I contemplated starting a blog for at least a year and a half before taking the plunge.

In March 2016, I had surgery for my vulvodynia. Up until then, I kept my condition very private. I considered it in the “don’t ask, don’t tell” category of topics. Possibly in the “don’t ever ask and don’t ever tell” category unless you were my (ex)husband or my doctor. Not even my best friend or my siblings or my parents knew, even though I had been experiencing excruciatingly painful intercourse for four years and had other symptoms prior to getting married.

I’ve never been a private person. I’m a leave-the-bathroom-door-open kind of person. I mean… I write a blog about my vagina for fuck’s sake. But I was raised in a very conservative home as a member of a very conservative religion… and therefore developed a deeply ingrained belief that it was deeply inappropriate to think, say, or do anything of a sexual nature unless it was with my husband in private.

I hardly knew anything about sex and physical intimacy prior to my wedding night. I never joked about sex as a teen. I always closed my eyes during kissing and sex scenes in movies (and I never even watched an R-rated movie until I was almost 30). I dressed modestly according to my religion’s standards. And even though I enjoyed kissing and making out with boyfriends prior to getting married, I never had sexual or “impure” thoughts while making out. I tried to be mindful about not crossing the line into sexual territory. I knew that this went there… but I had no concept of arousal or foreplay and had no idea what this even looked like.

After I got engaged, I my mom gave me some more detailed advice and I read a book about how to have a virtuous and fulfilling sex life in marriage. By my wedding night, I read that women could experience pleasure and be righteous… but purity culture and “the good girl syndrome” are hard to unlearn. I had learned that sex was uncomfortable the first few times… but I had no concept of what level of discomfort to expect. I was told it was okay to add other stuff in addition to intercourse… but that penis-in-vagina (PIV) intercourse was the gold-standard of a happy and fulfilling marriage.

I was still incredibly naive when I got married, as was my (ex)husband. We committed to learning together and figuring it all out.

When intercourse was extremely painful, I didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know what to do.

And trauma ensued.

When married friends at my bridal shower half-laughingly warned me that sex would be uncomfortable the first few times, I had no idea that they didn’t mean that I would be sobbing in the fetal position for hours afterward.

My scrupulosity (religious OCD) convinced me that I couldn’t proactively research sexual education content without losing my virtue. I couldn’t Google “Why does sex hurt” because doing so might lead me to become addicted to pornography. Or even worse, my (ex)husband might come across my sexual Google search and then he would become addicted to pornography.

I tried to tell multiple doctors what was happening, but I didn’t have the skills or confidence to explain the level of pain or even use the correct terms. Speaking about sexual things was wrong up until the moment I got married, remember? When I said it hurt, the doctors half-laughingly brushed my pain aside and said that I needed to stretch out or have a glass of wine to relax. I didn’t know how to recognize and call out overt sexism and misogyny within the gynecological field.

My (ex)husband and I had no idea how to develop a healthy, thriving, truly fulfilled relationship without PIV intercourse. Despite his love and compassion and gentle nature, I began to believe that I was fundamentally broken and a failure of a wife. I developed overwhelming anxiety that he would one day wake up and realize that being married to me was a prison.

Neither my (ex)husband nor I have very many vulvodynia memories from our first few years of marriage. We both have memories of some of the happy parts of early married life, but neither one of us remembers much from those early years (at least that’s what he told me last time I asked). Mostly we both tried to ignore it. We either ignored it by learning to try other stuff in the bedroom… or we ignored it by attempting intercourse hoping that this time would be different.

Only it wasn’t. It was never different. It was always traumatically painful.

He was gentle and loving. I will always be grateful for my ex-husband. Though we are no longer married, we are bonded by kids and because of our experience navigating my vulvodynia. I tried to compensate for my brokenness in other ways. We settled into an avoidant-pursuer cycle with intimacy (physical and emotional). Eventually, I got pregnant with twins. We tried to build a beautiful life together, and in many ways we did. But the trauma was imprinted into our marriage from the very first night.

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From our wedding night to the months leading up to my surgery, we were alone in my vulvodynia. I spoke to multiple doctors and even delivered my twins vaginally before a single gynecologist truly listened and helped me. It is not a coincidence that the first gynecologist to sit with me in my pain and actually listen was my first female gynecologist.

She had me try creams and medications, but none of them worked. Soon, I was referred to a vulvovaginal specialist and scheduled for a vestibulectomy surgery.

(I’ll write later about why it was not a good idea to be scheduled for surgery prior to trying pelvic floor PT, but alas, this is how my vulvodynia story happened.)

I began informing people that I would be having surgery, mostly in case I died from the anesthesia, to be honest. I started with my family and close friends: they all lovingly listened, cried with me, and offered to help care for the twins while I recovered. Those initial conversations helped me realize how healing it was for me to talk about my vagina and my sex life.

I want to say that around this same time, I became familiar with Brené Brown‘s work regarding vulnerability and wholeheartedness. I tried to embrace that bravery. When I started talking to people about my vulvodynia, I was shocked to realize that I was not alone. It seemed like every womxn I talked to had a daughter, a cousin, or a friend who experienced painful intercourse at some point in their life.

I became more confident and comfortable talking about my vulvodynia… and eventually started opening up to anyone who asked. The conversation would usually go like this:

Me: “I need to take a couple of weeks off of _insert activity here_ because I am having surgery.”

Them: “Oh, of course. I am so sorry you need surgery — what is it for?”

Me: “My vagina.”

That response always came as a shock to people. I’d like to say I had more ladylike tact than to phrase it like that… but I definitely didn’t. In fact, I am pretty sure I referred to it as “my vagina surgery” on the reg. My shock-and-awe response spurred a lot of questions.

I had my symptoms and medical journey down to an elevator pitch because the only thing more uncomfortable than hearing about your neighbor or sister’s… um, privates… is getting more details than you bargained for. I’m much more direct and forthcoming now.

The more people I told, the more I wished I had something to point them to about the realities of vulvodynia. Something that wasn’t a bullet-point list on WebMD. In 2016 there were very few content creators who were open about these things.

Hence, the idea of a blog was born. Granted, it took me well over a year to actually begin writing the content down. And many more months to get the courage to actually post. I mentally planned and prepared… but something held me back.

I wasn’t sure if I was ready to be that open with everyone. 

I went back and forth on whether or not the blog would be anonymous. I talked really openly about my condition with people I know personally, but I was worried about the ramifications of putting my life… my sex life… our sex life… on the Internet. I was slightly (okay… more than slightly) embarrassed by the idea of past boyfriends coming across this blog. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t.

One day, I expressed all of this to my dad and he very wisely posed the question, how could I possibly expect to empower women to be open about vulvodynia if I wasn’t willing to put myself out there first?

Thanks, Dad.

And thus, it began.

Now here I am. Being vulnerable. Being honest and raw with you, the Internet. 

I honestly have no idea what will become of this blog. Ideally, over time, we would begin an open dialogue and find more funding for research on vaginal conditions. I want womxn to feel empowered that they can have a healthy sex life without constant worry about being in pain. I want men to be informed of vaginal pain so they can be more considerate and communicative with their partner.

But more than anything, I want to find peace that even if I am never cured… it will be okay.

This post was originally published in my previous blog, Sandpaper & Glass on 11/01/17. I migrated my previous blog content to this new site in 2023. A lot has changed from when I originally wrote this blog post to now. Edits have been made to reflect some of those changes while maintaining the integrity of the post. For full transparency, you can read the original post here.