplements. I started to lift weights again---wearing my favorite workout gear---and I began accepting that it's okay to take more frequent breaks between sets to change my tampon/pad combo.
I also began to accept that it was okay to adjust a few more things in my life, like eating more foods rich in iron, taking meds for pain or anemia, and logging the patterns and symptoms during my menstrual cycles. Only God knows the future in terms of pregnancy and my becoming a mother, so I chose to leave that to Him through prayer, devotions, and meditation.
Hey, I've even become a pseudo-expert in stain removal.
The anxiety has dwindled, my menstrual pain has lessened---for now---and the heavy bleeding has actually lightened since that I'm back on an active workout schedule, eating better, and feeling more confident.
I almost let those hater fibroids throw salt on my game. Now, I think of them like a distant cousin to Aunt Flo that I have to learn to get along with. I'm still considering decisions on the latest noninvasive procedures available, but I won't let age, ticking fertility clocks, societal pressure, or outrageous fears guilt me into making any rash decisions.
I can still be that sexy, driven, ambitious and smart woman who loves to treat herself to a few nice pieces from Victoria's Secret or L'Agent at any time of month.
Fibroids be damned.
xoNecole is always looking for new voices and empowering stories to add to our platform. If you have an interesting story or personal essay that you'd love to share, we'd love to hear from you. Contact us at submissons@xonecole.com
Featured image by Getty Images
- Living with Fibroids – PaSean Wilson-Ashley's Story | Compare UF ›
- When Erin Robinson's Fibroid Pain Got Real, She Chose Story Over ... ›
- My Fibroid Story - Dr. Bruce B. Lee ›
- HOPE, LIES, AND UTERINE FIBROIDS | MY STORY — VELVET LOPE ›
- One Woman's Story of Treating Heavy Bleeding and Fibroids - The ... ›
- My Crazy Fibroid Surgery Story (Graphic Content) - YouTube ›
RELATED
While speaking to xoNecole, Eva shares that she’s a lot like the beloved 1994 character in many ways. “Lyric is so me. She's the odd flower. A flower nonetheless, but definitely not a peony,” she tells us.
“She's not the average flower you see presented, and so she reminds me of myself. I'm a sunflower, beautiful, but different. And what I loved about her character then, and even more so now, is that she was very sure of herself.
"Sure of what she wanted in life and okay to sacrifice her moments right now, to get what she knew she deserved later. And that is me. I'm not an instant gratification kind of a person. I am a long game. I'm not a sprinter, I'm a marathon.
America first fell in love with Eva when she graced our screens on cycle 3 of America’s Next Top Model in 2004, which she emerged as the winner. Since then, she's ventured into different avenues, from acting on various TV series like House of Payne to starring on Real Housewives of Atlanta.
Je-Caryous Johnson Entertainment
Eva praises her castmates and the play’s producer, Je’Caryous for her positive experience. “You know what? Je’Caryous fuels my audacity car daily, ‘cause I consider myself an extremely audacious woman, and I believe in what I know, even if no one else knows it, because God gave it to me. So I know what I know. That is who Je’Caryous is.”
But the mom of three isn’t the only one in the family who enjoys acting. Eva reveals her daughter Marley has also caught the acting bug.
“It is the most adorable thing you can ever see. She’s got a part in her school play. She's in her chorus, and she loves it,” she says. “I don't know if she loves it, because it's like, mommy does it, so maybe I should do it, but there is something about her.”
Overall, Eva hopes that her contribution to the role and the play as a whole serves as motivation for others to reach for the stars.
“I want them to walk out with hope. I want them to re-vision their dreams. Whatever they were. Whatever they are. To re-see them and then have that thing inside of them say, ‘You know what? I'm going to do that. Whatever dream you put on the back burner, go pick it up.
"Whatever dream you've accomplished, make a new dream, but continue to reach for the stars. Continue to reach for what is beyond what people say we can do, especially as [a] Black collective but especially as Black women. When it comes to us and who we are and what we accept and what we're worth, it's not about having seen it before. It's about knowing that I deserve it.”
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
Let’s make things inbox official! Sign up for the xoNecole newsletter for love, wellness, career, and exclusive content delivered straight to your inbox.
Feature image by Leon Bennett/WireImage
Fortunately, five simple words have simplified my dating process and ushered in clarity faster: “Would my husband do this?”
A couple of years ago, I met an entertainment lawyer who was tonguing down a twenty-something-year-old woman for breakfast while I slurped my green smoothie and chomped on a flatbread sandwich. Okay, Black love, I grinned and thought as I sauntered out of the Joe & The Juice. As soon as I stepped down from the front door, a torrential downpour of Miami summer rain cascaded and throttled me back inside to wait out the storm.
I grabbed a hot green tea and vacillated between peering out the wet door and anxiously checking my watch. My lengthy agenda started with attending the Tabitha Brown and Chance Brown’s “Black Love” panel, and I was already late. That’s when the lawyer introduced himself to me, after he made a joke about neither one of us wanting to get soaked by the rain. His female companion had braved the storm, leaving us to find our commonalities.
We both lived in L.A. and had traveled to the American Black Film Festival to expand our network. He represented various artists, including entertainment writers, while I was working as a writer/creative producer in Hollywood.
While there is no shortage of internet advice on how to strategically meet a prominent man at conferences, if I spend my hard-earned funds on career growth, I have tunnel vision, and that doesn’t include finding Mr. Right. So, I stowed his contact details away as strictly professional.
Keep It Cute Love And Hip Hop GIFGiphyAs the humidity and mosquitoes were rising around L.A., two months later, another suitor-turned-terrible match cooled off after three unimpressive dates and a bevy of red flags. I posted what some of my friends called a thirst trap, but it was really me wearing a black freakum jumpsuit with a plunging neckline to my friend’s 35th birthday soiree despite feeling oh, so unsexy and bloated on my cycle.
I’d been waiting to post a sassy caption and finally had the perfect picture to match: “You not asking for too much, you just asking the wrong MF.”
That’s when the entertainment lawyer swooped into my DMs and asked me to dinner. I was quite confused. Is he asking me on a date? Or is this professional? Common sense would’ve picked the former. Once it clicked that this would in fact be a date, I told my mentor, who’s been happily married for over twenty years and has often been a guiding light and has steered me away from the wrong men.
Upon telling him about how we met, he emphatically stated, “He ain’t it.” He followed up with a simple question, "You have to ask yourself: Would my husband do this? Would you tell others that you met your husband, tonguing down another woman, and later married him?"
Aint It No Way GIF by UFCGiphyOuch. The thought-provoking question cleared any haze. Prior to going out with the lawyer, the first thing I inquired about was the woman.
“You saw that?” He said, taken aback that I’d witnessed his steamy PDA. Surely, anyone with two open eyes peeped him caressing her backside as he kissed her in the middle of the coffee shop.
He brushed her off as a casual someone he’d gone on a couple of dates with but had since stopped talking to. He said he hadn’t been in a serious relationship in over three years. Though I was still doubtful, dating in L.A. is treacherous and ephemeral. Making it past three months is considered a rarity.
With my antennae alert, I dined with him at a cozy beachside steakhouse restaurant where we were serenaded by a live jazz band. I’d emphasized forming a platonic friendship first.
Break Up Friendship GIF by TLCGiphy“I’ll come to you,” he obliged. I liked that he had made me a priority by driving over 50 miles to see me. I also liked the effort he made to check in with me daily. But I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that he initiated on a professional pretense and then alley hooped through the back door on a romantic venture, which bombarded me with confusion.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my dating life, God is not the author of confusion; any man who brings confusion, rather than clarity, is simply not The One. It doesn’t matter how many boxes he checks–eventually, that confusion will manifest itself into bigger problems, in time.
After diving into deeper conversations on the phone, post our first dinner date, I quickly realized this man was indeed not The One for me. But I’m grateful for the valuable lesson I learned.
I don’t expect some unattainable fairytale of a husband; we all have our own flaws and conflict is inevitable, but after dating for two decades, through failure and success, I’ve realized that the person I ultimately marry must mirror the values I exert into the world. He must reciprocate kindness, patience, and respect. He must be quick to listen and slow to respond. He needs to be forgiving and trustworthy, practice healthy communication, and be a man of his word at the bare minimum.
If I’d had “Would my husband do this?” in my toolbox when I was dating and floundering in stagnant relationships, in my twenties, it would’ve saved me a lot of precious time. But now that I’m equipped with the reminder, it’s allowed me to ground myself in my non-negotiables and set/maintain the standard for the special person, I’ll one day say, “I do,” to.
Let’s make things inbox official! Sign up for the xoNecole newsletter for love, wellness, career, and exclusive content delivered straight to your inbox.
Featured image by stockbusters/Getty Images