Women Whose Fire Runs Wild: A Journey of Remission from Endometriosis
Picture from Harsh Palkar on Unsplash.
Living with endometriosis felt like a struggle. An everyday fight. A never ending war.
It felt like being on constant alert—watching for a fire ready to ignite and destroy everything in its path. It flared up like a flame, ready to knock me off course at any moment. I felt like a victim of circumstance. Helpless. Powerless.
Small shifts began to take place when I realized that the fire I feared the most was actually mine.
Tongue Tied — The Ultimate Survival Guide
Most of my life, I’ve been obsessed with fitting in.
My family was the first institution I desperately wanted to assimilate into.
Though, my little troublesome personality didn’t help: a feisty girl who loved biking down stairs and disrupting her schoolteachers' classes. An outspoken little being who called out lies and illusions whenever I saw them. A freedom of expression that seemed challenging for my parents to hold.
A freedom of expression that illuminated the ways they were not being truthful. The ways their own authentic voices had been denied by their parents. A freedom that reminded them of the pain of not being themselves, of the self-hate they used to cope in an environment where their very existence was perceived as a threat. They projected this self-antagonism onto each other, and anyone who triggered that pain. Many times, I got caught in the crossfire of my warring parents.
As I grew up, I too began to deny myself in order to belong and feel safe. I became withdrawn, stopped speaking my truth, and became best friends with silence. I vowed never to get close to rage, never to speak about the chaos of my home.
I vowed not to "drag my family through the mud."
I stayed loyal to my family by staying silent, holding my tongue for decades. I started to lie to them, to myself. I lied when I said I was okay.
That was the beginning of a very destructive cycle.
A cycle I desperately tried to avoid.
A cycle of dehumanization.
The Cost of Silence — The Inflamed & Raging Body
I started to live life on autopilot and became a good girl. I ticked all the boxes: the right schools, the respectable jobs, the comfortable flats. But inside, everything was fragile. Emotions ran high and low—from deep depression to rage, burnout, and, at times, pure apathy. Some months, my periods would sometimes bring me to the floor, cursing at the world.
A world I hated. A world I didn’t want to be part of. A world that had never felt safe. The truth is, I was deeply disappointed. Because deep down, I knew: I had betrayed myself. The parts that once stood for truth had vanished. I traded integrity for safety, loyalty, and the empty comfort of being accepted.
But the cracks were showing. The mask I wore was no longer protecting me. And yet, the thought of removing it felt just as dangerous.
I felt stuck.
Not just in silence but in the lie I was living.
Its weight made me heavier and bitter.
Out of desperation, I raged.
At the world. At my past. Mostly, at myself.
At times I ignored the fire.
Then I fought it again.
Burned out.
And still, I clung to the flames.
I was unaware that my desire for retribution was the fuel behind those wildfires—an attempt to punish those who had hurt me, though the flames only consumed me.
At times, the wildfire grew out of control.
And I destroyed the things I cherished most:
my health,
my peace,
my relationships.
Coming Home — The Transgenerational Body
For my 30th birthday, I visited Kinshasa for the first time. A country I had mostly known through my family and its diaspora. I loved meeting my relatives and the people overall: they were kind-hearted, funny, and so generous. I found myself cherishing the small moments of being surrounded by my mother and my aunt. Despite the structural challenges of the city and the buzzing energy of survival, my aunt was full of life—an aliveness in strong contrast with her precarious situation.
In that contrast, something shifted in me. On the surface, it seemed I had everything in Europe: material comfort, stability. But I felt depleted and lifeless. That trip became a turning point. Afterward, I started singing again. Just for me. Just for fun.
Then came 2020, a difficult year marked with loss, but also one of my most creative. I started experimenting with intermittent fasting, more nourishing home cooked meals and several healing modalities. Yoga helped me a little but didn’t help loosen my needs for control. Acupuncture and massage therapy helped me calm my mind and nervous system.
But family constellations were the missing piece for me.
I realized how my identity was shaped by my family and the generations before me. I dipped my toes into those waters but was wary to plunge fully. Thanks to this modality, I slowly regained access to my body and its grief. Grief that wasn’t just mine, but my parents’, and their parents’. Stories I hadn’t lived, but still carried in my bones. At times it was too much. I ran from the ache, from the weight of it. But it always found me again. Not as punishment, but as an invitation.
Eventually, I joined a systemic coaching program. Group settings had always been difficult. They mirrored the tribal pain of my family: the longing for belonging, the fear of rejection, the threat of visibility.
But I learned to stay.
To feel.
To let emotions move through me, even before I understood them.
Meaning would arrive later. On a long walk, in a warm bath, or in the quiet after tears.
The Purifying Fire — Road to Personal Truth
Only in recent months have I been able to approach my rage with curiosity. And it is nothing like I thought it was. As I welcomed it without judgment or fear, I began to recognize its tremendous power. It broke the spell of the stories that had kept me disempowered.
It cleared the fog.
I remembered.
I saw clearly.
I saw ghosts lingering in my home.
The ghosts of old hurts and betrayals.
The ghosts of relationships that couldn’t be repaired.
The ghosts of dreams and babies that never came to life.
Wounds and traumas passed down through generations.
Fantasies of retaliation that would never be fulfilled.
A haunting reminder of what once was and what will never be.
And as I acknowledged and honored the past, I knew: It was time to destroy the foundation of a home built on self-hatred and denial. I wept for the consequences of those destructive, dehumanizing cycles. For the collateral damage they created. And in my grief, I unknowingly began a new cycle.
A cycle of regeneration and restoration.
Presence became my new foundation.
Fluid, yet reliable.
Water taught me how to contract.
Fire taught me how to expand.
Together, they taught me how to be alive.
I began to envision a home nourished by the fire of my truth. Practicing truth-telling is one of the most potent medicines. It has liberated my heart. I found peace and a sense of justice in affirming what is true to me, without needing anything outside of me to change.
Now that I am more anchored in the present, I know I have a choice: to fuel this fire with the resentment of past hurts or with the seeds of trust that will flourish in the next season.
Shedding Old Skin — The Beginning of Fall Season
The endometrium is the soft tissue or membrane lining the uterus.
It contains the nutrients needed to ensure the proper nesting and nourishment of future embryos. Symbolically, endometriosis resembles a home that isn’t supportive, nourishing, or protective.
A home divided and dispersed. A home too difficult to nest in, so we grow homesick and begin to search for home outside of ourselves. It could be a loss of home through disaster, war, or genocide. A loss of the ideal home, marked by divorce. An attack on one of our closest homes: our body. A pain so profound it touches our very integrity. We silence that pain and the survival rage that comes with it , just to get by. But in doing so, we begin to deny our own existence.
Endometriosis revealed to me the stories, the limiting beliefs, and the ways of being I’ve outgrown. It showed me how I found comfort in the old version of myself.
The version that felt helpless and disempowered.
The version that repressed her emotions.
The version that favored lies over truth.
It asked me not to judge myself for the immense grief I carry. Not to shame myself for the tremendous rage lodged in my jaw. But instead, to see these emotions as evidence of my deep humanity, and to use them as fuel to help me shed my old skin.
As I do, I bring life back to a body that had gone cold.
Cold from years of repressed fire.
Endometriosis came as a messenger. It says: “do not fear nor resist the fire. Let it initiate you”. A call to tend the fire of the most fiery organ: the heart.
Writing and singing from the heart have become my nourishment. So has surrounding myself with people and places that soothe or ignite my aliveness. Doing things wholeheartedly—or not at all. And as I follow that rhythm, everything begins to fall apart… so it can fall into place.
Despite the great unknown, I am now welcoming this new season.
Choosing compassion when needed,
Clarity when called for,
And truth over performance.
I am not healed in the way we often expect.
But I am whole.
And that wholeness is sacred.