Loriva ad: Susan

I've been hiding something my prolapse from everyone I love for almost four years. My husband. My daughter. My best friend. Nobody knows. My name is Susan. I'm 64. And I have pelvic organ prolapse. I've never written those words before. Never said them out loud to anyone outside a doctor's office. Never typed them into a message or mentioned them on the phone. Because how do you tell someone that your insides feel like they're falling out? It started after menopause. A heaviness between my legs that I couldn't explain. A pressure that came and went at first, then came and stayed. I went to my doctor. She examined me. Told me my bladder had dropped. Stage 2 prolapse. Said it like she was reading off a checklist. "Very common after menopause," she said. "Do your Kegels. We'll monitor it." I went home and cried in the shower. Then I dried my eyes and didn't mention it to anyone. That was four years ago. For four years I have carried this completely alone. And the weight of the secret is almost as heavy as the prolapse itself. I check myself in the shower every morning. I can feel the bulge. Some days it's worse than others. Some days I can almost forget it's there. Other days I can feel it when I walk and I have to stop and stand still and breathe and wait for the pressure to ease. I avoid lifting anything heavier than a kettle. My daughter hands me my granddaughter and I say "oh, she's getting too heavy for Nana" and laugh it off. She's not too heavy. I'm too weak. But I can't say that. I avoid exercise. I used to walk every morning. An hour around the neighbourhood with my friend Margaret. I told Margaret I'd hurt my knee. That was three years ago. She stopped asking after a while. I avoid intimacy with my husband Robert. Completely. Not because I don't miss it. Because I'm terrified. Terrified he'll feel something different. Terrified I'll have to explain. Terrified that if he knows what's happening inside me he'll look at me differently. So I just pull away. Gradually. The way you do when you're hiding something. A little more distance every month until you're sleeping on opposite sides of the bed and neither of you mentions it. Robert thinks it's menopause. Loss of drive. Normal ageing. I let him believe that because the truth is worse. The truth is I'm falling apart internally and I'm too ashamed to let the man I've been married to for 32 years know about it. I did my Kegels. Every day. For over two years. They helped initially. The heaviness eased. I thought maybe I could manage this. Maybe I could squeeze my way out of it. Then they stopped working. The improvement plateaued and the heaviness settled back in and no amount of squeezing changed it. I kept doing them out of habit. The way you keep doing something even after you've stopped believing in it because at least it's something. I went to a pelvic floor physiotherapist. She was lovely. She taught me better technique. She gave me a programme. I followed it for twelve weeks. The heaviness stayed. She suggested a pessary. I tried it. It was uncomfortable. It moved. I stopped using it after three weeks. She mentioned surgery. I shut down. I know about the surgery. I've read the forums. I've seen what happens when it goes wrong. I was stuck. Kegels had plateaued. Physio hadn't fixed it. Pessary didn't work. Surgery terrified me. And every day the heaviness was there, reminding me that my body was failing and nobody could help. The loneliest part isn't the prolapse. It's the silence around it. I have friends who talk about everything. Hot flashes. Weight gain. Sleep problems. Joint pain. We talk about all of it over coffee without a second thought. But prolapse? Never. Not once. In four years of coffee mornings and phone calls and birthday dinners, not one woman has ever mentioned it. And I know — statistically I know — that at least one of them has it too. But we don't talk about it. Because it's the one thing that feels too shameful. Too intimate. Too much like admitting your body is broken in a way that can't be normalised with a joke or a shared eye roll. So you carry it alone. And the silence makes everything heavier. One night — about three months ago — I was lying in bed at 1 AM. Robert was asleep. The heaviness was bad. I could feel the pressure even lying down. And I picked up my phone and typed something into Google that I'd never typed before. "Why do Kegel exercises stop working for prolapse." And what I found changed everything. Kegels only train one part of the system. Your pelvic floor isn't a single muscle working alone. It's part of a foundation — your inner thighs, your deep core, and your pelvic floor all work together to support your organs. When all three are strong, the system holds. When you only train one, the system can't support itself properly. That's why Kegels plateau. You're strengthening one rope of a three-rope system. The other two stay weak. The foundation stays compromised. The organs keep pressing down because there isn't enough support underneath them. To actually support a prolapse — to reduce the heaviness, to feel held together again — you need to train the entire foundation. Inner thighs. Deep core. Pelvic floor. All together. I found a device called the Loriva Thigh and Pelvic Prolapse Support Trainer. It's a pretty pink trainer you place between your knees and squeeze against resistance. When you squeeze, it activates all three parts of the foundation at the same time — your inner thighs, your deep core, and your pelvic floor working together with every rep. That's the difference. Kegels train one part. This trains the whole system. Built-in counter. Clear instructions. Five minutes a day in your armchair. No insertion. No electrodes. No complicated routine. Nothing embarrassing. $59. Ships in a plain unmarked box — nobody knows what's inside. 30-day guarantee where you keep the trainer even if you want a refund. I ordered it at 1:17 AM lying in bed next to my sleeping husband. The most proactive thing I'd done about my prolapse in four years. The box arrived three days later. I opened it while Robert was out. Pink. Small. Simple. Not clinical. Not intimidating. I put it between my knees and squeezed. The counter clicked. I could feel the difference from Kegels immediately. Not just the pelvic floor contracting. My inner thighs engaging. Something in my deep core activating. Like three systems switching on together that had never worked at the same time before. I did three sets of ten. Five minutes. Made a cup of tea. Put the trainer in my bedside drawer where Robert wouldn't find it. Week one. Still heavy. But doing something that felt more complete than anything I'd tried before. Week two. The end-of-day heaviness was less. Marginally. But after two years of Kegel plateau, marginally felt like a breakthrough. Week three. I walked with Margaret for the first time in three years. Told her my knee had finally healed. We walked for thirty minutes. By the time I got home the heaviness was there but manageable. Not the stop-and-stand kind. The carry-on kind. Week four. I woke up one morning and lay still for a minute. The heaviness was there but lighter. Like it had been turned down. Not gone. But quieter. I stood up and walked to the bathroom and checked. The bulge was still there. But it felt less. Less prominent. Less pressing. Like something underneath was holding it better. I stood in the bathroom and cried. Quietly. So Robert wouldn't hear. Week six. I picked up my granddaughter. She said "up Nana" and I picked her up without thinking about it. Without bracing. Without calculating. She put her head on my shoulder. I held her. My body held both of us. Week eight. Robert reached for my hand on the sofa. I didn't pull away. I held his hand. He looked at me. I looked at him. "You seem different," he said. "I feel different," I said. I haven't told him. Not yet. Maybe one day. But for now, I feel different and that's enough. I'm three months in. The heaviness isn't gone. I want to be honest. My prolapse hasn't reversed. But it's less. Noticeably, measurably less. The foundation feels stronger. My body feels supported. I'm doing things I haven't done in years. Walking. Gardening. Lifting my granddaughter. Sitting through dinner without shifting. Standing in the kitchen long enough to cook a proper meal. And the silence is breaking. Not publicly. But inside me. I don't feel as ashamed. Because I'm not just enduring anymore. I'm doing something that's working. There are cheap copies on Amazon. They're not the same thing. Different materials. Flimsy. They break. The real one is from tryloriva.store. If you're carrying this alone. If you haven't told anyone. If the Kegels have plateaued and the physio didn't fix it and surgery terrifies you and you're stuck. You're not stuck. Your foundation needs more than Kegels can give it. It needs all three parts trained together. Inner thighs. Deep core. Pelvic floor. The Loriva trainer costs $59. One time. No subscriptions. 30-day guarantee. Keep it no matter what. Ships in a plain unmarked box. Your secret stays yours. Five minutes a day. In your armchair. No insertion. No complicated routine. You don't have to tell anyone. You just have to try. Here's the link: https://tryloriva.store/products/thigh-and-pelvic-trainer — Susan P.S. — 4 years alone with this. 2 years of Kegels that plateaued. Week 1: Still heavy. But the squeeze felt different — whole foundation engaging. Week 2: End-of-day heaviness reduced. Week 3: Walked with Margaret for the first time in 3 years. Week 4: Heaviness quieter. Checked in the shower. Less prominent. Week 6: Picked up my granddaughter without thinking about it. Week 8: Robert held my hand. I didn't pull away. Month 3: Not cured. But supported. Lighter. Living instead of managing. $59 once. 30-day guarantee. Plain box.