I was 10 when I started feeling the pain, but well into adulthood before anyone believed me

February 26, 2026 — 12:30pm

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One hundred and twenty-seven. That’s precisely how many grey speckled dots are on the ceiling of my primary school sickbay.

I’m 10 years old and lying down on a scratchy bed, knees pressed to my chest with rattled breaths trying to choke back tears while I wait for my mum to pick me up, again.

I’d got my first period a few months earlier and had quickly become a habitual visitor to the sickbay and an expert dot counter to pass the time. A teacher, who exchanged a pointed look with the school receptionist upon seeing me, walked into the sickbay and knelt down beside me.

“You can’t keep doing this Hannah,” she said squeezing my hand sympathetically. “You need to remember you’re not actually sick. This is very normal, something every woman goes through.”

Nearly 15 years later, this memory stays with me. It’s a pivotal reminder of my journey with chronic pain and the struggle to be believed.

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