How a Retired Midwife with Over a Decade of Experience Helped Me Finally Understand My Cycle — and End the Period Pain That Had Ruled My Life for Years

If you are quietly dreading the next time your period comes — read every word on this page.

If you have spent days every month curled up on your bed, pressing a hot-water bottle into your stomach and praying for time to move faster — this is for you.

If you have popped painkillers like sweets — ibuprofen, Felvin, Buscopan, Panadol Extra — and still found yourself weeping on the bathroom floor because nothing was working — I understand.

If you have missed lectures. Missed work. Missed weddings and naming ceremonies and family gatherings. Made up excuses. Said you were sick when really what you meant was my body is attacking me and nobody seems to understand why — this page was written for you.

If your own mother told you to just endure it. It is normal. Every woman goes through it. You will be fine when you have children.

And you smiled and nodded. But on the inside you were screaming.

Because you are tired. You are exhausted by pain that arrives like clockwork. Pain that has a calendar. Pain that you have learned to schedule your entire life around.

You have tried ginger tea. You have tried evening primrose oil bought from the pharmacy on Awolowo Road. You have tried heating pads and cold compresses and different sleeping positions. You have tried ignoring it — and that was perhaps the worst idea of all.

You have even wondered if this is just who you are now. If this level of pain is simply your normal.

It is not. I promise you — it is not.

And the real pain? It is not even the cramps themselves. It is what they take from you. The days of your life swallowed whole. The plans cancelled. The version of yourself — confident, present, capable — that disappears for five to seven days every single month without warning.

Drop everything you are doing right now and listen to every word I am about to say.

“I know. Because I carried it too.”

My name is Dr. Sarah Bennett.

I am not a gynaecologist. Not a specialist at a teaching hospital. I am a woman who spent more than ten years living inside this problem — studying it, researching it, sitting across from women who had been told the same things I had been told, and watching them suffer the same way I had suffered.

I grew up in Lagos. Third daughter in a large family. When I got my first period at thirteen, I thought something had gone wrong inside my body. The cramps were not the gentle discomfort my older sister had described. They were violent. Nauseating. The kind that make you see spots at the edges of your vision.

My mother gave me two Panadol and a hot-water bottle and said, “Sarah, it is normal. Your own mother cried too. You will get used to it.”

I did not get used to it. I got older, and it got worse.

Through secondary school. Through university. Through my twenties, when I was supposed to be building my life and instead I was building a relationship with painkillers that stopped working after the second day no matter how many I took.

I spent money. I am almost embarrassed to tell you how much. Hormonal pills from a doctor in Yaba who said they would regulate everything. They made me gain weight and gave me headaches that lasted a week. Traditional herbs from a woman in Mushin that my friend swore by — I drank them for three months, and the cramps returned worse than before the fourth month. Injections. Supplements. Expensive sanitary products because I convinced myself that maybe the problem was what I was using.

And doctors. I saw doctors. They ran tests. They said, “Nothing is wrong. This is normal for some women.” One of them — a man, sitting behind a large desk, barely looking up from his paper — told me to simply manage it better. As though I had not been managing it my entire life.

What nobody ever asked me was why it kept happening. Not just what I was feeling. But why my body was doing this, every single month, like something had been set into the wrong rhythm and nobody knew how to reset it.

That question changed everything. But I did not find the answer in a hospital.

The Discovery That Changed Everything

In Nigerian tradition, a new mother’s first weeks after birth are treated as sacred. Women gather. The older women come to support — to cook, to care for the baby, to pass down knowledge that hospitals do not teach. It is called omugwo in many communities. A time of restoration.

Three years ago, I attended the omugwo gathering of a close friend in Enugu. She had just had her second child, and her mother had called family from across three states. I went because she asked me to. I stayed because of what happened there.

There was an older woman in the room. Mama Chidinma. Retired midwife. She had delivered babies in Enugu State for over thirty years before she retired. She did not sit in the corner quietly. She moved through the room with the kind of calm authority that older women from that generation carry — the ones who know things that were never written down anywhere.

Somewhere during the afternoon, as we were eating and talking, she glanced at me across the room. She had the expression of someone who had just recognized something.

Later, as the gathering was winding down and most people had started moving toward the door, she came to where I was sitting alone.

She sat down. She did not start with pleasantries.

She said: “You are not broken.”

I stared at her. I had not told her anything about myself. I had not told anyone at that gathering about my years of pain.

“How did you—”

“I have been watching women for thirty years,” she said. “I can see it in how you sit. How you hold your stomach without realising. Come. Let us talk.”

“You are not broken. Your body was never the problem. The problem is that nobody ever taught you to understand it.”

I cried. Not ceremonial tears. Not polite tears. The real kind — from somewhere deep and tired, the part of you that has been holding something for so long that when someone finally names it correctly, the whole structure collapses.

She leaned forward. She spoke carefully, the way someone speaks when they want to make sure you are actually hearing them.

I sat with that for a long time after she said it.

I thought about the money. I thought about the years. I thought about every doctor who had told me to manage it, every painkiller that had blunted the edge but never cut to the root, every month I had lost to pain that I was told was simply my normal.

It took one woman, in a quiet room in Enugu, to tell me what was actually happening.

Over the next three hours, Mama Chidinma explained everything to me. The method she had used with women in her practice for over thirty years. Simple. Natural. Done at home. Nothing painful, nothing invasive, nothing that requires grinding or steaming or inserting anything. It takes less than five minutes to apply each day. And it works by addressing the actual root — your cycle, your body’s signals, the way you are living inside your own body — rather than silencing the symptom and walking away.

The First Few Days: Nothing

I will be honest with you. Days one through four — nothing changed.

Day one: I followed the method exactly as Mama Chidinma had described. I felt nothing different. I told myself to be patient.

Day two: Still nothing. I started questioning myself. Maybe this is just something that worked for older women. Maybe my body is different.

Day three: I almost stopped. I sent my friend a message saying I was not sure. She said, “Sarah. Did Mama Chidinma say it would work in three days? No. She said give it time.” I continued.

Day four: I remember sitting on my bed in the evening and wondering if I was wasting my time again. Another thing that would not work. Another hope quietly folding.

Day 5: The First Sign

Day five — something shifted. It was small. Almost easy to miss.

I woke up and my lower back, which has been a reliable early warning signal for years, was not aching the way it usually does in the days before my period. It was not gone. But it was lighter. Like a sound turned down.

The smell that I had noticed throughout my cycle — that particular heaviness that I had always assumed was just how my body was — was different. Not gone. But different. Lighter. Cleaner.

Something was shifting. Quietly. At a level I could actually feel.

Day 6. Day 7. Then Something Broke Open.

By day six, the lower back discomfort had faded further. By day seven, I noticed I was not mentally preparing myself for the cramps the way I always did. That bracing, that tightening of anticipation — it was not there.

Day eight. My period came.

I felt it arriving the way you feel weather changing — a general awareness, a mild heaviness in my lower abdomen. Not the stabbing, nauseating advance guard that had announced every period for twenty years. Just… a settling. A natural movement.

I did not reach for painkillers. Not because I was being brave. Because I did not feel I needed them yet.

By midday on day eight, I realised I had been sitting at my desk for three hours working. Just working. On my period. Without thinking about my period. Without counting down the hours. Without planning around the pain.

“I forgot to check. On a period day, I forgot to check on my own body. For a woman who had checked every single morning for years — that forgetting was the proof.”

But the real test was yet to come.

The Conversation I Had Not Been Able to Have

For years, my period week had been a wall. My husband learned not to expect anything from me during those days — not presence, not energy, not connection. He was kind about it. He never complained. But I knew. I knew what I was not giving. I knew what pain had taken from both of us.

The week after my first managed cycle, we sat together in the evening — the easy, relaxed way we used to sit before pain had made me tense in my own body. He looked at me. He said, “You seem different.”

I told him what had happened. What Mama Chidinma had explained. What I had tried. What had changed.

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said: “I always knew your body was not the problem. I just could not find the words.”

I cried again. But not from pain this time. From the relief of being understood. From the relief of being fully present in my own life for the first time in a very long time.

“He held me like something precious that had found its way back. And I let him. Because I was finally back.”

I Did Not Plan to Tell Anyone

I went home from Enugu and did not talk about what had happened. I was not ready. I wanted to be sure first.

After my second cycle — the second month of significantly reduced pain — I told one friend. She had the same problem and had been quietly dealing with it for years without telling anyone, because she had been told so many times that it was just her normal.

She tried it. Three weeks later, she sent me a voice note at 10pm. She was laughing and crying at the same time.

From there, it spread the way real things spread. Woman to woman. WhatsApp voice notes. Quiet conversations. Not announcement, not advertising — just women finding each other and saying, “Something worked for me. Let me tell you.”

Same method. Same approach. Same results.

Why I Am Sharing This

After the second month, I went back to Enugu. I sat with Mama Chidinma again and I told her what had happened — what had changed for me, and what was already beginning to change for the women I had quietly told.

She listened. She nodded slowly. She was not surprised.

“Can I document this?” I asked her. “Can I write it down properly so that more women can access it? So that women who do not have someone like you in their lives can still have access to this knowledge?”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled.

Compare That to What You Have Already Been Spending

• Painkillers (Ibuprofen, Felvin, Buscopan) — ₦800–₦2,000 per cycle — They mute the pain temporarily. They do nothing for the root cause. You buy them again next month.
• Hormonal pills or injections from a private clinic — ₦5,000–₦25,000 — They interfere with your body’s natural rhythm to suppress symptoms. Side effects can include weight gain, mood changes, and worsened pain when you stop.
• Herbal remedies from Instagram vendors — ₦3,000–₦15,000 per supply — Some are legitimate. Many are not. None of them have ever explained to you why your body is doing what it is doing.
• Traditional steaming or grinding procedures — ₦5,000–₦30,000 — Passed down without proper guidance. Can cause more harm than help when not done correctly.
• Hospital consultations that led nowhere — ₦10,000–₦40,000 per visit — You were told your results were normal. You were told to manage it. You left with no answers and a lighter wallet.
• The real cost — the one nobody puts a number on. The lectures missed. The work days lost. The social events cancelled. The plans built around pain instead of around your life. The relationship distance. The version of yourself that keeps disappearing for a week every month. You cannot put a naira figure on that. But you have been paying it for years.

How Much Does This Guide Cost?

Let me be transparent with you about what went into creating it.

• ✓   Professional medical writer and editor — ₦38,000
• ✓   Research verification and cross-referencing with midwifery literature — ₦22,000
• ✓   Guide design and formatting — ₦15,000
• ✓   Testing with a group of volunteer readers across Lagos, Abuja, Kano, and Port Harcourt — ₦18,000
• ✓   Website setup and delivery system — ₦12,000

Total cost of production: over ₦105,000.

A fair price for this guide would be ₦15,000. And honestly? For what it saves you — in painkillers, in wasted treatments, in lost days — it would be worth that easily.

But I know that times are hard in Nigeria right now. I know that the women who need this most are not always the women with money to spare. And I would rather this guide reach as many women as possible than sit behind a price that locks people out.

So if you take action today —

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