'I discovered I had a "unicorn uterus" at 36. Suddenly everything made sense.'

I was 36 when I found out I was missing a vital organ.

Quite a few of them, actually, but we'll get to that.

Looking back, there were signs. Little hints from the universe I brushed off; childhood GP visits for "random left-side pain," or the way I could fold myself into bizarre shapes during yoga like a soft-shelled crab.

Then at 17, an X-ray revealed I was missing some ribs.

Instead of panicking, my first thought was: "Ah. So I'm basically the female version of that Marilyn Manson rumour."

Except he allegedly removed his, and mine was just shipped without the parts.

Watch Ally Hensley on Mamamia's No Filter, on being born without a uterus, cevix and vaginal canal. Post continues below.

Growing up, my siblings lovingly (read: relentlessly) called me "a bit dicky."

The family catch-all for anyone who was a bit sick, a bit off, or generally not operating at full capacity.

Cold? Dicky. Rash? Dicky. Ate too fast? Dicky.

I was the runt of the litter, with strawberry-blonde hair and translucent Scottish skin while my siblings looked like extras from Bondi Rescue, so naturally they assumed I was the milkman's child. Or the postman's. Or that mum Jenny once had a brief, sensual affair with an especially pale Scandinavian.

So yes, I always felt a little different. I even have a Harry Potter scar from when my sister chased me and I ran head-first into a pole. I'd known physical difference, at least the "head-trauma-via-sibling" kind.

But anyway, back to the organs.

At 36, I went for a routine ultrasound to check my fertility before freezing my eggs. Anyone who's ever had an internal ultrasound knows it's basically small talk mixed with medieval farming equipment. You're lying there pretending this is all very normal.

Halfway through, the sonographer paused, squinted at the screen and asked, "have you ever had an ultrasound before?"

Not since my twenties, I said.

She replied, very gently, as if lowering bad news onto a coffee table, "It looks like you were only born with one kidney — and half a uterus — and one ovary."

Ahh mi-scuzi? Sorry, what??

She continued, cheerful as anything: "It's called a unicornuate uterus. Very rare. One in four thousand births."

A unicornuate uterus. In that moment, everything made sense. I'd always suspected I was a unicorn. It was nice to have the paperwork confirm it.

Image: Supplied.

Shock is an understatement. Finding out you're missing several factory-installed organs at 36 is like discovering your IKEA bookshelf never came with all the screws, and yet somehow it's been standing upright.

Naturally, I called Mum.

"WHAT on earth did you eat when you were pregnant?! I'm missing BASIC organs, JENNY!"

"Jenny, be honest… did you swallow a battery? Or was it that undercooked beef strog? Or a prawn cocktail with malicious intent?"

Was it stress? Was it the 80s? We'll never know.

Image: Supplied.

After the scan, I went back to work a couple of hours later. The real processing didn't hit straight away; it rolled in slowly over the days, weeks and months that followed.

In those early weeks, I coped by oversharing with absolutely everyone. I'd walk out of meetings and loudly announce, "GUYS, I HAVE ONE KIDNEY!"

Colleagues would freeze, unsure whether to comfort me, high-five me or call HR.

Then came the Dr Google spiral, researching everything you can and absolutely should not do with one kidney. One standout: I can never donate a kidney.

Which honestly? Massive relief. If anyone ever begs for one, I finally have a medically verified way to say, "sorry babe, I'm already flying the plane on one engine."

Further tests followed, including a contrast-dye MRI where, plot twist, they found my right ovary.

Hallelujah! She'd simply been hiding in the shadows like a shy backstage understudy.

Along the way, I learnt fallopian tubes are literally mobile little arms waving around grabbing eggs like they're trying to hail a taxi. Naturally, I've been cheering on my single tube to be extra handsy and ambitious one day. I've never been one for extreme sports, but now I'm particularly grateful I never took up martial arts or boxing. One punch to my solo kidney and it's game over. Curtain down. Credits rolling.

Luckily, I've been told my lone kidney is thriving, a robust 14 centimetres tall, which I'm proud to report is bigger than a man's. (You're welcome for the visual.)

Health-wise, I just have to watch my salt and protein, which is tragic given the amount of chicken-salt chippies and beer-battered flathead I've consumed. Enough to qualify for an RSL loyalty program.

Listen: 'I had a hysterctomy at 28.' Post continues below.

The fertility part is still unknown. I'd love to be a mum one day, and unicornuate uteruses (uteri?) can carry babies, just with a few more risks and speed bumps. I'm hopeful my tiny magical half-uterus steps up.

For now, I'm living my best half-assembled-at-birth life. Bodies are wild, medicine is chaotic, and no one should find out they're missing major organs the same way they realise they've forgotten their umbrella.

But after everything I've learnt, I've come to meet my body's quirks with a bit of humour and a lot of grace. If this whole saga taught me anything, it's to trust your instincts, listen to your body and keep pushing for answers, more tests, second opinions, whatever it takes.

Just, for the love of God, don't ask me for a kidney. I literally can't help you.

Feature image: Supplied.