Content warning: This article mentions physical pain and the October 7^th attack in Israel.

I’ve had endometriosis for more than twenty terrifying and excruciating years. Endometriosis is a complex disease where tissue similar to that in the lining of the uterus grows in areas it doesn’t belong, and causes tremendous pain, inflammation, and other systemic challenges. Though more than 10% of womb-carriers have this disease, our modern medical system is just barely beginning to study its root causes and exacerbating mechanisms. So for years, I have been healing my body without much help from modern medicine — because it had no help to give. 

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And for so long, the beautiful ways I’d learned to tend to my body had been working! I had tried dozens of different dietary and lifestyle changes. I received pelvic massage,physical therapy, and acupuncture, worked with supplements and medications, and ate as healthfully as I could. I focused on balancing my hormones, supporting my detox pathways, reducing my stress, and prioritizing mindfulness. I practiced somatic therapy and embodiment, tried various movement practices, and overall lived as anti-inflammatory a lifestyle as I could.I met with more doctors, nurses, and “specialists” than any person should ever have to meet, and finally landed with an endo belly expert coach, a naturopathic doctor, a primary care doctor, a gynecologist, and a pelvic floor physical therapist.  I hunted for and devoured both new and ancient health wisdom and any emerging information on the disease. Most importantly, I devotedly listened to and honored my body.

The only thing I hadn’t yet tried was surgery. Before I found this amazing team, none of my providers had even told me it was an option until more than 15 years after my pain started, and most stories I did hear reported even worse pain after surgery. Why would I risk it?

But when, after years of doing everything “right,” my horrific endometriosis pain came back worse than it ever had, I needed a more radical path to my well-being. I was going to undertake the nerve-wracking uphill battle to find more solutions in modern medicine — but I was going to do it my way, honoring the methods of herbal, intuitive, and ancestral healing that had been such powerful allies for me along the way. 

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If I was going to let someone cut into my sacred body in a cold operating room, I was going to make it a ceremony. I would reclaim this daunting, inhuman experience as one of sovereignty and rebirth. In that desire, my body taught me profound lessons about what ceremony actually means — and how to surrender to the divine ceremony of the wheel of the year.

Deciding on Surgery — Forgiving and Letting Go in Tishrei, Reflecting and Committing in Cheshvan 

It was challenging for me as an herbalist and ritualist to admit to myself that my body needed to receive this kind of medicine. I was so proud of being able to heal myself up until that point! I thought about the joke where a man is stuck on his rooftop in a flood, and G-d sends him a lifeboat. The faithful man turns it away because he trusts that G-d is coming to save him. I knew I couldn’t turn away this last desperate opportunity for wellness, despite my fears.  

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The Hebrew month of Tishrei is all about forgiveness — we’re invited to reflect on where we’ve missed the mark and to forgive ourselves and others so as not to carry old patterns into the new year. I needed to forgive myself for the internalized narrative that I had “failed to heal properly” despite all my persistent efforts, a common narrative for people with chronic health challenges in our modern medical paradigm. I had to surrender to the need for more help and let go of some of my fear that surgery would cause more harm than good, in order to open myself to the possibility of healing in a new way.  

It’s not that I didn’t believe in surgery generally. I passionately believe that all of us deserve access to the entire spectrum of medicine. Each person should have the right to decide what path to healing is right for their body. I honored that core value in my work with my clients in my community herbalism practice, but it was hard to open myself to this path to healing in my own body. Until October 7, 2023. 

After October 7^th, I found myself enduring a massive cortisol spike. This unexpected stress response led to the most horrific endometriosis pain of my life. The pain was astronomical — so severe it was psychedelic. I felt like I was being ripped in two from the inside out. I was shaking violently, pouring sweat, vomiting uncontrollably, all for hours. The pain seized me so fully, I couldn’t even move my arms to reach for my phone to call for help. And I knew I couldn’t speak out loud to say anything even if I could. 

It was once I came out of that pain that I made the commitment to explore surgery. I was not willing to wait for another uncontrollable sociopolitical act of violence to cause me more of this physical pain. I wanted desperately to turn the fear and rage and grief within me into action, to make our world a more peaceful and safer place for all living beings. But for me to honor Tikkun Olam, the repair of our world, I needed to be well enough in my body to participate.

These are the gifts of Cheshvan. We reflect on the values we embraced in Tishrei and commit to them wholly so that we may live in their honor, not just for a month, but for the rest of the year — and hopefully beyond. 

Over the next many months, I searched for a surgeon who could be my lifeboat, even though I was skeptical and scared. Of course I was met with quips like, “Why did you wait so long to come to me?” — as if they were my savior — and “I can get you a year of relief and anyone telling you differently is lying to you.” I met other surgeons who wanted to strip my peritoneum entirely, the layer of tissue between my skin and my organs, in a dangerous scorched-earth attempt at “survival” — a strategy discouraged by the International Pelvic Pain Foundation. The Mayo Clinic wouldn’t even book me to see an endo specialist. These hurdles challenged my commitment, but my dedication to my body endured because of my values at the root of that dedication. 

Preparing for Surgery — Receiving and Surrendering in Sivan

I finally found a fantastic surgeon out of LA named Dr. Iris Keren Orbuch, who turns to surgery only as a last resort and as one component of a multi-pronged strategy for a life beyond endometriosis. Once I found her, I felt my body surrender — both in relief and in capitulation. I didn’t have to try so hard to function every day, relying on my ragged body to do all the work it could; I felt I could finally rely on an expert I trusted to receive healing help that might actually provide me relief and freedom. 

Sivan is the month when we’re invited to receive. It often takes bravery to surrender to receiving like this! During the holiday of Shavuot, we remember the desperation with which Moses had been navigating the desert, leading hundreds who had just won freedom from captivity in Egypt. On Mount Sinai, he received the wisdom of the Torah that gave him and his people the spirit they needed to persevere.

While my body surrendered, my community poured their spirit into me. They rallied for me in ways I never expected to receive. Friends arranged a meal train for me for my long recovery. Others sent me encouraging messages and prayers regularly, so I never felt alone. Other herbalists in my community put together nourishing blends for me to support me during recovery. At my Rosh Chodesh Well Circle a few weeks before surgery, a friend shared with me that she had also had this surgery years ago and that it changed her life. I teared up in relief. I felt more and more like I could surrender into hope. I felt the swell of community lifting me toward healing.

Surgery — Breaks and Burns in Tammuz 

When I arrived in LA for my surgery, I was determined to have a mikvah in the ocean. I was in the city where I was born, hoping to be reborn into a new and more vibrant life. I wanted to mark the occasion! I walked to the water as if the tide was pulling me in and didn’t stop until I put my feet in the cold Pacific — and then my body said, “No more.” With a twinge of grief, I listened to my body’s boundary. She knew the cold ocean water wasn’t the medicine I needed right now. I had learned the sacred art of listening to my body, even when it was challenging. So I took a few steps back and dropped my body onto the sand. I sat there catching my breath and feeling the bright salt air on my cheeks and asking the water to find me somehow, cleanse me somehow, even as I honored my body’s sacred “No, thank you” to her that day.

I walked back to my little Airbnb carrying the heavy bottles of Gatorade that my surgeon encouraged me to drink before surgery (even though I despise it). With this weight in each arm, I sweated the whole way back, only stopping when the plastic bag handles dug too sharply into my fingers and to catch my breath before lifting the weight again. This is what my body needed. Heat. Movement. Fire. Determination. It felt good to use my body and build that heat within me, knowing I wouldn’t be able to carry anything for at least six weeks after surgery, maybe more. I would need help with so much. I relished the reminder that I was strong and capable, though endo so often made me doubt it. 

In the following days, I made little strides toward ceremony where my body allowed.  I put together a little altar on the coffee table at the Airbnb, though I barely touched it once it was set up. I even tried to make the pre-surgery enema ceremonial. (That also did not go as planned.) And I asked a friend to pull Tarot cards for me — of course, they pulled the Tower and the Ace of Cups. I threw my head back and laughed. Complete destruction, razing it all to the ground, and a new beginning, birthing a new magical vessel of my body. How perfect. 

The night before surgery, I tried again with another little unofficial mikvah. In the steaming bathwater, I finally allowed myself to feel both the fear and rage I had been storing up within me, that I had this disease I couldn’t control and that I was about to be cut open to try to get relief from it. I left as much as I could of that fear and rage in the water that night. 

The morning of the surgery was quiet. Ginger, the housecat at the Airbnb, crawled into my lap and purred like a little blessing. The bamboo outside creaked and swayed in the breeze, bringing me into presence. Messages poured in from my community, full of love and prayers. My sister Shosh sent me the song “This Is the Day” (“your life will surely change”) by The The, which I played on repeat. At the hospital, a nurse handed me a Valium to calm my nerves, which gave me just enough courage to flirt with my hot anesthesiologist (who happened to be a fellow Persian) while I sat in my hospital bed in nothing but a blue-gray gown. 

The month of Tammuz in the Hebrew calendar is a pinpoint of high heat and blinding light, blazing through inescapable truths and sometimes even unavoidable emotion and hardship. The day of my surgery was the 17^th of Tammuz. On that day in our history, Moses smashed the first set of tablets in a burst of rage when he saw the Jewish people worshipping the Golden Calf (Ta’anit 4:6). It’s also when Apostomos burned the holy Torah, and when the walls of Jerusalem were finally breached by the Romans, on their way to destroy the Second Temple in 69 CE. Our people have a pattern on that exact day of breaks and burns. Of destruction before the steps we take to rebuild. 

When I woke up from surgery, I saw through bleary eyes that I was naked, and I could see the bandages and budding bruises all over my belly. The nurse told me I kept trying to rip the gown off. Of course I did. I was being reborn. 

Recovery — Wholeness & Brokenness, Destruction & Rebuilding, Death & Rebirth in Av

I could only take tiny, slow, shuffling steps for weeks after surgery. When I got to the foot of a stair, my brain short-circuited. I would send the message to my leg to lift, and it wouldn’t lift. I constantly had to remind myself my abdomen and pelvis were recovering from major surgery, so they would need to take time to relearn how to move. About a week later, after hours shuffling through busy airports and enduring a bumpy airplane ride, I finally arrived on my front doorstep at home in Denver, and my legs buckled underneath me. I collapsed before I could open the door. 

I didn’t feel reborn, shiny and new. I felt decrepit, incapable, and burdensome. I was using a cane to get around, when I could get around at all. And my brain couldn’t compute why my body wasn’t responding as she normally would to simple requests for movement.

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In the Hebrew month of Av, we hit rock bottom. We swim deeper and deeper into our grief from the 17th of Tammuz to Tisha B’Av, the day of both Temples’ destruction. But then, somehow, we bounce back, up to the highest heights on the joyful day of love that is Tu B’Av. Av asks for so much trust — that we will come through to the other side of three long weeks of grief. We must keep our eyes on the hope ahead of us. This is what recovery from surgery looks like, too. 

I was constantly reminded that I was not rebuilding alone. Even rebirth isn’t a solo journey. One person couldn’t rebuild the Temple by herself — when we work towards wholeness, it is meant to be in community. I received the huge gift of knowing that my community wanted my wellness, believed in my wellness, and was participating in my wellness. This is how wholeness and well-being should look for everyone, no matter what we’re struggling with, and even if we’re not struggling at all. I want everyone to know that gift. 

On the first day of my first period after the surgery, I burst into tears. I could stand! I even stayed on my feet long enough to make myself a pot of tea! It may sound trivial, but for me, and anyone with debilitating pain diseases, this was triumphant. This was the rebuilding, with a better and stronger foundation, after rebirth. And this early in my recovery, I knew it was only going to get better from there. 

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Evolution — Elul and Beyond

About a month after surgery, I went to my Well Circle’s Rosh Chodesh group. I danced under the starlight — carefully at first, until I found my body flowing as if it had always been that easy. That was the first time I was able to move freely since the surgery. It was my first full-bodied taste of freedom, of healing, of wholeness. 

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Since then, I have been in awe at how much my life has continued to evolve and align with the wheel of the year. In Elul (return, the spiral), I started to feel more and more at home in my body, rebuilding trust in her movements and beginning to let go of fear of the pain showing up. In Tishrei (at-one-ment), I finally felt safe enough to grieve all those years of pain and suffering and missing out on life. In Cheshvan (rooted and restored), I was able to travel and celebrate life again, feeling rejuvenated. I got to join a womb and voice retreat, be in a state of play with other womb-carriers, and truly participate and create. And in Kislev (miracles), hiking up a steep hill to see the sunset over Lake Trasimono in Umbria, Italy, surrounded by the steady love of olive trees, I began to remember the miracle of living and appreciate the miracle of my wellness. 

These days, I have so much more capacity for participating in Tikkun Olam. I finally have the energy and well-being to devote myself to my community herbalist and ritualist practice where I support fellow womb-carriers in their sovereignty, wellness, and liberation. Sharing my story is part of that endeavor. So, wherever you are in the wheel of the year when you read this, please take my story as a reminder to trust the unfolding of the spirals of time as best you can, return to loving community and the wisdom of your body, and remember that even when you may not see it, your life is already one big ceremony. 

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At The Well uplifts many approaches to Jewish practice. Our community draws on ancient Jewish wisdom, sometimes adapting longstanding practices to more deeply support the well-being of women and nonbinary people. See this article’s sources below. We believe Torah (sacred teachings) are always unfolding to help answer the needs of the present moment.

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Sources

5785 Hebrew Calendar, At The Well

Moon by Moon: A Guided Journal for a Year of Well-Being, At The Well

17th of Tammuz: History, Laws and Customs, Chabad.org

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Resources for Education about Endometriosis:

What is Endometriosis? – Dr Iris Kerin Orbuch

Beating Endo: How to Reclaim Your Life from Endometriosis by Iris Kerin Orbuch MD, Amy Stein DPT

ENDO WHAT? Documentary Film

Below the Belt Documentary Film

The Endo Belly Coach, Jessica Duffin

Hormone Intelligence, Aviva Romm, MD

The Endo Coalition

The Endometriosis Summit

Nancy’s Nook Endometriosis Education Facebook Page (this is how I found my surgeon, and the page is a go-to source for endo research, new treatments, and the best endo surgeons)

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