That night in the hospital was incredibly difficult. I felt physically sick and emotionally drained. I couldn’t keep any food down, and sleep felt impossible. Every few hours, nurses would wake me to check my blood pressure, take blood samples, and monitor my temperature. I also had a catheter, which was extremely uncomfortable and made me feel even more disconnected from my body.
The next day, I spoke to a gynaecologist and told her, very seriously, that I never wanted to have sex again. She laughed—not in a dismissive way, but gently—and reassured me that what I experienced was not how sex is supposed to feel. She explained that when it’s right—when you’re ready, relaxed, and fully comfortable—it should not be painful like that. I nodded, but I still felt unsure.
I ended up staying in the hospital for two nights. Thankfully, the bleeding stopped the following day. When they removed the gauze, it was almost as painful as when it had been inserted. Eventually, I was discharged. But because I had told my parents I was staying at a friend’s house, I went home and kept everything to myself. I didn’t talk about it with them—or anyone in my family.
Later, when I spoke to friends, I realized how varied first experiences can be. Some said it hurt. Some said they felt uncomfortable. Some cried. It made me realize how little open, honest conversation there is about this topic.
What I learned from that experience was incredibly important. I learned about the necessity of foreplay, of being mentally and physically ready, of feeling safe and comfortable. Without those things, sex can become not just unpleasant—but harmful.
I also began to understand how much pressure young women face—pressure to do it, pressure to be ready, pressure to prioritize someone else’s experience over their own comfort.
Looking back, I know I wasn’t ready. I was anxious, nervous, and too much in my own head. My body reflected that.
