Hormones, the pill, and PCOS: Eden's story #27

A guest essay on discovery and healing

Jul 09, 2023

Hello lovely people,

Today’s newsletter features Eden Avery, a California native who loves people and words — and naturally, unpacking the human experience through writing.

I hope her PCOS story helps you feel less lonely in your experience and her beautiful way of writing brings you along on a story of courage, discovery and healing. Please don’t hesitate to leave a ❤️ or comment if you have enjoyed reading Eden’s story.

She writes a a weekly newsletter, girlhood, where she explores our inner and outer worlds. I would highly recommend subscribing.

Without further ado, to Eden:

My PCOS story started with my skin.

A few months after my twenty-second birthday, a handful of spots arrived in August, followed in September by an explosion of angry red bumps across my face, chest, and back. As summer turned to fall, I tried to shoo them away: I gulped water, changed my pillowcases, and washed my face like clockwork. Still, they stayed.

Each morning when I woke up, I would run my hands over my face to feel what spots had made an entrance overnight. They were painful, itchy, and embarrassing — especially at a time when I was entering the workforce and wanted to be taken seriously. And so on a blustery October afternoon, I stomped into CVS and piled my basket with soap, toners, and pimple patches: shiny packs of translucent stars and circles that promised to calm the flares.

Nothing worked.

Instead of improving, my skin gradually became worse. By November, the breakouts began to erode my confidence; on especially bad days, I would cancel plans and talk myself out of reaching out to friends.

I wish I knew they were trying to tell me something.

In July, I had quit the birth control pill after a 7-years-long relationship. I had been using hormonal contraceptives since I was 15 years old, when I was told they could help fix my irregular periods. After so long together, I figured it was time for a break.

But as winter approached, months ticked on and my period was nowhere to be found. My skin had become a mess. I also felt an underlying sadness starting to wrap me up like a blanket — but I figured my body was just detoxifying after so many years on the pill.

In December, depression descended like a roommate: unshakeable, cold, gray. My weight began climbing, I outgrew my favorite jeans; everything felt tight. My hair felt different, too: a darker shade of brown, unruly, unfamiliar.

In January, I stopped sleeping: insomnia kept my mind and heart racing as I lay in bed, eyes bleary, falling asleep once the sky became purple and birds woke up. I’d wake up shortly after, my head filled with cement. My mind was both jittery with anxiety and slow with sleeplessness.

It felt like my world was spinning off its axis. I began to feel like a stranger in my own body.

I reached out to my doctor, explaining my period had disappeared for six months now. She suggested restarting the pill. I was reluctant: the pill might bring relief to my symptoms, but not answers. And I really wanted answers.

So I pulled out my laptop and found a naturopath specializing in women’s health and hormones. During our first appointment, she recommended an arsenal of supplements: licorice root, zinc, myo-inositol, turmeric, vitamin A, probiotics. She hoped they would help my body rediscover its natural balance.

But after a few months and many capsules, not much changed. Any improvements usually turned out to be a lucky break in the storm until the symptoms came roaring back a few days later. So my medical quest continued.

It led me to a functional medicine practitioner based in Beverly Hills who I’d heard could work wonders. During our appointment, I took eager notes. He recommended a juice cleanse, and then told me I’d be “cured” if I stuck to an austere list of what I could eat for the rest of my life, which was small enough to fit on an index card. It omitted red apples, because they were too high in carbohydrates. So were sweet potatoes. No cheese, or rice, or wine, or bananas. The list recommended portioned amounts of seeds, berries and bitter greens, ideally paired with four ounces of plain chicken breast. Oh, and water. Forever. And ever.

I clicked off the video visit with tears welling in my eyes. What about brunch? And weddings? And Sunday night dinners with my family? I was only 22 years old. What about my social life? What about freaking bananas?! If I hadn’t been depressed before, I definitely was now. Maddeningly, I also felt back at square one, without any answers — just a fair bit poorer.

And in between all of these inquiries was time. Each appointment required bloodwork and labs to test vitamin and hormone levels, and those required their own separate appointments and processing periods. Then, a provider would recommend a course of action to try for two to three months, to see if it could help. Meanwhile, I felt like I was dying inside — and would have given anything to feel like myself again.

I couldn’t concentrate at work. Too often, I found myself curled up in bed, cheeks wet with tears. I lost my energy for friendships, for hobbies, for play. For dating, for parties, for the things that make life worth living. I felt afraid to go back on the pill and afraid not to. I felt lost.

Finally, just before my twenty-third birthday, a gynecologist recommended I take pelvic ultrasound. When the results came back, they pointed to a diagnosis: PCOS, or polycystic ovarian syndrome.

This news brought both the levity of relief and weight of shut doors.

The relief: My symptoms were backed by science. They had a name. I was not crazy, and I was not alone — PCOS affects one out of ten women of reproductive age.

The crushing, heart-wrenching bit: PCOS is incurable, and a leading cause of female infertility. Having a family — a certainty which I had always taken for granted — evaporated into a question mark. Could I have a family? Would it be just as painful as the past year? Even harder?

What was wrong with me?

My mind swam with questions.

For the better part of a year, PCOS had unraveled my life: my emotions, my mental health, my physical self. I was in a terrified awe of hormones. I’d watched them wreck my sleep, my moods, my relationships, everything. I had never felt less sure of myself — how could I trust myself, and my body, when it had betrayed me in so many ways?

With my sense of self shattered, choosing a direction felt hard. Diagnosis in hand, I faced a crossroads: to go back on the pill, which felt like admitting defeat, or keep on trying — with no guarantee that it would work — to heal ‘naturally.’ Which, so far, had done nothing but drain my bank account and squash my social life.

I had spent the year feeling severed from myself. To choose a way forward, I would need to rekindle a conversation with my intuition, my soul, the part of me that was quiet but wise.

So I hoisted myself out of bed and into the bathroom, resting my hands on the porcelain sink. Gripping both sides of the counter, I met my eyes in the mirror. Silently, I said: No matter what you choose, I love you. Over and over. Until I felt it in my bones. Until it felt true.

This unconditional love would prove essential to healing my relationship with my mind and body, my relationship with myself, after a year of so much turmoil.

For months, I had been tucked into a nook of fear and uncertainty, paralyzed with indecision.

Until a voice pierced through. It rose through my chest: Hey, girlfriend. What are we still doing here?! We’ve been miserable for long enough, thank you very much! Let’s boogie on OUT of here!

She hoisted me up from under my shoulders and dusted me off and patted my back and shoved me firmly towards the door, where light shone through just beyond my dark little cave. She motioned with her head, tugged at my hand. Atta girl. We have got places to be and people to SEE! This life isn’t gonna live itself!

I understood what she meant. Right now, taking the pill would not be admitting defeat. It would provide a path back to joy, back to myself.

That evening, I brought a packet of pills to the park. Sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket, flanked by my two best friends, I popped out a green tablet and hesitated only a second before placing it on my tongue, throwing my hands up in the air, and swallowing. We’ve got a life to live! The three of us raised our plastic cups of wine in a cheers: to the start of something new and imperfect but mercifully different. The start of a homecoming.

In the world of PCOS, there can be pressure — and implicit value judgment — to heal “naturally.” This could mean cutting out dairy and gluten or loading up on supplements or drinking hormone teas or eliminating alcohol or losing weight and all the things. If a combination of these changes works for you, that is absolutely wonderful. That is something to celebrate. But I also want to remind you that it’s okay if they don’t work for you, too.

Here is the thing: every body is different. We each possess different genetic makeups and upbringings and amounts of financial resources, time, and energy. Most of us have different goals, are enjoying different life stages. This means that what works for you now might not work for someone else, or might not work for you later, and that’s okay.

Taking the pill, or any other medicine, to relieve your symptoms, is perfectly okay. It does not meak you are weak or didn’t try hard enough. If Western medicine can contribute to your happiness and lived experience in your body, right now, that is absolutely something to celebrate too.

There is no shame in accepting the ‘easy’ solution. I wish I hadn’t been so stubborn about curing my symptoms ‘naturally,’ making myself miserable — and sort of broke — in the process. There are so many potential remedies out there. Try as many as you like! But remember that even with its shortcomings, modern medicine is a powerful tool that allows so many of us to lead fulfilling lives while also coexisting with inconvenient afflictions. My skin is calm. My mind is, too. My body is back to its natural rhythms. I recognise myself, I feel myself, I am myself. For that, I am so, so grateful.

A few weeks after my diagnosis, I sat down over coffee with an older friend who had PCOS — and two children. Her pregnancy, she said, had actually been easy. I pressed, “I hope this isn’t too personal, but did your diagnosis affect your decision to have kids? I mean, can’t PCOS be passed down to girls through genetics?” She sipped her latté and shrugged, “Sure, it’s a risk, but having PCOS really isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

I was like, Uh. It isn’t?

Maybe PCOS isn’t the worst thing in the world, but it can still really suck; when my PCOS was in full force, it was devastating. It took me months to rebuild my confidence, my mental peace, my appetite for life.

But now, with two years between me and my diagnosis and my symptoms managed, I often forget I even have PCOS. I feel wonderfully myself. I still wonder about pregnancy, but I know that if and when the time comes, I’ll be prepared to proactively reach out to a medical support team, to surround myself with loved ones who will help me through the journey, and that — who knows! — it might not be as bad as I think.

My experience also offered lessons:

Ask for help sooner. There is no dignity to be gained in white-knuckling it alone. Allow yourself to be supported.
The right people will always be there for you. Through thick and thin. Truly.
Time heals all. There is always a light at the end of the tunnel. Even if you can’t see it yet. Trust.
Treat others with kindness, always. You never know what somebody else is going through.
Most importantly, cultivating a connection with your intuition is invaluable. Our inner voice is infinitely wise, but its whisper is easily covered up and shouted over by the voices of co-workers, friends, influencers, family, the whole entire rest of the world. But your intuition holds divine intelligence. Give it space to breathe; allow yourself space to listen. Know that when given the chance, it will speak to you. It might pick you up and dust you off and point you gently towards a door. Allow yourself to be surprised.

While I was feeling alone in my PCOS journey, I soothed myself with stories of other women’s experiences. They provided me with so much comfort. They showed me a way out.

Being a human is messy, and beautiful, and really, really hard. But when we connect with, listen to, and support one another, we light the way forward. We remind each other that we are never really alone. I’d love to hear yours, too — what has been challenging and illuminating about your PCOS journey? What would you like to share with others?

Sending all my love always,

Eden