1. Let’s start with the classic: What’s your worst, funniest, or most awkward period story?

It would have to be the very first time I got my period. I was in intermediate, sitting in sewing class, when I realised what was happening, and of course, I didn’t have any period products in my bag. Too embarrassed to ask anyone for help, I made do with layers of folded toilet paper and tied my school jersey around my waist for the rest of the day. I was mortified. After class, I power-walked home the back way, cutting across the field and over a fence just to avoid running into anyone. Now that I think about it, it could have been so much worse to be honest!

2. What have you demystified about your female body that you wish you knew when you were younger?

For years, I believed that if a healthcare provider said my symptoms were normal, they must be. I’ve since learned that just because something is common, it doesn’t mean it should be ignored. Many of us are raised to trust medical professionals without question, even when our own bodies are telling us something different.

Now, after living in this body for over 30 years, I’ve become deeply attuned to its signals. Like so many women, I’ve noticed how observant we often are when it comes to changes in our bodies. Physically, emotionally, hormonally. Yet we’re still frequently dismissed or told to just deal with it. For those who aren’t as hyperaware, it’s even easier to stop asking questions and settle for inadequate answers.

The most powerful thing I’ve learned is that your lived experience matters. If something doesn’t feel right, it probably isn’t. Trust that inner knowing. If a doctor brushes you off or makes you feel small for asking questions, you are allowed to walk away. Seek a second opinion. Do your own research. Connect with others who’ve been through it. There is strength in community and in advocating for yourself.

You don’t need to wait for someone to validate your experience. You are the expert on your body. Keep asking until you get the care you deserve.

3. Have you been diagnosed with a women’s health condition?

Yes. I was diagnosed with Stage 2-3 / Type 4 Lipoedema and was later diagnosed with Stage 4 endometriosis.

For much of my life, I believed I was healthy. I had no reason to question anything. I was active, outdoorsy, and had never even stepped foot in a hospital for my own health. But in hindsight, signs were there all along, even before puberty.

Growing up in the mid-2000s, I was your typical tomboy. I was constantly playing hockey, biking everywhere, and generally thriving outside. But my body always looked and felt different. I was told I was just big-boned and carried more weight than others. Thigh chafing was a constant companion, to the point I dreaded going to the pool without board shorts and never wore a dress without bike shorts underneath (still to this day). I still remember crying through a Weet-Bix Triathlon, dealing with asthma, but also the pain of running in wet bike shorts on thighs that didn’t seem like they belonged to someone as active as I was.

Puberty hit early. My period arrived at age 11, but my body continued to shift in ways I couldn’t control. My legs kept getting bigger, even as I biked to school, worked a part-time job, and trained for sports. While my friends remained lean, I increasingly felt out of place. I was never petite, never pretty, and always struggling with insecurities about my shape.

I also struggled with very heavy periods throughout my teenage and early adult years. I was prescribed countless different contraceptive pills in an attempt to manage my cycle and symptoms. Looking back, I believe that jumping from one hormonal treatment to another may have made my hormonal situation worse. Lipoedema is known to worsen with hormonal shifts and inflammation, and I now suspect that these interventions may have contributed to its progression in my body.

By my early 20s, the changes became more pronounced. My legs grew disproportionately, my knees developed fat pads, my lower legs became heavy, and eventually my arms followed. I maintained a balanced diet and stayed active, but weight simply wouldn’t budge from certain areas, particularly my limbs.

It wasn’t until 2020, during the pandemic lockdowns, that I had the chance to slow down and pay more attention to my body. While scrolling through social media one day, I came across a video of a woman describing her experience with lipoedema, a chronic fat disorder I hadn’t heard of before. Her legs looked remarkably similar to mine, and she spoke openly about her diagnosis, treatment journey, and the impact the condition had on her life. I watched more of her content and started to recognise similarities in our symptoms and body type. When I showed it to my partner, he also noted the resemblance and said it looked a lot like what I had been experiencing.

Hopeful but unsure, I brought it up with my GP, who specialises in women’s health. She hadn’t heard of lipoedema. To her credit, she briefly took the time to look into it, but with limited local knowledge or clear medical pathways, she wasn’t sure where to refer me. She arranged an ultrasound, which came back clear, and then referred me to a dermatologist as a possible next step.

When I finally met the dermatologist, she told me to eat better and exercise more — advice I had heard my entire life, and didn’t even consider lipoedema as a possibility despite mentioning it multiple times. No curiosity and no further follow-up.

Disheartened, I let it go for nearly a year. Then, that same social media account popped up again, a nudge from the universe. This time, I searched deeper and discovered the Lipoedema New Zealand Facebook group. Finally, I saw myself reflected in others. These women shared my symptoms, my insecurities, my story. It was the validation I’d been missing all along. Sometimes, the internet can feel like a lifeline when medicine hasn’t caught up yet.

I was officially diagnosed with lipoedema in late 2023. In 2025, I underwent a laparoscopy that confirmed what I had stage 4 endometriosis. The diagnosis made so much sense. For years I had been dealing with intense monthly pain, chronic fatigue, low iron, and passing large blood clots. It should have been recognised earlier.

4. What was your diagnosis experience like?

What I didn’t realise at the time is how emotionally draining it is to repeatedly advocate for yourself in a system that too often doesn’t listen. The stress of preparing for and getting to appointments, trying to stay calm while being dismissed, and then leaving with no answers — it wears you down. Diagnosis isn’t always a relief. Sometimes it brings grief, anger, and the weight of wondering how different things might have been if someone had listened earlier.

For lipoedema, the process was slow, frustrating, and at times disheartening. Before 2020, I hadn’t even heard of lipoedema and just thought my big legs were just a result of bad genetics and my own doing despite having lived with symptoms for nearly 20 years.

Having had no luck with my GP, an ultrasound or the dismissive dermatologist, I eventually decided to take control. I booked a private consultation with a New Zealand-based plastic surgeon who was able to diagnose the condition. That appointment was confronting but validating. In his office, I stood on a step stool in my underwear while he carried out a physical examination. Because my lipoedema was already at a later stage, he was able to easily identify the classic signs quickly: a disproportionate lower body, deep dimpling on my thighs, and visible fat pads around my knees and shins. He also checked my arms and abdomen, feeling for the characteristic soft, grainy fat under the skin. For the first time, someone recognised what I had been living with for years. I was formally diagnosed with lipoedema in late 2023.

My endometriosis diagnosis came more easily when I finally saw the right specialist, but followed years of being on hormonal treatments that may have masked or worsened my symptoms. As a teen and throughout my 20s, I was prescribed various birth control pills and eventually had a Mirena IUD inserted (without any pain medication of course). I had it removed a few years later when I realised I still didn’t feel right in my body. After the removal, my periods returned in full force. They became extremely heavy, accompanied by intense cramping, chronic fatigue, and consistently low iron levels. I was going through period products at an unsustainable rate, often bleeding for two weeks at a time, with just a short break before it would start all over again. It affected everything, including work, my social life, and my mental health.

My GP referred me to a gynaecologist, and thankfully I had access to private healthcare through my workplace. The gynaecologist ran a range of tests and recommended a laparoscopy given the severity of my symptoms. At first, I was too nervous to go ahead with surgery (having never been to hospital before) and kept putting it off, hoping the pain would magically go away. But after reaching a really low point mentally, I went back to him in late 2024 to revisit his suggestion for surgery.

In January 2025, I had the laparoscopy. That was when they discovered I had stage 4 endometriosis. It was found everywhere including on my uterus, pouch of douglas, bladder, and reaching up into my pelvis and hip area. What was visible was removed during surgery. It was a relief, but also incredibly sobering to realise how far it had progressed while I had been trying to push through the symptoms for so long. While I had hoped to avoid returning to hormonal treatment, I agreed to have another Mirena inserted during the procedure to help stabilise my iron levels and manage fatigue as I continue navigating my lipoedema journey.

In the end, getting diagnosed required persistence, courage, and support. One journey was long and invalidating until I went private, the other was relatively fast once I decided to stop putting my own needs last. Both taught me the same lesson: your pain is real, your body knows, and it’s okay to keep asking for answers until someone truly listens.

5. How have your conditions changed your daily life?

Living with lipoedema and endometriosis has reshaped nearly every part of my daily routine, from how I move through the world, to how I work, plan, and take care of myself. I’ve had to become far more intentional with how I manage energy and time. Physically, things like standing too long, sitting without compression, or even a poor night’s sleep can have a knock-on effect for days. It’s not just the physical symptoms, but the constant need to adjust around them that adds up.

Work has been one of the biggest ongoing challenges. Trying to manage chronic symptoms while holding down a full-time job is exhausting in ways that often go unseen. There have been many days where I’ve pushed through pain, brain fog, or heavy fatigue just to appear “functional,” even when I was far from okay. I’ve had to quietly schedule my workload around flare-ups, attend meetings while in discomfort, and mask how much effort it takes just to show up some days. It’s a constant balancing act of wanting to be seen as reliable while also trying to honour what my body needs.

Emotionally, the toll can be just as heavy. I often feel guilt for not being able to perform or participate the way I once could, and I carry the mental load of constantly monitoring symptoms, planning ahead, and managing appointments. But it’s also made me more self-aware and empathetic both toward myself and others dealing with chronic health conditions.

6. What symptoms made you think something wasn’t right with your body?

Looking back, there were subtle but persistent signs that something wasn’t quite right. With lipoedema, the biggest clues were how disproportionately large and heavy my legs felt compared to the rest of my body. This was the case even when I was fit and active. I bruised easily, struggled with thigh chafing from a young age, and always felt uncomfortable in clothes that showed my legs. No matter how balanced my diet or how consistent my exercise, nothing changed the shape of my lower body.

With endometriosis, it was the intensity and duration of my periods that really stood out. They became heavier over time, often lasting up to two weeks, and were paired with extreme cramping, fatigue, and low iron. I’d find myself constantly exhausted, relying on painkillers, and missing out on social events or work days just to cope.

At the time, I didn’t connect all these symptoms. But eventually, the cumulative effect was hard to ignore, and that’s when I knew I had to start asking more questions.

7. Have you tried anything that has helped you manage your symptoms?

Yes. Managing lipoedema is an ongoing process that involves a mix of treatments, lifestyle changes, and constant adjustment. There is no cure for the condition, but there are strategies that help manage symptoms, improve mobility, and slow progression. I am still figuring out what works best for me, and that changes depending on where I am at physically and hormonally.

The most significant intervention for me has been specialist liposuction surgery. Unlike cosmetic procedures, this is performed by surgeons trained to carefully remove diseased fat while protecting the delicate lymphatic structures underneath. So far, I have had two surgeries targeting my lower legs and thighs, and both have brought noticeable relief from heaviness and pain. Though not a cure, surgery has offered long-term improvements in comfort, mobility, and quality of life, especially when combined with the right post-operative care and ongoing management.

Alongside surgery, I have made changes to my daily routine. I wear medical-grade compression garments every other day to support lymph flow, reduce discomfort, and help manage swelling. I have also had success with manual lymphatic drainage (MLD), a specialised massage technique that promotes drainage and eases that heavy, tight feeling in my limbs. I use a vibration plate on low a few times a week to support circulation and mobility.

In terms of movement, I have had to transitioned to low-impact exercise like walking and yoga, which are much gentler on my joints and energy levels. Any sort of high-intensity exercise tends to leave me feeling depleted, so I have learned to pace myself and listen to my body instead of pushing through. This shift has helped me stay active without flaring my symptoms.

Nutrition and inflammation also play a significant role in how my body feels day to day. I initially tried a strict low-carb diet, hoping it would ease symptoms, but it ended up triggering unexpected gut issues that I’m still trying to resolve. I’m now preparing to work with a dietitian to better understand how food and supplements impact and can help both my lipoedema and endometriosis. My goal is to find a way of eating that supports my body, reduces inflammation, and still allows me to enjoy food without feeling restricted.

Ultimately, there is no one-size-fits-all solution. Managing lipoedema is about combining tools such as surgery, compression, movement, lymphatic support, and anti-inflammatory choices and tailoring them to what your body can handle. It is a lot of trial and error, but the goal is to build a routine that is not just effective but sustainable too.

8. Where are you at now with your condition and how is it impacting your life?

Right now, I’m in the middle of managing both lipoedema and endometriosis, and while I’ve made progress, it still feels like a full-time job. I’ve had two liposuction surgeries for lipoedema so far, both performed in Australia where there’s better access to surgeons who specialise specifically in this condition, rather than treating it alongside cosmetic procedures. These surgeries were done in private hospitals and included overnight stays. The first removed just under 5 litres of diseased fat from my lower legs. The second took just over 5 litres from the fronts of my upper thighs and hips. My legs already feel significantly lighter, which is encouraging, but the recovery process is intense.

While not a cure, surgery can bring meaningful relief. The fat is inflamed, nodular, and often trapped in fibrous tissue, so removing it is like having your legs water-blasted and vacuumed at the same time. Recovery involves extensive swelling, bruising, and a lot of rehabilitation to regain flexibility, strength, and stamina. I’m currently preparing for a third surgery later this year to target the backs of my thighs and bum, with more surgery planned next year for my arms and abdomen. The results are promising, but there’s always a risk of recurrence if I don’t stay on top of managing the hormonal and inflammatory triggers that worsen the condition.

The financial and emotional strain is significant. My endometriosis care has been fully covered through medical insurance provided by my workplace, which I’m incredibly grateful for. I know many women are stuck on public waitlists for years – that's if they even make it onto one. But my lipoedema journey has been entirely self-funded. So far, I’ve spent over $70,000 on specialist appointments, conservative therapies, travel, and surgeries. I expect to spend another $60,000 before it’s over. That doesn’t include the lifelong ongoing cost of managing both diseases.

Because of this, my partner and I have had to put a lot of our life plans on hold. We’ve postponed getting married, delayed moving house, and had to re-evaluate the timeline for things we’d once imagined would just fall into place. Everything now revolves around recovery timelines, surgery scheduling, and budgeting for health expenses. It’s been a confronting adjustment, but we’ve had to prioritise my health first, even when that hasn’t felt fair or easy.

Despite everything, I feel incredibly fortunate. I have a diagnosis, access to care, and a supportive partner and community around me. There are still days where I grieve what my body has put me through and resent the circumstances, but I’m also deeply aware that many women are still fighting for the answers I now have. That perspective grounds me. It’s what motivates me to keep sharing, to pass on what I’ve learned and help others navigating these conditions feel a little less alone. Endo and lipoedema are part of my life now, but I’ve found strength in that reality, and I’m learning to meet it with self-compassion and community.

9. What’s one thing you wish more people understood about women’s health and/or your condition?

Dealing with chronic health conditions like lipoedema and endometriosis is hard work. It’s physically and emotionally draining, but also either incredibly expensive and/or often inaccessible. Diagnosis can take years, and even then, the treatments that actually help (like specialist surgeries, compression garments, manual lymphatic drainage, and tailored support) usually aren’t publicly funded. You have to advocate constantly, often at your own expense, just to access basic care.

For lipoedema especially, fatphobia is a huge barrier. Too many people are dismissed as simply overweight, and the condition is missed entirely. That kind of bias makes people feel ashamed, not supported. It contributes to delayed diagnoses and can make you distrust the healthcare system altogether. There’s also very little research and funding directed toward these conditions, which means progress is slow and awareness is low. Meanwhile, women are expected to keep pace with a world that doesn’t recognise or accommodate these challenges. We’re told to push through it, to work, perform, and cope, all while managing symptoms that are invisible, misunderstood, and often minimised.

I also recognise that I’ve had certain advantages, like access to private healthcare, supportive employment, and the means to travel for specialist care, that many people simply don’t have. For others, the barriers to diagnosis and treatment are even greater due to cost, location, systemic bias, or lack of awareness. The healthcare system is not designed to provide timely, equitable care for complex, chronic conditions like these.

10. If you could tell younger you one thing about your body, what would it be?

I’d tell her that what she’s feeling isn’t just in her head, and it’s not just about weight. There’s a real reason her body feels different, and she’s not imagining it. Keep asking questions, trust what your body is telling you, and don’t settle for being dismissed. You’re not lazy or weak. You just haven’t been given the right information yet.

11. When your body feels hard to live in, how do you take care of yourself?

I’m still figuring this out, to be honest. When things feel overwhelming, my instinct is to retreat. I hide away from the world and give myself space to rest and recover. This is important, but I’ve come to realise that isolating myself can sometimes make things worse. Disconnecting might feel comforting in the moment, but connection is what actually helps me heal.

Reaching out to friends and others in the chronic illness and lipoedema community has made a huge difference, especially during my surgeries and recoveries. Knowing that I’m not alone and that others understand this experience gives me a sense of belonging when my body feels like a stranger.

I’m also starting to build a better support system for my physical health. I’m about to begin working with a dietitian, and one of my goals is to get back into swimming. It’s low-impact, gentle on my joints, and great for my lymphatic system. More than anything, its genuinely enjoyable.

The biggest shift, though, has been learning to show myself grace. I’m learning to be kinder when my body feels bloated from endo, softer when I sense hormonal changes creeping in, and more accepting when I look in the mirror and see my scars. Both the ones from my endometriosis laparoscopy and the liposuction incisions on my legs. Those marks tell a story of survival, not shame.

As someone who is neurodivergent, I’ve spent much of my life feeling out of step with the world. I often felt like I had to try twice as hard just to keep up or fit in. I was often told I needed to be more resilient, as if sensitivity or difference were flaws to overcome.

Living with chronic illness has added another layer to that experience. Sensory overload, decision fatigue, and emotional intensity can make it harder to navigate healthcare systems, advocate for myself, or follow rigid treatment plans. But being intuitive and reflective has also made me incredibly attuned to my body’s signals. Even when I couldn’t fully articulate what was wrong, I often knew something wasn’t right. That deep sensitivity has helped me notice patterns others might miss, and it has become one of my greatest tools in learning how to care for myself.