I will never forget the day I was officially diagnosed with PCOS. For months, doctors had suspected, but I continuously told myself they were wrong. In my mind, there was no way! I didn't have all the telltale signs and there had to be some simple explanation as to why my body was continuously gaining weight, cysts were on my ovaries, and my period had disappeared.

Couldn't it just be a gluten allergy?

God, I wished every day it was a gluten allergy.

I was 25, sitting in the waiting room of a fertility clinic. I had gone through invasive ultrasounds, countless blood tests, and fertility screenings — it was a lot. Wasn't 25 about trying to NOT get pregnant? Yet, I found myself worrying if I could ever get pregnant. I was so young to be at the mercy of a fertility specialist.

What would my friends think if they knew I was here? My grandfather? My father?

And then there was the shame. Shame that my body wasn't working the way it was supposed to.

Shame with the extra weight I was carrying around. Shame that I wasn't "perfect" anymore. Shame that I secretly cried every day, but would never admit it to anyone. Shame that I was starving myself. Shame that I was fighting an inner battle every waking moment.

On the inside, I was filled with shame, but on the outside, I remained composed, as if nothing was wrong, as if I was still the happy go lucky, driven person I always was.

As I sat face to face with Dr. Z, my fertility specialist, I could see the look on his face. He felt empathy for me; he was as sad as I was that I was sitting in his chair, the box of tissues amply placed, waiting to hear the news that would ultimately change my life. "You have PCOS," he said, and at that moment, everything went silent. I could see his mouth moving, but I could not make out the words.

PCOS was a condition that I had done so much research on. A condition that quite frankly, messes you up. It messes with your hormones, your mental health, your physical anatomy, your livelihood. I sat there staring at the doctor trying to understand what he was saying.

Before I knew it, Dr. Z was drawing a diagram of my ovaries.

I hated those ovaries. They had let me down.

Why were they like this? What gene caused this? Was this my mom's fault? A gene my dad had passed down? I was going victim in my head — why me? Why my ovaries?

Leaving Dr. Z's office, we had a treatment plan in place, but I wasn't filled with hope. I was filled with anger. Actually, absolute rage. I wanted to scream. I wanted to curse. I wanted to rip up that paper diagram of my ovaries. What would people think if they knew I had a treatment plan? What would people think if they knew I was broken? What would a future boyfriend think, knowing that my body didn't work the way it was supposed to?

"What would they think?" I would repeat over and over in my head.

For weeks, I reviewed my treatment plan, without taking any action. I felt hopeless. I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered who the person was looking back at me. She was sad, she was broken, she was not the same.

But then, something amazing happened.

I found my hope. I woke up one morning and realized that I had an opportunity in front of me. I had a treatment plan — and maybe it wouldn't work — but maybe, just maybe, it would. Wasn't that worth a try?

The first step of my treatment plan was to get on birth control, and so I started taking it. This solved the period problem immediately, and helped to balance my hormones, making the emotional aspect easier. I was starting to feel more level-headed, looking at things logically. The shame I was feeling was going away. I was starting to feel back to normal, no longer caring what people would think.

Then, I read an article in "Cosmopolitan" about an acne drug called Spiro, which works by blocking androgens, the hormone I had an excess of, the hormone that had been the deciding factor in my PCOS diagnosis. I called Dr. Z, and he put me on the medicine immediately.

It worked. After a year and a half of confusion, mixed signals from doctors, and a lot of lost hope, we found a solution. My hormones were balanced. My emotions were back to normal. I lost weight for the first time in what felt like forever. I was back.

I take medication every day. At first, I felt weird taking pills before breakfast and before dinner — I used to hide it. Now, I take these pills proudly, because of these pills, I get to be me — and live my life in the most normal way possible.

I often think back to the version of myself sitting in the waiting room of the fertility specialist, filled with so much hate, doubt, uncertainty, constantly wondering what others would think — how they would judge. The version of me that hated everything about myself, who was spewing so much hate toward my body. I wish I could go back, and tell myself, that everything would be OK, and to find love in this situation, not hate.

To all the strong women who are battling PCOS and the emotions that come with it — I am with you.

I get it. I support you.

But here is my advice: tell the negative committee in your head to shut the f*ck up — I wish I had.

Have faith that treatments will work. Believe in what is happening, and the progress you are making. Love yourself, love your ovaries, love it all because it is what makes you, you.

PCOS is a rollercoaster, but we are in this together. The more we share our stories, the more we learn from one another. This is my story, what's yours?