I’ve always felt manly. I know that sounds a little strange to say out loud, but part of me has always felt like a man.
Growing up, I noticed differences between myself and other girls. I grew more hair. I sweat more. I carried traits that, biologically, socially, and culturally, are usually associated with men. Because of that, I never quite felt like a girl, even though I desperately wanted to be the picturesque image of femininity. I sweat too much to be dainty or cutesy because the slightest change in my body temperature would show on my face, armpits, and legs. My sweat smelled so strong that I couldn’t go without deodorant, and only specific kinds would cover it. If I didn’t shave in time (which was all the time), tank tops and short sleeves were off the table. Combined with my anxiety, it felt impossible to feel feminine.
At the same time, I didn’t want to become a woman either. The thought of getting a period or growing breasts felt like the worst possible fate. Puberty didn’t feel like growth; it felt like loss, more specifically, a loss of control. It felt like something that would fundamentally change my body, how it performed, and how the world treated it, a body I loved and wasn’t ready to let go of. As a competitive athlete, I also saw puberty as impending doom, something that would mess everything up and leave me behind the boys. I didn’t want to be left behind.
For a while, I managed to avoid that fate. My periods were irregular, which I was secretly happy about. Everyone said it was normal in the beginning, even my doctors, and since I was training so hard every day, it made sense. But even years later, long after I quit competitive sports, my cycles never became regular. Months would go by without a period, and honestly, I didn’t mind. If it stayed away forever, I would have been fine.
By the time I got to college, though, things felt worse. My reproductive health seemed to be deteriorating. My discharge was abnormal. I was uncomfortable most days. I spotted blood for days on end, but it never looked like a normal period; instead, it was always dark, old blood. I continued to grow coarse hair and sweat excessively. I knew something was wrong, but I was too scared to seek help. I went through entire semesters like this, quietly suffering. My clothes would be ruined by unexpected bleeding and discharge, and I stopped wearing certain things out of fear that people would notice. I suspected I was having chronic yeast infections, but they would come and go, so instead of seeing a doctor, I endured the discomfort.
I was deeply uncomfortable even talking about it. My situation felt so unique that I worried that if I brought it up, people would judge me or be grossed out by me. On top of that, yeast infections carry such a negative stigma (the only thing I could possibly diagnose at that point), implying that a woman is dirty or promiscuous, and I felt ashamed, even though I wasn’t doing anything that should have been causing them. I thought no one would understand or relate, and that it was easier to stay quiet than risk being seen as gross or abnormal.
Eventually, I decided to see a nurse practitioner. It took a long time to find the courage, but I had reached my breaking point. I felt hopeful that maybe I’d finally get answers. I had done research and suspected it might be polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS), but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions or expect the worst. Instead, I explained my symptoms as clearly as I could.
The visit went terribly. No matter how I described what I was experiencing, she dismissed it. She told me that as long as I was bleeding, everything was fine. She wasn’t hearing me. Every concern I raised was met with an excuse or explanation. I even mentioned PCOS, and still nothing. She refused to run additional tests or even perform a Pap smear that I requested. I left her office destroyed, crying in my car, with no answers, only the same fear and shame I had carried for years.
I wasn’t sure I had the strength to try again. But I did.
I found another clinic, and everything changed. The doctors and nurses listened. They didn’t brush me off. They acknowledged that this wasn’t a one-time issue; it had been my reality for years. They ran tests and dug deeper. And finally, I had my diagnosis: PCOS.
I met all three diagnostic criteria: irregular periods, follicles on my ovaries, and elevated testosterone. Suddenly, everything made sense. It explained why I had felt masculine for most of my life. Elevated testosterone from PCOS had caused excess hair growth, increased sweating, and many of the traits I had spent years trying to hide.
I started birth control, and within the first month, I had my first real, predictable period in years, exactly when the placebo pills began. I also learned that the yeast infections I kept experiencing were tied to the condition, and as I started birth control, they gradually became less frequent. No more constant discomfort. No more random bleeding. No more abnormal discharge.
It was strange. On one hand, I felt relief. My body was finally working with me instead of against me. My days could be normal, without my body constantly sabotaging me. But part of me also grieved the years I spent suffering in silence, convinced that something was deeply wrong with me and that I could never fully be a woman.
On the other hand, PCOS is not an easy diagnosis to live with. It’s a lifelong condition with no cure, only management. Even that management doesn’t address the root cause, because no one fully knows why or how it happens. It is difficult to diagnose and difficult to manage. There is no medication designed specifically to treat PCOS. Treatment options are limited, often reduced to birth control. Birth control itself comes with side effects that can significantly alter your life. PCOS increases the risk of diabetes, affects insulin resistance, and makes weight management hard. It is associated with high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and a host of other metabolic conditions.
Looking back, I may have even shown signs earlier, like the migraines I developed as a teenager, which were never connected to anything hormonal. Maybe with more research, there could be better pathways to earlier diagnosis and preventative measures.
I’ve been on birth control for almost a year now. I’ve gained weight. I’m seeing a dietitian for the first time next month to help manage weight gain caused by both the medication and PCOS itself. Birth control still doesn’t address many of the side effects that come with the condition. I may need additional medication for insulin resistance. These are major lifestyle changes, changes I wouldn’t have had to worry about otherwise, and they are incredibly difficult to manage as a college student. It feels like a life sentence handed down without enough information or answers. The research is lacking, especially research that prioritizes quality of life over fertility alone. A condition that affects so many women yet remains underfunded and misunderstood.
Still, I think about where I started.
I think about how long I went unheard, undiagnosed, and ashamed. And despite everything, I feel grateful—grateful to finally have a name for what I’m experiencing, grateful to have access to care, and grateful to know that I wasn’t imagining it. I hope that in the future, women’s bodies will be studied with the seriousness they deserve, and that getting a diagnosis like PCOS won’t require a story like mine. As time goes on, I also hope there will be better treatment options and that more doctors will understand the condition well enough to offer informed, compassionate care.