Starshine Roots

When the doctor told me about the cyst on my ovary, over the next few hours, my chest became tight and constricted and I started to experience sharp pain at the back of my heart space.

My body was shielding my heart from the impending hurt, a physical manifestation of unresolved trauma still stuck in my body. As I tuned into the pain and discomfort, I sensed a ghost from my past resurfacing.

Facing Endometriosis

In hospital, after a laparoscopy for endometriosis — Over 13 years ago, I struggled with the diagnosis of Endometriosis.

The chronic pelvic pain became a source of shame, a stinking hangover from a society that often judges women's bodies and their choices.

Sometimes it even felt our very existence was questioned - unless we were fulfilling the traditional roles of a mother, caregiver, homemaker.

Growing up in Northern Ireland, where the patriarchy runs deep, I felt this shame acutely. Everywhere I went, this heavy oppression followed, instilled by Sunday school teachers, Girls Brigade leaders, and educators. Even a quick trip to the local shop became a journey through judgmental stares for wearing tight, ripped jeans and flaunting my untamed big curly hair.

It's ironic, considering it was the 90s – a time when the rest of the UK seemed to be revelling in sexual liberation; demonstrated by shows on Channel 4's controversial late-night lineup. It felt worlds away from our reality in Northern Ireland.

My wild curls were another battleground. In the Presbyterian community I grew up in, neatness was next to godliness, and my hair, refusing to be tamed, was a silent rebellion.

When I was finally allowed to grow my enforced cropped hair cut out, I let it flow freely down to my waist.

This was one my ways of giving a figurative ‘two fingers' to the restraints I felt, embracing the freedom and individuality celebrated in the rest of the UK at that time – a stark contrast to my experiences in Northern Ireland.

As I entered my 30s while living in Birmingham, the impacts of this repression surfaced in a more physical form. In my darkest moments, I believed that my pelvic pain was a punishment for my sexual history. This belief partly stemmed from the so-called ‘sex education’ we received, which was only about imposing control rather than providing any actual knowledge.

We were given archaic ‘advice’ like 'holding a penny between our knees and not letting it drop.' It ingrained a message that any perceived misstep was our fault, showcasing the age-old narrative of Eve as the temptress. It reinforced the notion that we, as girls, were responsible for leading others astray just by our very nature.

It was a harrowing time, where the absurdity
of self-blame overshadowed the truth of my experiences.

Sound therapist on a healing journey — But as I reflect on my healing journey over the last decade, I've come to understand that endometriosis was not a result of my sexual history.

Instead, it was deeply tied to the repression of my creativity and sexuality.

This revelation has been a crucial part of my healing, allowing me to see beyond the misplaced blame and acknowledge the true roots of my pelvic pain.

For many years now, sex has been a critical part of my healing. It's helped me take back control and change fear into a space of deep connection and freedom.

This change has been huge for me, reshaping how I experience intimacy and see myself. I’ve found so much connection through expressing my sexuality and finding strength in being open and vulnerable.

Unearthing generational and collective trauma

But now, facing this cyst, I realise it's not only about me. It's about generations of women before me – our shared legacy of muted voices, and constrained freedoms. This cyst, though a burden, has become an unexpected catalyst for releasing deep-seated trauma, unlocking the stories and struggles of my ancestors.

Irish women and ancestral trauma — I am increasingly aware of how my personal story is deeply connected with the broader narrative of women in Ireland and Northern Ireland.

This collective history is one of struggle and resilience, marked by both oppression and the pursuit of autonomy.

Northern Ireland's unique political landscape presented distinct challenges. Despite being part of the United Kingdom, it upheld some of the most restrictive abortion laws in the West for years. The UK's 1967 Abortion Act didn't apply there, leading to harsh restrictions and dire consequences for women.

Many friends found themselves trapped in this harsh reality. I supported them in secret, scrounging for money and making clandestine plans, all of us feeling like criminals. This shared experience was not just our burden; it was a reflection of a deeper, ancestral trauma that spans generations.

All of this made me feel deeply terrified of sex.

The fear of being judged and the serious consequences of any ‘mistake’
surrounded us, deeply affecting how I felt and thought.

Recent years have seen changes, though these feel overdue. In 2019, reforms were mandated, leading to the 2020 Abortion Regulations. These permit abortions up to 12 weeks and in specific circumstances beyond.

Yet, for many, this progress, while significant, comes as a belated gesture in a long history of stringent control over women's bodies.

As I navigate my own challenges, I can feel that a lot of the pain and trauma I experience are part of a larger historical narrative of struggle and resilience.

This story of women, fighting against odds for their rights, bodies, and voices, is a legacy of strength and wisdom, fuelling my resolve to heal not just for myself, but in honour of those who came before me.