I had always pictured my first time through rose-colored glasses. I would smile serenely and lie back on satin sheets, waiting for the most beautiful man in the world to climb into bed with me. He’d enter the room and then enter my body slowly. He’d hold my hand while thrusting his hips, sliding deeper into me with ease. Last but not least, we’d experience the simultaneous release that the Red Hot Chili Peppers had sung about all those years ago. Cue the guitar solo!
This fantasy bore little resemblance to my reality. Sure, I did share the moment with my beautiful boyfriend: a man I loved, trusted, and felt at peace with. Yet the rest of the details didn’t quite align. To put it bluntly:my boyfriend and I tried four different positions, and we still couldn’t figure out how to get his penis inside my vagina. We turned up the music, kept up the morale with words of affirmation, and even chanted, “One, two, three, push!” together. Still: no dice.
It was clear that my brain was ready, but my body was not. My boyfriend didn’t want me to hurt myself. As sweetly as possible, he said the words that would change my life: “I think we should call it a night, and you should take some time to figure out what’s going on down there.”
He was right. I had absolutely zero clue what was happening inside my vaginal canal. My body had always rejected tampons; after a few failed attempts at sliding them in, I gave up. When I began dating and hooking up, I knew that I wouldn’t feel comfortable having penis-in-vagina sex unless I had been seeing my partner for some time—so my tampon troubles didn’t register as a red flag until I slipped under the covers with my first (and current) boyfriend. I had finally found the guy who made me feel enthusiastic to have sex, and when I actually tried to engage in the act, my vagina refused to let him in despite my excitement. It felt like a sick joke.
Thankfully, help was just a few calls away.
I didn’t know much about the inner workings of my body—but I did know that the gynecologist was the place to go if I had problems with my nether regions. I made an appointment with a local office, one that preached a welcoming, progressive outlook, and started counting down the days.
The waiting room was quiet, with walls painted in soothing pastels and feminist literature on display. I poured myself a glass of sparkling water and calmly waited my turn. That sense of calm disappeared when I sat down in the exam room and spread my legs apart for a pap smear.
My doctor, a woman who radiated patience, promised me that she would use the smallest speculum. It didn’t matter — I still let out a yelp that probably terrified some poor girl reading All About Love down the hall.
“Let’s try that again. Let me know if it hurts, and I’ll stop.”
I gritted my teeth, determined to steel myself — but when I felt a sharp pain, I told the gynecologist to stop, not wanting to push myself too far.
The doctor’s brow furrowed. She asked me if I had a history of sexual or religious trauma; I told her no, honestly. “I just feel a wave of pain every time something is inserted there.”
“Have you heard of a condition called vaginismus?”
I had indeed. I knew that vaginismus was a condition that causes sudden involuntary tightening in the vagina — but I had always understood it to be purely psychological, affecting only those who were repressed or otherwise scared of sex. I felt confident in my sexuality and was in a safe and happy relationship, with no past hang-ups that might have altered my perception. Did that diagnosis really fit me?
The doctor revealed that my ideas weren’t entirely accurate. Vaginismus didn’t necessarily indicate a psychological concern — it could be purely physical in nature.
“What can I do to manage it?”
It turned out that my physical problem had a physical solution — namely, physical therapy designed especially for the pelvic area, something I hadn’t even known existed. A modern medical marvel!
My doctor made this next step in my journey easier by referring me to a local pelvic health practitioner. Just a few hours after strolling out of her office, I already had my next appointment scheduled.
* * *
Another day, another waiting room decorated in subtle pink and orange hues.
As excited as I was to put this matter to bed — and ideally hop into bed with my boyfriend — I had the jitters as I listened for my name. I thought that surely I’d be subjected to further poking and prodding, and I wasn’t exactly looking forward to that.
When the time came, a pelvic floor therapist greeted me with a warm handshake. After I shared my woes with her, she asked me to lie down on the exam table. She told me that she wouldn’t be conducting a speculum exam — she would inspect me using only her gloved hand to do a bimanual exam. She could tell that I was tense, so she led me through a breathing exercise that would relieve tension in my pelvic floor while also providing me with a sense of mental relief. It worked like a charm — yes, there was some slight initial discomfort, but I didn’t clench up the way I had with my gyno.
I inquired about my corona (sometimes known by the term hymen), a relic of fetal development that sits just inside the vaginal opening and usually breaks down over time. I thought that perhaps mine was still covering my vaginal opening, and that had something to do with the pain I had experienced. The therapist told me that what remained of my corona was on the thicker side, which might have accounted for some difficulty with sex. Yet the real issue, she said, was that my pelvic floor muscles were simply overactive, eager to tense up whenever they sensed a foreign object. When it came to sex, my mind and my body just weren’t in sync — but that could be changed.
Once I was dressed again, the therapist led me through some stretches to test whether I had any problems with flexibility that were posing additional challenges. She determined that my hip mobility wasn’t the best — possibly a function of my scoliosis, which I’ve dealt with since middle school. Hearing her describe my specific issues was affirming rather than stressful, since I knew we were going to come up with a plan to fix them.
We spent the rest of our appointment working on the breathing exercises, designed to attune me to the way the pelvic floor expands and contracts, and doing stretches and yoga poses that would allow me to put those diaphragmatic breathing techniques to use while increasing my mobility and strength in my lower body. I left with some simple homework that would improve my condition little by little. Baby steps, it seemed, was the name of the game.
During my next visit, my therapist showed me a set of silicone tools called dilators, also known as vaginal trainers. These tools are designed to allow people to size up as they use them to manage vaginal pain and flexibility at the patient’s own pace. On my own time, between appointments, I could use these to relax my pelvic floor muscles.
I ordered the dilators online. Waiting for them to arrive at my house was almost as hard as waiting to have sex; as soon as they arrived, I gave the smallest one a go. I couldn’t believe it — with the power of diaphragmatic breathing (plus plenty of lube per the therapist’s recommendation), it slid right in. I held it there for about thirty minutes while streaming a TV show, occasionally wiggling it around. When I pulled it out, I was beaming with pride. (Just to be clear, you can dilate while reading a book, watching a movie, or engaging in any other distracting pastime that doesn’t require movement.)
And thus my dilator journey began. I say journey because it took me several months to work through the full set of dilators (I would go up a size after a week or two of using the previous size). Those months flew by quickly, though, with my therapist’s guidance, my boyfriend’s reassurance, and my friends’ compassion. While opening up to my pals, I was shocked to learn that several of them — to be precise, I counted seven (!) — had struggled with vaginismus as well. Some of these individuals were late bloomers like myself (although “late,” of course, is relative); others had been sexually active since their teen years. The one commonality was that all of them had conquered their pelvic floor problems — and all of them reassured me that I would, too.
I often think back on something my therapist told me during one of our check-in sessions: Pelvic floor issues can be a blessing in disguise, since they can encourage you to get to know your body in a way that most people never take the time to do. Far too many people, especially people with vaginas, push through sexual discomfort without speaking up, assuming that pain during intercourse is normal or not wanting to make a fuss. I share my story in hopes that you, too, will feel empowered to treat yourself gently and prioritize your own comfort and pleasure in all your sexual encounters. If your pelvic floor is acting up, seek support—and surround yourself with those who will applaud you for doing so. There is another way.
