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Book in development

You Don’t Know What Hurts

You Don’t Know What Hurts — original concept cover

Concept cover · In development

About the book

A candid first-person account of living with stage IV endometriosis and pain that others cannot always see. Christa explores the daily impact of illness, the search for understanding and care, and the place of faith, practical coping, and community in her life.

This developing book shares lived experience and reflections for readers who want to feel understood, and for those seeking to better understand someone they love.

Personal experiences are shared as experiences, rather than individualized medical guidance.

Working manuscript · Opening passage from the prologue

Read sample

You Don’t Know What Hurts

Morning comes before I'm ready for it. Before my feet touch the floor, I already know what kind of morning this is.

There is pain in my abdomen. Not the dramatic kind people imagine when they hear the word pain. There is no flashing light above my bed announcing that something inside me hurts. Nobody looking through the window would know.

It is simply there: tightness, pressure, pulling. A body that has spent the night curled around itself and now has to be persuaded to open again.

For a moment, I stay still. Then I get on my knees. Psalm 23. The Lord is my shepherd.

I've said those words on good mornings and terrible ones. I've said them when I believed everything would work out and when I had absolutely no idea how anything could.

Then I get up. That's important. I get up.

I drink water. I move. Sometimes I stretch. Sometimes I need heat. Sometimes I walk around until my body begins cooperating with the plans my mind already made.

And then I get dressed. I may do my hair. Put on makeup. Choose something that makes me feel pretty. Turn on music. Sing. Dance around the room if my body lets me.

If you saw me twenty minutes later, you might never know what happened before that. You might see the smile, the clothes, a photograph from a trip. You might see me dancing and think, She can't possibly hurt that badly.

You don't know what hurts.

— Christa Lomazzo · You Don’t Know What Hurts

Excerpt from the review manuscript. The book remains in development.

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