“You know, if you’d stop eating all those donuts and Frappuccinos, you wouldn’t be gaining weight.”
That’s what my doctor said to me once. And no, this wasn’t some offhand comment—it was during an appointment where I was already vulnerable, already trying to make sense of the changes happening in my body.
As a teenager, I was put on birth control because my periods were anything but normal. I’d get about six a year—sometimes lasting a week, sometimes two. They could appear every other month or skip long stretches altogether. They were painful enough to keep me from playing sports or focusing in school, and for a long time, I thought this was just how periods were supposed to be. When I finally opened up about it, my parents and doctor recommended birth control to manage the pain. And for a while, it worked. My periods became more predictable, less agonizing, and life felt manageable. I still had occasional brutal cycles, but overall, I felt better. College came and went without major issues, and I thought I was set—until I moved to Chicago for a new job and had to find a new doctor.
A co-worker referred me to a fancy women’s health clinic, and I was excited. My new doctor seemed smart, professional, and trustworthy. She suggested I try the NuvaRing, convinced that it might finally “fix” the lingering irregularity in my cycles. I agreed, but after three months, I felt… wrong. Anxious, depressed, emotionally unmoored—I didn’t recognize myself. I asked to go back to my old prescription. She told me to give it more time, that my body needed to balance. I left agreeing to the plan, but months went by, and nothing changed. To make things worse, she pressured me into an STD test during the appointment, insinuating my partner might be cheating—despite me being in a committed relationship. I left with a prescription I didn’t want, and a seed of fear about my relationship I never asked for.
Eventually, I decided to stop using birth control altogether. I figured there were other ways to prevent pregnancy, and at least this way, my hormones might finally feel normal. And at first, they did. I felt like myself again—but my old teen-periods came back with a vengeance. Painful cramps, heavy flow, clots… the familiar discomfort returned. I tried to settle into this new normal, but as an adult, a new issue appeared: I began gaining weight rapidly. Within a year, I had put on around 20 pounds. When I finally returned to the doctor—something I had delayed far too long, especially with a family history of breast cancer—I was met not with guidance, but judgment. She wasn’t happy that I had stopped the NuvaRing. She offered no solutions other than fat-shaming. And then came the infamous line about donuts and Frappuccinos. I left in tears, vowing never to return.
I started avoiding the doctor, focusing on learning to love myself at a new weight—about 60 pounds heavier at that time. But I knew I needed a doctor who could actually listen, someone I could trust for future health concerns, including pregnancy.
I found a new clinic. My first appointment there? The head doctor reviewed my file and, once again, fat-shamed me. He suggested I keep a food and exercise journal to figure out why I was gaining weight. I tried everything—counting calories, cutting gluten—but nothing worked. Eventually, I caught the flu and had no choice but to see him again. This time, I was seen by a nurse practitioner. She was kind, listened, and for the first time in over a decade, I didn’t leave a doctor’s office feeling ashamed of my body.
Over time, I returned to her for my annual exam. I had gained even more weight—about 80 pounds total—and finally brought it up. She suggested testing my thyroid. Blood work came back normal. Healthy, she said. But I still didn’t feel like myself. I was uncomfortable in my own body, frustrated, and even started convincing myself that a tumor must be the cause.
When we started trying to conceive, she referred me to an OBGYN with more experience. This was the turning point. My new doctor asked thoughtful questions, reviewed my history carefully, and weeks later confirmed what changed everything: I have PCOS. She explained that it isn’t diagnosed with a single test but by tracking symptoms and ultrasounds showing cysts, and she recognized my pattern immediately. I felt relief, frustration, and anger all at once—relief to finally have an answer, frustration at the years of body shame, and anger at the times I had been told I was at fault.
Since then, my doctor has continued to guide me. Along the way, I also discovered I have endometriosis and a bicornate uterus. Life continues to be a journey of learning, self-love, and advocating for my health. I hope sharing my story encourages others to find providers who listen, believe, and help, instead of shaming. There is always hope, and it is never too late to take control of your health.
