Well-Woman
The wounds we don’t talk about, and my story of healing after medical shame
Hello and welcome! If you’re new here, I’m Bailey Gillespie, a writer from Northern California. I write weekly from the tension of suffering and joy, exploring the more tender places of life with God. You’ll find essays shaped by spiritual formation, women’s wellness, and great literature. I hope you’ll stay a while and discover something here that’s helpful. <3
This is a deeply personal essay on a topic we don’t often talk about publicly (at least not in the Christian circles I grew up in). Some of you are familiar with my medical history and health journey. The words spoken over me in this first well-woman visit deeply impacted my physical and emotional well-being, along with my dating life, for years afterward. I know there are others with similar experiences. Just like the woman in Scripture who bled for 12 years, Jesus meets us most intimately in our places of vulnerability and shame—and it’s here that he restored me. I understand that not all of you will relate to this. That’s perfectly alright. You are free to read or not to read. But this year, my growth practice is writing more boldly about topics I care about and have unique personal experiences with. So, I figure this is a good place to start. Thank you for understanding! —Bailey
I was 24 when I had my first well-woman visit.
This feels awfully late in life, but I’ve now met friends in their early 40s who still haven’t gone, so perhaps it’s more common than you think. In some ways, I was attuned to my body’s needs from a young age out of necessity, but I was still uneducated and unaware of how this particular part of it all worked—as so many are. Pelvic floors and pap smears may have been a foreign language. I didn’t have to take Human Sexuality to satisfy GE purposes at our private Christian university (though word on the street said it was a campus favorite), which probably would have helped. So, in the middle of my third year of college1, I had a personal reckoning and finally made an appointment.
This was a private OBGYN practice. If I remember correctly, I’d asked my mom to help me find a Christian doctor—since, in that era, it was important to me to sit under professionals with aligned spiritual beliefs—and this is why I didn’t just go to the hospital. Looking back, I would do it differently.
I don’t remember a lot about that day, but I do remember that my mom came with me and that I was anxious. This is probably why mom tagged along. We were close, and she knew my struggles more than most. I had severe social anxiety in my young adulthood and would flush strawberry red in conversations far less intimate than cervical health.2 Of course, for privacy reasons, she stepped out of the room during the sex questions. Even though I’d had a few unique doctors’ appointments by then—several acupuncture sessions and an endoscopy to confirm Celiac disease—I had never met with a gynecologist.
The short story is that the appointment did not go well.
No, I haven’t dated anyone yet, I answered.
Yes, I am deeply uncomfortable sharing these things with a stranger: don’t you see my strawberry red face??
Between the combined anxiety of my first visit and an overly stimulated nervous system, my body was on high alert and could not / would not relax. Heart pounding, neck blotchy, I was honest with her about my nerves. And though the exam should have taken only a few minutes, I was in that exam room for nearly two hours. It was one of the most painful experiences of my life. Everything hurt. Tight and tense, I could barely breathe through the pain. Her cold instruments felt like knives piercing my insides. In the end, she was unable to complete the pap smear. While trying to calm me down in the middle of the exam, the gynecologist then said something that stuck with me for years:
“Your husband is going to be really frustrated one day, if you can’t sit through something like this.”
Whether those were the exact words or not, the emotional truth remains the same. What I heard and internalized for the next four years was this: I am broken. I am difficult. And, if I do manage to find love one day, I will be a source of sexual frustration for this man. I left the office in tears. Perhaps this medical and emotional trauma played a role in why I did not date until I was 30 years old, nor enter a committed relationship (with my now-husband) until 34.
“Your husband is going to be really frustrated one day.”
It echoed in my head. Every time I felt attraction for a guy or received attention, I couldn’t get past this. I spoke with a slightly older married friend who shared her own experience with discomfort and how she was learning to navigate it with creativity. It would be another year before I said “yes” to a date and another three before my first kiss.
Just after graduating, I went on a blind date that a friend set up. I can’t believe I went through with it, considering my headspace at the time. It went well enough. But once we said cordial goodbyes, and I burst through the Starbucks door into the honeysuckled summer night, I knew I was not ready. The next day, when he called asking if we could set up Date #2, I graciously turned him down and felt ripples of peace. I had done the thing. I had gone on a date—at age 26—and survived it. But nothing blocked the lie echoing in my head.
In between those dates, four years after my first well-woman visit, I worked up the courage to go again. Except, this time, I went to Kaiser Health. After learning how to self-advocate by now through managing other health issues, I’d found my voice and confidence. “I’d like to meet for a consultation first, if it’s okay,” I told the medical staff. “Then we can schedule the exam.” They understood. And, friends, it was the most healing doctor’s appointment I’ve ever had. Despite my disillusionment with traditional hospitals, this woman sat with me and just listened. She heard me and eased my anxiety by assuring me we would go as slowly and gently as possible next time. And if I needed to stop the exam at any point, all I had to do was tell her.
We made it through. It still wasn’t comfortable, but I was honored this time instead of shamed.
The other day, a friend shared a helpful nugget from her therapist: Anxiety comes when we don’t have enough information.
When you don’t know what’s going to happen, or where the fear is coming from, or if your anatomy is in all the right places, you can become paralyzed. There are too many question marks. Your body can’t relax, and your mind spins out. Especially if there’s pre-existing social anxiety or health challenges. This second wellness exam eased all that by filling in many gaps of information. When we were done and I was fully gowned, the gynecologist looked me in the eye with compassion:
“I want you to hear me when I say this: You are perfectly normal. Nothing is wrong. This is an uncomfortable experience for a lot of people.”
That woman was a saint. As I left the hospital, the weight of a thousand bricks fell off my chest. I remember walking to the parking lot and noticing how the sky was a gorgeous blue and the early summer breeze ruffled the Maple saplings in a delicate dance of celebration. I cried with joy.
Even though the shame was gone, discomfort still lingered five years later. And since I was in my first serious relationship, preparing for engagement, I wanted to set us up for success. So, I had a minor outpatient procedure called a hymenectomy to address something my doctors had missed.
If you haven’t heard the word before, don’t worry. Half of my doctors haven’t either (even Grammarly is confused). A hymenectomy removes the extra hymenal tissue obstructing the vaginal opening. (I’ve probably lost all of my male readers by now.) The truth is, there was a slight abnormality. But it wasn’t a character flaw. It was a hymen with extra tissue. My most recent doctor believed the pain likely came from stretching this tissue covering, which only becomes less elastic with age. Whether the obstruction wasn’t significant enough for them to notice, or it had just progressed further by then (clearly, I don’t know how this works), there was a good reason why my body couldn’t relax during that first well-woman visit in 2012.
This procedure is my only surgery so far, and recovery was easy.3 That being said, navigating sexuality at 36 years old when you’ve never been married, for me, had its challenges. My body just isn’t the same as it was in my 20s—although, in many ways, I am healthier now. And my husband is 10 years younger! I did not see that coming, but I find it funny now. We have different stories, different pasts, and massively different physiologies, but marriage is the safe, sacred space where couples are meant to untangle their stories together and navigate these tender issues with curiosity and gentleness. And sometimes a good counselor, too.
“You’re broken. You’re difficult. Your husband is going to be really frustrated one day.”
To be clear, my husband has never said nor implied ANY of this. In fact, as a former Army medic, he often assisted doctors with these exams behind the privacy of a screen. (You can’t make this stuff up.) Strangely, this brought me a deep peace early in our relationship, knowing God had led me to the sort of person who isn’t intimidated by weird health issues or the quirks of a human body. Instead, God met me in my fear and shame, using new positive experiences, compassionate doctors, and a patient husband to restore me to a place of honor.
Healing is always possible. Whether the need is physical, emotional, or spiritual, the process can be slow and deeply personal. You may need to give yourself space and time as an act of kindness. But Jesus is waiting to restore you to peace, leading you out of the shadows and into the light. Though we live in a world stained by sin (and hurtful words), your identity is not brokenness. You are crafted in the image of the God who sees and loves. You are a wonderfully well-made woman.
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I graduated from college a bit late in life (an ongoing theme) after taking my time in community college and then pulling out for a year to reconsider my future. During this gap year (is it still a gap year if you’re at community college?), I studied and practiced massage therapy. Then, after realizing it was too physically taxing for my body, I returned to school full-time, enrolling in a local university to study English.
I later learned there is a name for this fear response: erythrophobia. Sure, I was a shy and insecure kid. But it was likely connected to my not-yet-detected high histamine levels and skin sensitivity to things like fabrics, room temperatures, and fluorescent lights. If only my 25-year-old self had known this.
The procedure only cost $100 out of pocket, though I would have preferred my body not to need it at all, of course!
thank you for sharing this, bailey! I remember having my first pap smear at age 23 and it was the worst experience ever. I thought there was something wrong with me. I feel like in the christian community, we don't talk about women's wellness very much. we should talk about it more!
I appreciated your honest sharing about this topic. Very thankful you found a compassionate doctor who cared so well, and a loving husband. Thank you for writing this article.