It Wasn’t Just My Uterus.

When I had my hysterectomy, people acted like I had only lost an organ. Like it was this one physical thing removed and now I should just move on — maybe be a little sore, maybe have some hormone shifts, but otherwise be "grateful" it was done.

But it wasn’t just my uterus. It was so much more than that.

It was the loss of future moments I had dreamed of since I was a little girl. The quiet ones, like rubbing my belly and feeling a tiny kick. The loud ones, like hearing a baby cry for the first time — and knowing they were crying for me. It was the baby clothes I used to glance at while shopping and imagine filling a dresser with. The names saved in a phone note, now collecting digital dust. It was my image of myself as a mom — soft, tired, glowing, fulfilled. I lost that version of me too.

It was also my identity. I didn’t realize how much of my womanhood felt tied to my ability to carry life until it was taken from me. Suddenly I wasn’t just grieving motherhood — I was questioning whether I was still “whole.” Still woman enough. Still wanted. Still seen.

People like to jump to the silver linings. “At least you don’t have to worry about periods anymore.” “Now you can travel without kids!” “You can always adopt!” And while I know most mean well, those words don’t touch the kind of loss this is. Because when your uterus is removed, especially at a young age, it doesn’t feel freeing — it feels cruel. Like a part of your story got ripped out before you even had a chance to live it.

It wasn’t just my uterus. It was my hormones, my stability, my confidence, my sense of direction. It was the fantasy of one day being called “Mom.” It was the way I used to move through the world — with options. Now every Mother’s Day, every baby shower, every innocent comment of “someday when you have kids…” hits like a punch I can’t fully explain.

And yet, here I am. Still healing. Still showing up. Still trying to figure out who I am now — not just who I thought I’d be.

So no, it wasn’t just my uterus. It was a part of my future. A part of my identity. A part of me. And I deserve to grieve it fully.

If you’ve been there — or are there now — I see you. And I promise, you are still whole. You are still worthy. And you are absolutely not alone.