The hot girl era has a painful sex problem
Navigating Intimacy: The Impact of PCOS and Endometriosis on Young Women's Sex Lives
Hear me out. I don’t hate sex, but I hate the way it makes me feel.
Fear. Anxiety. Dread.
My body hasn’t exactly been a safe place. It’s been poked and prodded, turned into something clinical instead of personal. Add in the stigma around reproductive issues, and now when I think about sex, it’s not excitement; it’s pain and fear. That’s the association, and once your body learns that, it’s not exactly something you can just switch off overnight.
The irony? I’m just like every other girl—reading fantasy smut, romanticising the kind of love that feels like it could alter your brain chemistry and make life a little less mundane. The idea of romance and lust? I love it.
But when it becomes real, all I can think about is the pain. The worry. Whether he’ll want to try positions that mean I’ll have to quietly hold back tears when it kicks in. Sexy, right?
It’s not just affected my sex life, it’s changed the way I see my body. I don’t feel sexy or empowered. I feel… fragile. Like I’m wrapped in caution tape that reads: “Handle with care. May break easily.”
Then there’s that voice in the back of my mind reminding me I’m in my twenties. Apparently, this is the era of kissing strangers in clubs, carefree flirting, and saying yes without overthinking it. But instead, I’m mentally preparing my exit strategy for the inevitable “want to come back to mine?” line.
Don’t get me wrong, I want to have sex. I want to enjoy it, embrace it and feel confident in it. But the barriers feel so overwhelming sometimes that it’s easier to just… not bother.
Even in relationships, there’s this constant undercurrent of guilt. Like I’m disappointing them because I can’t be spontaneous or adventurous and might need a hot water bottle immediately after. I know... Romantic.
The worst part is when things end? I convince myself it’s because of me. Because I’m “too much,” too complicated, too… faulty. That they’ll go and find someone easier, someone without all the baggage. (And trust me, if emotional baggage had airline fees, I’d be paying excess.)
Then there’s the bigger fear. Meeting the love of my life, someone who accepts all of this and still facing the possibility of not being able to have children.
That one hits differently.
Because as women, we’re basically handed the “motherhood” handbook from birth. Baby Annabelle dolls before we even understand what being a woman means. So when that feels uncertain, it’s not just about children, it’s this weird, heavy feeling of what is my purpose then? Like I’ve somehow failed at something I didn’t even choose in the first place.
If you’re reading this and thinking, this sounds a bit too familiar, just know you’re not alone.
These conversations matter. They need to be had. Because the more we talk about it, the less isolating it becomes and the more space we create for women to actually feel empowered in their own bodies.