Amira’s story
22 June 2026 is a date I will never forget.
On that day, I underwent sphincter repair surgery to repair injuries caused by a fourth degree tear during the birth of my first child ten years ago.
To many people, it may have sounded like the end of a medical journey.
For me, it was the reopening of a wound that had never truly healed.
Ten years ago, I went into labour full of excitement, dreaming about holding my baby for the first time. Like every new mother, I imagined joy, love and a future with my child.
I never imagined that the day my son was born would also become the day I lost a part of myself.
The fourth-degree tear changed my life in ways I could never have imagined.
The physical pain eventually eased, but the emotional pain remained.
Every single day became a reminder of what had happened. I lived with bowel problems that most people would never even speak about. I constantly worried about accidents, about smells, and about whether people could tell. Before leaving the house, I always thought about where the nearest toilet was. I stopped feeling confident in my own body. I felt embarrassed, ashamed and deeply alone.
It affected every part of my life.
It affected my confidence.
It affected my relationships.
It affected my mental health.
Most painfully, it stole the happiness that should have surrounded the birth of my first child.
For years, I kept quiet.
Birth injuries are often hidden. They are not visible like a broken arm or a scar on your face. Women smile, carry on looking after their families, go to work and pretend everything is fine while silently living with pain, humiliation and fear.
I was one of those women.
What hurt almost as much as the injury itself was believing that things might have been different if someone had listened.
As the years passed, I often felt dismissed when I asked for help. I began to question myself.
Was I expecting too much?
Was this simply something I had to live with?
Then I started reading reports showing that Black women and women from ethnic minority backgrounds experience poorer maternity outcomes.
Suddenly, my experience no longer felt like an isolated incident.
It felt like part of a much bigger story.
A story where too many women feel unheard.
Too many women have their concerns minimised.
Too many women leave hospital carrying trauma that lasts for years.
But my story did not end there.
In 2018, while pregnant with my youngest daughter, another nightmare began.
Throughout my pregnancy, I experienced repeated bleeding.
Every time I saw blood, fear filled my heart. I knew something wasn't right. I raised my concerns, but I tried to stay hopeful. I told myself everything would be okay.
It wasn't.
At just 25 weeks pregnant, I was rushed to hospital with severe bleeding.
Everything happened so quickly.
One moment I was pregnant.
The next, I was being rushed for an emergency Caesarean section.
I lost around 90% of my blood.
I became unconscious.
I have no memory of those terrifying moments because I was fighting for my life.
When I finally woke up, I heard words no mother should ever have to hear.
My baby was in intensive care.
She might not survive.
At the same time, I was told that surgeons had performed an emergency hysterectomy to save my life.
Within hours, I had almost died.
My tiny daughter was fighting for her life.
And I had lost forever the chance to carry another child.
I cannot fully describe the grief that followed.
Of course, I was grateful.
Grateful to be alive.
Grateful to the incredible doctors and nurses who saved both of us.
But gratitude and grief can exist together.
People often assume a hysterectomy is only about having more children.
It isn't.
For me, it felt like losing part of my identity as a woman.
The choice had been taken away in an instant.
There was no time to prepare.
No time to say goodbye.
Only shock.
Even now, years later, questions still keep me awake.
If my bleeding had been investigated sooner...
Would things have been different?
Could some of this trauma have been prevented?
Those questions have never left me.
While my daughter received exceptional care in the neonatal intensive care unit, I often felt forgotten.
I was placed on a ward surrounded by mothers holding healthy newborn babies.
Everywhere I looked, there was happiness.
Everywhere I listened, there were babies crying.
Meanwhile, my own baby was fighting to survive in intensive care.
I lay in my hospital bed crying silently, wondering whether I would ever take my daughter home.
It was one of the loneliest moments of my life.
No one asked how I was coping emotionally.
No one asked how I was processing the loss of my womb.
No one asked how it felt to almost lose my baby.
Sometimes I felt invisible.
Today, as I recover from sphincter repair surgery, all of those memories have returned.
People often believe trauma ends when you leave hospital.
It doesn't.
Trauma lives inside you.
It changes how you see your body.
It changes how safe you feel.
It changes how much you trust the healthcare system.
Even after ten years, I still carry fear, grief, sadness and unanswered questions.
I am sharing my story because I know I am not the only woman living with hidden birth injuries.
Too many women suffer in silence because they are embarrassed.
Too many believe they simply have to live with it.
Too many feel nobody will listen.
I want women to know they are not alone.
I want healthcare professionals to understand that birth trauma does not end when a woman is discharged from hospital.
I want policymakers to recognise that behind every statistic is a real woman whose life has been changed forever.
And I want us to confront the inequalities that continue to affect Black women and women from ethnic minority communities in maternity care.
If my story gives one woman the courage to ask for help...
If it encourages one healthcare professional to listen more carefully...
If it prevents one family from experiencing the pain mine has endured...
Then every difficult word I have written will have been worth it.
My story is about much more than surgery.
It is about survival.
It is about loss.
It is about resilience.
It is about finding the courage to speak after years of silence.
Most of all, it is about hope.
Hope that future mothers will be listened to.
Hope that no woman will feel invisible.
Hope that compassion, equality and better care will replace the silence so many of us have lived with.
Today, I am still recovering from surgery, but for the first time in many years, I feel hopeful. Speaking openly about my experience is part of my healing. I hope that by sharing my story, other women will feel less alone, seek help sooner, and know that their voices matter.
This is not the end of my story.
It is the beginning of healing.
