MA

My auntie didn’t struggle with infertility. She struggled with something quieter. She married young, 21, to a man everyone described as stable. Good job. Polite. From a decent family. Within a year, she was pregnant. Everyone congratulated her like she had unlocked the next level of life. But the pregnancy was difficult. She was constantly exhausted, dizzy, in pain. At every appointment, she said something felt wrong. Every time, she was told, “That’s normal. You’re just anxious.” During labor, there were complications. She remembers alarms going off. Nurses rushing. Then silence. She survived. The baby survived. After that, she was never the same. She lived with chronic pain. Severe fatigue. She could not stand for long without feeling faint. Yet every follow up visit ended the same way. “You’re fine.” “You just need rest.” “It’s probably hormones.” Her husband began complaining that she was not the same woman he married. He called her lazy. Moody. Dramatic. He said other women recover faster. Years passed. She forced herself through it. Cooked. Cleaned. Smiled at family gatherings while taking painkillers in private. In her late 30s, after collapsing at work, a new specialist finally ran proper tests. Untreated complications from childbirth. Internal damage that had been missed for years. She was not weak. She was not dramatic. She was not failing. She had simply been dismissed. Some women are told they are overreacting. Sometimes the truth is someone chose not to listen.