The Weekend Everything Started to Break
May 31, 2025.
Friday morning, I sat staring at a strategy deck I couldn't finish. My body was in complete revolt. My hands were shaking. I felt every emotion at once: dread, fear, failure, empowerment, desperation, exhaustion, depletion.
One thought cut through the noise: "You did this to yourself."
Then: "I can't do this anymore. Physically, emotionally, professionally."
For the first time in 25 years, I didn't finish what I started. I wrote an email. Not an apology. Just truth: "I wasn't able to complete this. Here's what is needed to move forward without me."
I hit send and left work. But I didn't go home.
I went to the hospital. I was too sick.
Our dream family vacation to Dubai was days away, and I was terrified we'd have to cancel. That weekend was a blur of hospital visits. Back and forth. They ran tests, gave me antibiotics for an antibiotic-resistant UTI that wasn't responding to treatment, and eventually cleared me to travel.
They should not have cleared me to travel.
But I had something more important coming up first.
The Appointment That Changed Everything
June 2, 2025.
Monday morning. I had an appointment with a specialist I'd waited four months to see. Four months of hoping someone would finally understand. Four months of my body getting worse while I waited for this single appointment.
My regular gynecologist had referred me to a urogynecologist who specialized in endometriosis excision and could also address my interstitial cystitis concerns. I knew I had to make this appointment count.
So I took everything—all the notes, all the data, all the information I'd been tracking for years across multiple apps and scraps of paper—and I put it together using what I'd learned at work.
I used the data to tell the story.
I cobbled it together. I analyzed it. I looked for patterns across months of information. And finally, they emerged clearly:
- Intense workouts were a major trigger.
- High-stress periods correlated with severe flares.
- Certain cycle phases were predictable disaster zones.
When I could see everything together—organized and comprehensive—the story became undeniable.
I walked into her office not just with complaints, but with concrete data. Evidence. Patterns. Proof.
She could see the full picture. She could understand the complexity. She could make informed recommendations because I had shown her the evidence.
For the first time in years, I had a doctor who took me seriously and could actually help.
The Plan (And Why I Ignored the Warning Signs)
She put me on a treatment plan. We scheduled surgery for August to address the endometriosis.
Two days later, I left for Dubai with "just in case" antibiotics. Because I wasn't ready to surrender what I'd worked for. I thought this dream vacation would finally prove I was worthy.
I knew I'd be limited in pain relief options in the UAE. But I figured I'd be okay. I'd be on vacation. It would be low stress.
So I packed Motrin and my heating pad. My beloved, life-saving heating pad.
I had no idea what was coming.