The Power of Knowing the Right Words

Let’s talk about the power of language.

Not the kind that gets you a perfect essay score or wins debates. I’m talking about the words you use when you’re sitting in a doctor’s office, trying to explain a weird pain you’ve had for months but haven’t told anyone about. The ones you wish you had in Year 7 when your discharge changed and you thought you were dying. The ones you wish your mum had when she spent ten years being told her pain was “just stress.”

Here’s the truth: words are power.

And not having them? That’s a kind of silence that seeps into every part of your life. Especially when it comes to female health.

This post isn’t about sounding smart. It’s about sounding like yourself — with clarity, confidence, and zero shame. It’s about naming what’s happening in your body, and knowing that doing so doesn’t make you dramatic, or gross, or difficult. It makes you informed. And powerful.

So let’s unpack what we’ve normalised, what we missed, and how everything changes when we finally know what to say.

1. What We Thought Was “Normal” (Until We Learned the Words)

Let’s play a quick game of Raise Your Hand If…
(Metaphorically. Or literally. Or just nod along in that “oh my god, same” kind of way.)

• Raise your hand if you thought fainting during your period was normal — like, “haha my body just shuts down monthly, isn’t that quirky?”

• Raise your hand if someone told you that pain during sex is “just part of it for girls.” That it’s supposed to hurt — especially if it’s your first time, or if you’re “tight.”

• Raise your hand if you told a doctor something felt off and they brushed it off with “That’s just part of being a woman.” No tests. No follow-up. Just a dismissive nod.

Yep. Us too.

So many of us — girls, women, non-binary folks, anyone with a uterus or a hormone cycle — have spent years carrying pain we thought was part of the deal. Not because we’re dramatic or weak, but because no one ever taught us how to say,

“No, this isn’t just a ‘girl thing.’ Something’s wrong.”

We’ve been taught to normalise:

🔴 Periods that feel like punishment.

• Soaking through a pad or tampon every hour.

• Bleeding with clots the size of 50-cent coins.

• Feeling dizzy, vomiting, or passing out from cramps.

• Losing sleep because of stabbing pain at 2am.

• Planning your life around the dates your uterus decides to rebel.

We were told this was just a “heavy flow.” That some people just “have it worse.” And maybe, if we’re lucky, we got a Panadol and a pat on the head.

But these aren’t just “bad periods.” They can be symptoms of endometriosis, adenomyosis, fibroids, or severe hormonal imbalance. And the fact that we were never taught that? That’s a health crisis.

😵‍💫 Exhaustion that isn’t solved by sleep.

“I’m just tired” is the most under-explained, overlooked symptom in female health. But here’s the thing — this isn’t “I stayed up too late” tired.
This is:

• Falling asleep in class despite 9 hours of sleep.

• Waking up feeling like you ran a marathon.

• Getting through your day in a fog, unable to think straight.

• Using sugar or caffeine like medication because you literally can’t function without it.

We blamed ourselves for being lazy or undisciplined. But for so many of us, that fatigue is linked to iron deficiency (common with heavy periods), thyroid dysfunction, burnout, or chronic conditions like PMDD or PCOS. No one ever taught us to connect the dots.

🌊 Mood swings that feel like identity theft.

It’s one thing to feel a little irritable before your period.
It’s another thing to:

• Cry uncontrollably and not know why.

• Feel numb or emotionally disconnected for weeks.

• Spiral into anxiety so intense it feels like you can’t breathe.

• Snap at everyone around you and immediately feel guilt and shame.

• Doubt your worth, your friendships, your reality — over and over again.

And yet… we called it “PMS.” We made memes about it. We laughed it off while quietly breaking down inside.

For some of us, this isn’t just premenstrual tension. It’s PMDD — premenstrual dysphoric disorder — a condition that can hijack your mental health every single month. But because we weren’t taught to name our feelings with medical legitimacy, we assumed we were unstable. Or weak. Or just… “too much.”

💥 Pain during sex — that we power through.

We’ve been taught that sex is supposed to hurt “a little” at first. That if it’s uncomfortable, we just need to “relax,” “use more lube,” or “stop overthinking it.”

But real talk? A lot of us were in actual pain. Not discomfort. Pain.

• Sharp, burning pain at the vaginal entrance.

• Deep, internal pain like something being hit.

• Tension in the pelvic floor that made penetration near impossible.

• Fear responses that got ignored or dismissed — even by partners we trusted.

And we didn’t talk about it. We blamed ourselves. We assumed something was wrong with our bodies. We tried to prove we could take it. And all the while, no one told us this could be vaginismus, dyspareunia, pelvic floor dysfunction, endometriosis, or even past trauma expressing itself through the body.

We never got that chapter.

🤐 Discharge we were told to be ashamed of.

Let’s say it: discharge is normal.
But that’s not what we were told.

We were told to:

• Hide it.

• Scrub it away.

• Feel dirty because of it.

• Never mention it outside of a panicked Google search at 1am.

Discharge is one of the body’s smartest features — a literal self-cleaning signal of hormonal health. But because no one explained the types, the cycles, or the purpose, we either ignored it or overreacted when it changed.

We didn’t know to look for signs of infection. We didn’t know that clear and stretchy meant we were ovulating. We didn’t know that thick and white might mean yeast, and fishy and grey might mean BV. We just knew that no one else seemed to be talking about it, so we shouldn’t either.

2. What Happens When We Don’t Have the Words

Let’s get real for a second.
Not knowing what to say about your health isn’t just awkward — it’s isolating, confusing, and sometimes even dangerous. You’re not just fumbling to find a word — you’re fumbling to be understood.

So let’s play out a few all-too-familiar scenarios, but this time, let’s zoom in.

🩺 Scenario 1: At the GP

You: “I’ve been having really bad periods. Like… pain.”
Doctor: “Cramps are common. Try ibuprofen, maybe a hot water bottle. You could go on the pill if it’s that bad.”
You: smiles, nods, instantly feels like a nuisance for asking
Also you, 3 hours later: “Was I overreacting? Do I just have a low pain tolerance? Maybe I’m just dramatic.”

You walk out of the appointment no closer to relief than when you walked in — except now, you also feel guilty. Guilty for wasting time. Guilty for not being clearer. Guilty for needing help.

But what if you’d been taught to say:

“I’m experiencing pelvic pain that starts before my period and feels like stabbing or burning. It’s disrupting school and sleep. I’ve tracked it for months. This doesn’t feel like normal cramps. Can we explore other causes, like endometriosis?”

Suddenly, the conversation changes. You’re no longer asking for permission to be taken seriously. You’re setting the terms.

But when you don’t have those words? You leave with a vague label, a prescription you don’t understand, and a body that still hurts.

😩 Scenario 2: Talking to a friend

You: “I’m always tired. But like… not tired-tired? Just off. Like I can’t do stuff.”
Friend: “Same, honestly. School is draining me.”
You: half-smile, internal chaos

“Wait, is this just school stress? But why do I feel like I’m in a fog? Why does sleep not help? Am I just lazy? Am I making this up?”

You start to spiral. Not because your friend did anything wrong — but because you didn’t know how to say,

“I think this might be chronic fatigue. Or burnout. Or something deeper. It’s not just being tired — it’s feeling like I’m wading through wet cement every day.”

And because you don’t say it, no one knows. So no one checks in. So you stay quiet. Until you start believing the lie your brain is whispering:

“You’re just not trying hard enough.”

🌙 Scenario 3: Googling at 2:47am

Search:

“Is it normal to cry uncontrollably before your period and feel like the world is ending and like you’re broken but then feel fine after???”

Google:

“Could be PMS. Could be PMDD. Could be a depressive episode. Could be demonic possession. Drink water.”

So now you’re even more confused. And somehow a little insulted.

You don’t know what to search, because you don’t know what this is.
You don’t know the difference between PMS and PMDD.
You don’t know what “luteal phase sensitivity” is.
You just know something is happening, and the internet isn’t helping.

When we lack the right language, we can’t:

• Frame the problem

• Describe the pattern

• Find credible sources

• Ask the right questions

• Feel validated in our experience

Instead, we sit in a fog of uncertainty — feeling like our suffering doesn’t count because we can’t summarise it neatly.

🚨 So what actually happens when we don’t have the words?

Here’s the ripple effect:

1. We can’t explain our pain

If all you can say is “something feels wrong,” but you don’t know how to clarify where, when, how often, or how intensely, then healthcare providers are more likely to minimise it — or completely miss what’s going on.

2. We can’t research effectively

You can’t Google what you can’t name.
If you don’t know the term “PMDD,” you’ll keep searching “why do I want to cry and fight everyone the week before my period.” (Which, relatable — but not efficient.)

3. We can’t get the right care

When you don’t have the words, you leave appointments feeling invisible. You get handed generic advice. You’re told “it’s just hormones” without anyone actually listening to your body’s story.

4. We suffer longer than we need to

Conditions like endometriosis, PCOS, vaginismus, ADHD, and PMDD often take years to diagnose — especially in girls and women — not because they’re rare, but because we’ve been socialised to under-express our symptoms. Or worse, to assume they’re our fault.

3. What Changes When We Do Know the Words

Okay. Let’s rewrite the scene.

Same you. Same symptoms. Same GP office.
But this time — you’ve got the words.

🩺 Scenario: Take Two

You:

“I’m experiencing pelvic pain that starts 3–4 days before my period, lasts through the entire cycle, and doesn’t respond to ibuprofen. I’ve been tracking it for six months. The pain is interfering with school, concentration, and sleep. I suspect it could be endometriosis or another hormonal condition, and I’d like a referral to a gynaecologist.”

The GP blinks. They sit up straighter.
Because this is no longer a vague complaint. It’s data. It’s advocacy. It’s voice.

Same body. Same pain. But now you’re driving the conversation instead of sitting in the passenger seat.

That’s the difference.

💬 Other Real-Life Examples of Language Changing Everything

You used to say:

“My discharge is weird.”
Now you say:
“I’ve noticed grey discharge with a fishy odour. It started last week and came with itching. Could it be BV or a pH imbalance?”

You used to say:

“I just feel really off before my period.”
Now you say:
“I experience intense mood swings, fatigue, and intrusive thoughts in my luteal phase. I’ve read about PMDD — could we explore that as a possibility?”

You used to say:

“I don’t really like sex.”
Now you say:
“I experience burning and tightness with penetration that causes anxiety and physical pain. I’d like to talk about possible vaginismus or pelvic floor tension.”

You used to say nothing at all
(because gendered forms made you feel erased).
Now you say:

“I’m nonbinary, and I need inclusive care. Please use they/them pronouns and avoid gendered assumptions in your treatment.”

🎯 Why This Works

Because now you’re not just presenting a feeling — you’re presenting a case.
You’re:

• Naming the body part

• Describing the symptom

• Providing a timeline

• Explaining the impact

• Suggesting a direction

And suddenly, the power dynamic shifts.
You’re not waiting for someone to take you seriously — you’re walking in already serious.

Doctors can still miss things (they’re human). But now? You’ve raised the standard. You’ve asked the right questions. You’ve given them less space to ignore you.

And if they still do?

You know that’s not your fault. You know how to escalate. You know how to say,

“This isn’t working. I’d like a referral.”

🧠 Health Literacy = Self-Advocacy

This is what it looks like in action.

When you know the right words, you:

• Get diagnosed faster

• Waste less time being dismissed

• Avoid unnecessary pain and treatment delays

• Understand what your body is telling you

• Ask for help before you hit breaking point

• Help your friends do the same

It doesn’t mean you’ll always have perfect answers — but it means you’ll have clarity, and clarity is what makes care possible.

💡 And the change is internal, too.

It’s not just about how other people treat you.
It’s about how you begin to treat yourself.

You start:

• Trusting your pain

• Believing your experience

• Knowing that your feelings have names — and those names have meaning

• Talking about your body like it deserves to be understood

• Feeling less like a problem, and more like a person who deserves solutions

And that? That’s power. Not the loud, dramatic kind.
The steady kind that builds every time you say:

“This is what I’m feeling. And this time, I have the words for it.”

4. Voice = Safety = Power

There’s something that happens when you go from not knowing what to say to walking into a room and owning your voice.

You stop whispering.
You stop waiting for someone else to fix it.
You stop doubting your own experience.

You realise that your voice — not just your symptoms — is a vital sign. It’s part of your health. It’s part of your survival.

Because when you know the right words, you start to:

🗣️ Speak up sooner

You don’t wait until things are unbearable. You don’t wait until it gets “bad enough” to justify the appointment. You speak up when things feel off. Because you’ve learned that “off” is valid.

You say:

“Something’s shifted in my cycle and it doesn’t feel right. Can we check it out?”

And that simple sentence might save you months — or years — of unnecessary suffering.

🧭 Get diagnosed faster

You go from vague statements like:

“I feel weird. I don’t know.”
To clear, confident reports like:
“This symptom started 6 weeks ago, it happens every 2–3 days, and it’s affecting my focus and appetite.”

That kind of precision? That’s what fast-tracks referrals. That’s what gets your chart flagged for follow-up. That’s what makes a provider take notice — and take action.

🚫 Avoid gaslighting

We’ve all been there.
The “It’s all in your head” brush-off.
The “You’re just stressed” dismissal.
The “Maybe try meditation” advice when you’re talking about debilitating pain.

But when you show up with vocabulary, with patterns, with documentation, the room changes.

You’re not easy to wave away. You’ve done your homework. You’re not emotional — you’re informed.
And if someone still tries to gaslight you? You’ll know it’s not because you were unclear. It’s because they weren’t listening.

And now you’re equipped to say:

“Actually, I’ve tracked these symptoms for four months. This is consistent. I’d like another perspective.”

Boom. Power reclaimed.

💞 Support friends with real information

The moment you find the right words, you start noticing how many people around you don’t have them yet.

The friend who thinks her pain during sex is her fault.
The classmate who jokes about being “crazy” the week before her period.
The cousin who thinks discharge means she’s unhygienic.

And suddenly, you’re not just supporting them emotionally — you’re supporting them medically.
You send them resources. You help them track symptoms. You sit with them at the clinic.

And when they say, “I don’t know how to explain it,” you say:

“I’ve been there. Let’s figure it out together.”

⚙️ Challenge systems that were never built for you

Let’s be real. The medical system — like most systems — wasn’t built for young girls, nonbinary youth, queer kids, CALD communities, or disabled bodies. It wasn’t designed to listen to the soft voice in the waiting room or the student who misses class because of chronic pain.

But voice? Voice disrupts that.

Voice is how you say:

• “This form doesn’t reflect my identity.”

• “This pain has been minimised too long.”

• “This resource isn’t accessible to my community.”

• “This clinic needs inclusive care training.”

Voice isn’t just speaking up for yourself.
It’s what cracks the door open for everyone behind you.

🛠️ So let’s stop pretending silence is safer.

We’ve been taught that being quiet = being polite.
That being agreeable = being good.
That being unsure = being unworthy of care.

But here’s the truth: doctors can’t treat what they don’t know about.
And they can’t read your mind — even the good ones.

So give them something to work with.

Give them:

• Details

• Timelines

• Specific words

• Clear boundaries

• And the confidence that says:

“I know my body. I’m not asking you to believe me — I’m asking you to work with me.”

📣 Let’s normalise saying things like:

• “I’m not here for reassurance. I’m here for answers.”

• “Can you slow down and explain that in plain language?”

• “I’ve read up on this and I’d like to explore a different pathway.”

• “That doesn’t sit right with me. I’d like a second opinion.”

• “This is affecting my quality of life. Please take it seriously.”

Because voice is not just a personality trait.
It’s not just for the “confident” girls.
It’s not about being loud.

It’s about being clear.
It’s about being prepared.
It’s about being unapologetically present in your own care.

5. How to Start Learning the Right Words (Without Feeling Weird)

Let’s be clear — we’re not asking you to memorise a textbook or become fluent in Latin root words.

We’re asking you to do something much harder, and much more personal:

To get to know your body.
To believe what it tells you.
And to speak about it without shame.

That’s what health literacy actually is.
And yes — it might feel weird at first. Uncomfortable. Like you’re saying something too big for your mouth.

But weird doesn’t mean wrong. It just means new.
And here’s how to start.

a) 📣 Say the words out loud. Yes, those ones.

Let’s get something out of the way:

Saying “vulva” out loud does not make you gross.
Saying “clitoris” does not make you inappropriate.
Saying “discharge” does not make you dirty.

These are words for your body — just like “arm” or “elbow” or “knee.”

But when we’ve been raised in silence, it can feel like crossing some unspoken boundary. We flinch. We laugh. We mumble. We whisper. We censor.

So let’s uncensor ourselves.

Try this:

• Go to your room. Close the door. Look in the mirror.

• Say: “Vulva. Clitoris. Cervix. Labia. Pelvic floor. Discharge.”

• Say them slowly. Say them until they stop sounding taboo and start sounding true.

• If you laugh — great. That’s how we process discomfort.

• If you cringe — even better. That means you’re stretching a muscle that hasn’t been used in a while.

The goal isn’t to be clinical.
The goal is to be comfortable. Because one day you’ll need to say one of those words in a doctor’s office. And if you’ve said it before — even just to yourself — it’ll come easier.

b) 📓 Keep a body glossary

Start a note in your phone. Or a physical journal. Call it “My Body Dictionary.”

Every time you learn a word that applies to your health, write it down.
Define it. Annotate it. Make it yours.

Some to get you started:

• Dysmenorrhea – painful periods (and no, it’s not normal to faint from cramps)

• Endometrial tissue – the lining of the uterus that sheds during menstruation (and the stuff that causes endo when it grows where it shouldn’t)

• Perimenopause – the hormonal transition leading up to menopause

• Vaginismus – involuntary tightening of vaginal muscles that can make sex painful or impossible

• PMDD – premenstrual dysphoric disorder, a severe form of PMS that affects mood, sleep, and functioning

• Pelvic floor – the group of muscles that support your uterus, bladder, and bowels (and yeah, they can get tight, weak, or dysfunctional)

Every time you add a word, you’re reclaiming territory.
You’re saying, “This belongs to me. I deserve to understand it.”

c) 📈 Track what you feel — and how you feel it

Most of us say things like “I feel weird” or “it hurts” or “I’m tired.”

That’s valid — but it’s also vague. And in the medical world, vague gets ignored.

Let’s get specific.

Start noticing the type of discomfort:

• Is the pain stabbing? Burning? Throbbing?

• Is it deep or surface-level?

• Does it come in waves, or is it constant?

• Is it triggered by movement, by food, by certain times in your cycle?

• Does it make you feel irritable? Nauseated? Disconnected?

Then, track the context:

• When does it happen?

• How long does it last?

• What helps?

• What makes it worse?

Even if your doctor doesn’t ask for this — you bring it in anyway.
Because you are the expert on your own experience.

And if you’ve tracked it, you’re not guessing — you’re reporting.

d) 🧡 Practice with safe people

This might be the most important part. And the hardest.

Because for so many of us, the shame doesn’t come from strangers. It comes from the people who first taught us silence — sometimes without meaning to.

The people who flinched when we asked a question.
Who said “not now” when we were curious.
Who told us to cross our legs, keep it quiet, be good.

So now, as we try to unlearn that, we need people who won’t flinch.

Find your safe person. That could be:

• A best friend

• A sibling

• A mentor

• A counsellor

• A teacher

• A cool aunt

• Even someone online who makes you feel seen

And when you’re ready, try this sentence:

“Can I talk to you about something happening in my body? I don’t have the words yet, but I want to try.”

If they’re safe, they’ll listen.
If they’re not, that doesn’t mean you were wrong for trying — it just means they weren’t ready to meet you there.

Because here’s the truth: you’re not too much.
You’re not being dramatic.
You’re not disgusting.
You’re not a burden.

You’re brave.

You’re doing something generations before us weren’t allowed to do: talk.

And every time you name something that was kept in the dark, you make it easier for the next girl to do the same.

6. Final Thoughts: The Words Were Power All Along

Let’s just be real:
You were never clueless. You were never “too sensitive.” You were never making it up.

You just weren’t given the words.
And that’s not on you. That’s on the systems that taught us to stay small and quiet.

But here’s the good news: you get to change that now.
You get to learn the words, use them, and watch everything start to make more sense.

Because when you can say what’s happening, you can figure out what to do about it.
When you can question what you’ve been told, you stop settling for “just deal with it.”
And when you start challenging the old rules, you make it easier for everyone who comes after you.

So yeah. Welcome to the rewrite.
This time, you don’t have to whisper. You don’t have to be embarrassed.
You just have to be willing to speak up — even if your voice shakes a little at first.

I’m proud of you already.
You’ve got this.

With immense love,

The Aletheia Project

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Originally published by The Aletheia Project on Substack.