Mojo and the Mess

There’s something deeply infuriating about needing someone else’s permission to survive.

At 20-something years old, I can sign a mortgage. I can vote. I can get a tattoo, start a business, and even decline life-saving treatment if I want. But when I tried to make informed decisions about my own reproductive system? Suddenly the system wanted second opinions—from men.

Doctors have questioned if I was “really sure” I wanted a hysterectomy, even as I stared down a cancer diagnosis. I’ve been told it’s “a drastic choice for someone so young,” as if dying young isn’t a bit more drastic. I’ve been asked if my husband was okay with it. As if my uterus has shared custody.

It didn’t matter that it was riddled with pain. Or that hormones may have made my cancer worse. Or that I had spent years thinking through the consequences.

It mattered that I was “of childbearing age.” That I “might change my mind.” That they didn’t want to be responsible for “ending my fertility.”

Let me be clear: my fertility should never be prioritized over my life.

And my consent shouldn’t need a co-signer.

The Problem Isn’t Just One Doctor. It’s the System.

It’s the system that:

Requires male consent for procedures affecting women’s bodies in some states Forces you to sit through “counseling” to be sure you’re not “acting out of emotion” Grants insurance companies the power to deny coverage for medically necessary surgeries if it doesn’t align with their idea of womanhood

It’s the hospital form that says “must discuss with spouse.”

It’s the nurse who says, “You’re too pretty for that.”

It’s the OB who suggests freezing eggs before addressing the tumor trying to kill you.

It’s all the subtle and not-so-subtle reminders that no matter how sick you are, your reproductive potential is the prize they’re protecting—not you.

I Wasn’t Asking for Permission. I Was Giving Notice.

It’s not that I never wanted kids.

It’s that I was willing to sacrifice the possibility of them… to stay alive.

I didn’t come to the decision lightly.

I grieved it. I still do.

But when the choice was between motherhood and survival, I chose to fight for more time—however I could get it.

I wanted fewer hormones in my system. Fewer emergency room visits. Fewer risks.

I wanted relief from the pain.

I wanted my autonomy.

But I learned quickly: women’s pain is negotiable. Women’s decisions are “emotional.”

And even when you’re dying, someone will still try to explain your body back to you.

This Isn’t Just About Me.

It’s about every person who’s had to beg to be believed.

Every woman whose treatment was delayed because a man “wasn’t comfortable.”

Every patient forced to trade dignity for access.

Consent should not be a performance.

It should not be a debate.

And it damn sure shouldn’t depend on whether I might regret not having a baby I never wanted in the first place.

So Here It Is:

I do not owe anyone fertility.

I do not owe anyone proof of pain.

I do not owe anyone my body—except myself.

If I want to fight for my life, I shouldn’t need your permission slip.

🐾 From Mojo:

I don’t know what a uterus is.

I don’t know why humans make things so complicated when someone they love is just trying to stay alive.

But I do know this:

My mom is the strongest person I know.

Not because she’s fighting cancer—but because she keeps choosing herself, even when the world tells her not to.

And if anyone tries to make her feel small again?

I’ll sit on their foot and stare into their soul.

Love,

Mojo 🐾

Certified medical shadow, snack monitor, and personal protector of bodily autonomy