Health

From filler in your labia to full labiaplasty, designer vaginasare a popular cosmetic surgery, with the procedure making it into the British Association of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons (BAAPS) list of top procedures for women in 2023.

This is in spite of the fact that there’s no such thing as ‘normal’ when it comes to vulvas: one large-scale study found labias typically ranged from from 5mm to 10cm, and around 50% of women are believed to have asymmetrical labia.

Obstetrician and gynaecologist Dr Inês Vaz commented: ‘The concept of “big” and “small” was created by the media. Women should think twice before they categorise themselves as “abnormal”.’

And now, there’s a new part of the female anatomy receiving scrutiny: the pubic mound.

The pubic mound, or mons pubis, is the area of fatty tissue in front of your vulva, which lies over the pubic bone.

It’s perhaps more colloquially known as the ‘fupa’, an acronym that stands for ‘fat upper pubic area’.

Content creator Whitney Simmons posts workout and gym videos on TikTok, and her pubic mound is a source of unwanted attention.

‘One thing about me, y’all love to comment on it, I have a very prominent pubic bone okay,’ she says in one clip.

In another, she can be seen covering her pelvic area with her hands, saying: ‘My large oversized tee is dirty so today [my pelvic bone] is out, she’s large and she’s in charge.

‘I’ll just be like this all day,’ she adds as she demonstrated turning her back to the camera.

Whitney hasn’t had any cosmetic surgery, and her openness about the hate she gets has encouraged her followers to talk about their own anatomy.

‘I have a prominent one too. I call her my generous mons,’ commented Lydia (@depressy.monkey).

Alexis Lorentz added: ‘I am here to join the club for prominent pubic bones.’

What is monsplasty?

Cosmetic surgery offers an antidote to this pubic mound insecurity, in a procedure called monsplasty.

For plastic surgeon Dr Omar Tillo, medical director at CREO Clinic, there has been a growing interest in the surgery, which he believes comes from the influence of social media platforms showing different ‘body contouring’ options.

So what is it exactly?

Dr Tillo tells Metro: ‘Monsplasty, also known as a pubic lift or mons reduction, is a surgical procedure that addresses excess skin and fat in the mons pubis (the area above the pubic bone).

‘The goal is a smoother, flatter, and more contoured appearance, improving the balance and proportion of the lower abdomen and genital area.’

He explains that an incision is made along the bikini line, through which excess skin and fat are removed, and liposuction may be used to refine the contour.

‘The underlying tissues may be tightened, and the remaining skin is then carefully redraped and closed,’ he adds.

Dr Tillo says that he usually performs the procedure in tandem with abdominoplasty (a tummy tuck) but that it’s also done on it’s own. He performs on average 15 of the procedures a year.

What are the risks and benefits of monsplasty?

Dr Tillo claims that the women seeking the procedures are likely self-conscious about the area’s appearance, particularly when wearing fitted clothing or swimwear.

‘Some experience discomfort or chafing due to excess tissue, especially during physical activity,’ Dr Tillo adds. ‘Others may feel that the appearance of the mons pubis is disproportionate to their overall body image.’

As with any surgical procedure though, there are potential risks like infection, bleeding, scarring, asymmetry, changes in sensation and reactions to anaesthesia, according to the surgeon.

It’s also not cheap, with costs ranging from £2,400 to £4,000.

‘Making sure to choose a board-certified plastic surgeon with extensive experience in body contouring procedures is crucial to minimising these risks and ensuring the best possible outcome,’ he adds. ‘All these risks will be discussed in a consultation.’

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Get in touch by emailing MetroLifestyleTeam@Metro.co.uk.

Stumbling out of the dark room, I ripped my microphone from my head and handed it to a fellow instructor.

‘You’ve got to go and teach this class,’ I said.

I’d been about halfway through my usual 7am boxing session at a boutique studio in January 2019 when the headache suddenly started.

The pain was excruciating, radiating across my whole head and worsening each time I opened my eyes. The closest I could come to describing it would be as an intense migraine, but even then that doesn’t capture the agony I was in.

Reasoning that the flashing lights and loud music weren’t helping matters, I bailed on the class to try and rest.

What I didn’t realise then though was this wasn’t your typical headache. In fact, as I found out afterwards, it was a stroke. And it would change my life.

Up to that morning, I’d been the picture of health.

I was 32, from Norfolk but living in New York City with my wife and working as an actor and fitness coach. Because of this, I tried to keep myself in the best condition possible so I boxed regularly, ate healthily, and I didn’t drink alcohol.

That’s why it was so unusual for me to be feeling like this.

After handing over the mic, I went into a staff room and fell asleep. I woke up a couple of hours later but my headache was worse than ever.

I should have taken myself home then, but because I was due to be at an audition soon I decided to stay put.

However, when it came time to leave I couldn’t remember where the audition was or any of my lines. I felt confused, lost.

Despite this, I wasn’t concerned that my headache was caused by anything other than me being exhausted or burnt out. All I wanted was to go home and sleep but, worryingly, I couldn’t remember where I lived or how to get there.

Eventually, I called my wife and she told me how to get on the train and get back home in one piece. She was concerned but I reassured her that all I needed to do was lie down at home. I then slept for 24 hours straight.

When I woke up my headache had gone but I still felt exhausted and like something wasn’t quite right. Still, I went back to teach my boxing class, and then I started slurring my words.

Afterwards, I saw a doctor who advised that I was indeed ‘burnt out’ and I should be fine after a couple of days off work. However, things just got worse with the same symptoms presenting throughout the rest of the day.

Sensing something was seriously wrong, my wife suggested we book to see another doctor and, this time, I completed a series of blood tests and an MRI scan.

The latter confirmed my ‘headache’ had actually been a stroke and that I had a congenital heart defect called atrial septal defect (ASD).

I was in complete and utter shock.

Not only did I not feel like I’d had a stroke, I couldn’t understand how or why this had happened. It felt like my world as I’d always known it was crumbling apart.

As for discovering I had ASD, it was hard to process. Essentially, the condition means I have a hole in the wall that separates the heart’s top two chambers, which then increases the amount of blood going through the lungs.

While signs and symptoms of this heart defect are rare, in most cases these holes will close up by adulthood without treatment. However, as in my case, when left untreated, ASD can cause other problems such as heart failure and strokes.

So, it was decided that I needed surgery to repair the damage.

As I didn’t have health insurance in the US, I decided to return to the UK for the surgery in July 2019, for which I was unbelievably scared.

I’d had to sign a lot of paperwork beforehand stating that I was aware of potential complications and risks – including death.

Thankfully, everything went well – though my doctor did find a second hole in my heart, which was patched up at the same time – and I returned to America about a month after my surgery.

However, life was anything but normal afterwards as I still suffered with the repercussions of the stroke.

Both working out and teaching gave me vertigo, sometimes to the point that I threw up. I wasn’t sleeping well and my memory was still patchy. I felt frustrated and angry – I just wanted to get my life back on track.

Ironically, the one thing that allowed me to do that was the pandemic.

As terrible as Covid was for many people, going into lockdown was my saving grace. I was physically forced to stop doing anything vigorous and focus on my recovery.

By October 2020 I finally felt like I was back to my old self. I was working out again with a trainer who understood my body but taking it slow, I was sleeping soundly, my speech was back to normal, and my memory was improving.

Luckily for me, at the same time, Peloton instructor Cody Rigsby reached out and asked if I would be interested in joining the instructor team.

I’d first met Cody back in 2017 when I’d taken a couple of his classes and he asked if I wanted to audition then, but at the time I was so focused on acting that I didn’t go ahead. Now though, I jumped at the chance.

I had to go through an audition process but I eventually landed the role at the London studio in January 2021 and my wife and I moved back to the UK not long after. And by March 2021, I started teaching on the Peloton platform.

Since then, not only have I continued to teach classes alongside my own training, I’ve tried to be really open about my experience of having a stroke.

I used to hide this fact because I wanted to be perceived as normal. However, I’ve learned the more I talk about my experience – whether that’s in a class or at events – the more people my age I realise have been through the same thing.

Strokes can happen to anyone at any age, and awful things can happen at any time. I’m so grateful to have come back stronger.

Peloton provides expert instruction and world class content to create impactful and entertaining workout experiences for members anywhere and at any stage in their fitness journey. Peloton brings together innovative hardware, distinctive software, and exclusive content.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk. 

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Standing in the church, I felt an overwhelming sadness.

Not just because we were saying a final farewell to my beloved dad, Colin, but because my mum, Liz, didn’t know what was going on.

She’d been staring blankly at his casket for a few moments, and then she finally turned to my daughter, Katie and said: ‘Who’s in that coffin?’

My heart shattered. She’d forgotten that her husband of 60 years had died.

My parents were diagnosed with dementia within two years of one another, though mum was the first to show symptoms.

I first started noticing changes in Mum’s behaviour in 2018. She’d become increasingly anxious, which just wasn’t like her. I’d also seen that she couldn’t find the kitchen utensils or work out how to serve the food.

For someone usually so switched on – she was formerly a member of Mensa – her vacant demeanour was really concerning.

However, getting an official diagnosis became a really time-consuming battle.

We live in Orkney – a collection of beautiful islands off the Northeast coast of Scotland with a population of just 22,500 people. It’s extremely remote, meaning access to health and social care services is pretty limited.

We didn’t have a resident dementia specialist that could make the assessment and had to wait for the specialist that made infrequent visits from the mainland.

Eventually, in January 2019, mum was officially told she had dementia.

We were all devastated, and in complete shock. When we found out, we all just cried, but vowed that we would stick together.

Not long after though, Dad’s symptoms started to come to light.

He became easily confused and would often jump to old timelines. Or we’d be out for a meal and he wouldn’t realise that he hadn’t yet eaten so would say it was time for dessert.

Worried, I repeated the whole process I’d just taken Mum through, and in June 2021, Dad was diagnosed with dementia.

Almost overnight I became a round-the-clock carer to my parents. A huge part of this was managing the admin; trips to the pharmacy, dealing with social care workers, visits to the doctor and setting up financial and legal support.

Despite my mum being diagnosed first, Dad’s health deteriorated much quicker and he soon required a lot of hands-on support.

I gave up my job as a Housing Support Officer but even then I was barely getting any sleep.

I needed help, but there was a huge wait list for home care services and no local spaces available for a place in a residential home.

Desperate, I spent every spare moment on the phone just pleading for some kind of help.

We managed to make do for a while in between sporadic visits from independent carers and trips to the local day centre under the guise that mum was ‘volunteering to support elderly people in the community’ – this lie was the only way to get her to go.

In the summer of 2023, Mum was admitted to hospital with delirium. When she came out, we were able to secure her a home care package with about four visits a day – but these were only 20 minutes at a time, so I was still picking up a bulk of the load.

It felt relentless.

We carried on like this for a long time, all while I was still campaigning to get at least one of them into a residential home.

Then, in May 2023, dad contracted COVID-19 and developed post-Covid delirium and psychosis. He became a man I didn’t recognise.

I physically couldn’t take care of him at home anymore on my own and at one point, doctors even tried to have him sectioned as he was so unwell.

The only silver lining was that this meant his case was escalated, and we were able to secure him a place in a care home in February 2024.

For a few months I got my dad back. He was gentle and kind.

Sadly, a few months later, in July 2024, Dad died after suffering a stroke. His last weeks were the most distressing I have ever dealt with; I felt so isolated and alone.

I didn’t think my heart could break anymore, and then mum uttered those words at his funeral.

The only thing I was certain of is that, now that Dad had passed, I knew there was definitely a space available in the care home for Mum.

In the month before Dad passed it had become increasingly clear that it was no longer safe for Mum to be at home as there’d been a string of unfortunate events, culminating with her accidentally flooding the house.

‘What am I going to do now?’ I thought to myself desperately.

At that time I had nowhere for her to go, so I just drove her to hospital and left her there for three weeks. I had no other choice.

Now at least with Dad gone, she could take his place in the home.

Thankfully, social services arranged for her to move in almost immediately. Dad died on the Sunday and Mum was in his room by the following Friday.

I’d literally had to wait for one person I loved to die, so another loved one could access adequate care. That’s just wrong.

No family should have to go through what we did just because they live in a rural community. Yet sadly that is the experience of many people who live in remote places.

Considering that it’s estimated a third of people over 85 will live in rural areas by 2037, compared to a quarter now, we must do better to ensure that no family has to face dementia alone.

I’m glad that we now have a dementia specialist Admiral Nurse in Orkney helping people to navigate life with dementia, but I wish that help had been readily available sooner.

Nowadays, Mum is just existing. She can’t walk and struggles to speak. I try to visit her several times a week, but I find it upsetting to see her as she is a shell of who she once was.

What I’ve been through with my parents has been nothing short of soul-destroying. Families deserve adequate access to care, no matter where they live.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

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I was 34 years old when I fully understood what had happened to me.

It was a routine pregnancy appointment. The midwife was asking me all the standard questions: do you smoke? Do you drink? Do you exercise?

I answered each one without much thought. And then, she asked me a question that changed everything: ‘Have you ever been subjected to FGM?’

I said yes. And her reaction was immediate; the entire appointment shifted to become about female genital mutilation (FGM).

I was seven years old when it happened. I remember the screaming. The chaos. Several of us were there at the same time, in a house in Iran, held down, cut. There was no anaesthetic, no care, just pain.

I remember the fear and the confusion. I remember an elderly relative arranging it, paying the woman who came to do it. She was proud. She believed it was the right thing to do.

If the girls in the family weren’t cut, we would face backlash from the community. The people who push this crime on to young girls do so for male approval and their belief that it will prevent women becoming ‘promiscuous’.

For a long time, I blocked out the memory. I didn’t acknowledge what it really meant.

When I was 14, I saw a poster in a hospital toilet that featured a razor blade dripping with blood and mentioned FGM. That was the first time I made the connection to what had happened to me in Iran, but I still didn’t fully understand.

Even as I got older, I downplayed it to myself. I certainly didn’t have the anger that I feel now.

This Is Not Right

On November 25, 2024 Metro launched This Is Not Right, a year-long campaign to address the relentless epidemic of violence against women.

Throughout the year we will be bringing you stories that shine a light on the sheer scale of the epidemic.

With the help of our partners at Women’s Aid, This Is Not Right aims to engage and empower our readers on the issue of violence against women.

You can find more articles here, and if you want to share your story with us, you can send us an email at vaw@metro.co.uk.

Read more:

• Introducing This Is Not Right: Metro’s year-long violence against women campaign
• Yvette Cooper’s message to abusers and rapists: The streets don’t belong to you
• Remembering the women killed by men in 2024
• Stories about violence against women don’t make an impact – this is why
• Men – we need your help to end violence against women
• What to do if your loved one is at risk from domestic abuse

It wasn’t until I was pregnant – until I faced the reality of childbirth – that I truly reckoned with it. I had never considered that what had been done to me as a child could impact my ability to give birth.

I had never even had an examination. No one had ever checked. No doctor had ever asked. I had lived in my body for over three decades without fully understanding what had been taken from me.

That midwife referred me to a specialist, and for the first time in my life, I was shown in a mirror the extent of my own trauma. I had seen diagrams before: graphics online that illustrated different ‘types’ of FGM.

But I had never connected those images to myself. I had never thought about exactly where I had been cut or what had been removed. I sat there, stunned and terrified.

My biggest fear was that I wouldn’t be able to give birth naturally and that something would go wrong during labour. Women can have severe complications during pregnancy due to FGM, so I just kept thinking: how could I trust a body that had been so brutally altered without my consent?

Women who have been subjected to FGM face a significantly greater risk of requiring a C-section, an episiotomy (an incision during childbirth to enlarge the vaginal opening) and also of suffering post-partum haemorrhage. They are also more likely to suffer from prolonged and obstructed labour, sometimes resulting in stillbirth and early neonatal death.

I was lucky though. My son was born healthy and it was my dream birth – I was able to have a vaginal delivery, which was a really big deal for me.

Still, the fear and uncertainty tainted the experience of having my child. I was carrying a burden other women didn’t have to carry. 
 
And the impact didn’t stop there. 
 
To this day, intimacy is difficult. Even though I have a supportive and knowledgeable partner, the paranoia and anxiety is constantly there.

I have to silence the voice in my head that tells me talking about my body is shameful, that discussing FGM makes me unworthy of respect. That voice was planted in me as a child and it takes constant effort to unlearn it.

Every time I go for a cervical screening, the fear comes back. Will they see I’m a survivor? Will that change my results? Will it mean I have health problems later in life that other women don’t?

Today, I’m now very aware of just how much trauma FGM caused me, both physically and mentally. It’s important for people to understand it also almost never happens in isolation.

FGM survivors have often been subjected to other forms of gender-based violence, such as child marriage and modern slavery.

Understanding the intersectionality of gender-based violence is crucial and that’s why I’m now channelling a lot of my anger into working with groups who really want to do something about it. I am an Advisory Board Member and Campaign Ambassador for The Vavengers, a female and survivor-led movement, which aims to end FGM and other forms of violence against women and girls.

Our ‘One Question Campaign’ asks for every woman in the UK to be surveyed on FGM through healthcare settings and for those that have been impacted to be provided with specialist mental health care and access to reconstructive surgery should survivors need it. If this was the reality, I would have been given the knowledge and tools to understand the trauma FGM left on my body much earlier in my life.

In all the interactions with medical professionals I’ve had before, FGM never came up. Had I been asked about it or even seen a leaflet in a clinic during my adult life, it might have given me the confidence to question it. It’s a really important campaign for supporting survivors here in the UK.

FGM is so often spoken about as a cultural ‘practice’, a distant issue happening ‘elsewhere.’ But it’s not a ‘practice’, it’s child abuse and it is happening here. Right now. Girls in the UK are at risk and the effects last a lifetime.

I want people to understand: FGM isn’t just a one-time event. It doesn’t end with the cutting. It lingers, shaping every part of your life from your health, your relationships, your sense of self.

Now that I know what happened to me, I feel robbed of my own body. Someone decided what could be done with one of the most intimate parts of me, and that is a void I can never fill.

The shame is not mine to carry, however – that’s why I talk about it. The shame belongs to those who did this to me.

So please, educate yourself. Pay attention. Have these conversations, have compassion and do something about it.

On top of that, support survivor-led organisations like The Vavengers, talk about it to remove the stigma and advocate for ending violence against women and girls.

Because no child should have to grow up and learn about their own body from a stranger in a hospital room, decades after the damage was done.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.