I consulted a male OBGYN because my regular female doctor was unavailable. I’ve never been to a male OBGYN before, and I was already nervous and scared, but I had to go.

During the examination, he asked, ‘You didn’t shave?’ referring to my pubic hair. He passed it off as a joke, but I knew he meant it. He later said, ‘You could trim it next time. It’s easier.’ I was left embarrassed, and ashamed.

Now, I can’t stop thinking about that appointment. I keep thinking about how he’s making fun of me to his colleagues.

Maybe it’s all in my head? I don’t know. Maybe I am the one misunderstanding him? I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong and I should have shaved. I haven’t had my regular doctor complain about it.

If a woman commented on that, it wouldn’t have bothered me as much because she’s a woman. It’s coming from a man, and it’s just so embarrassing to me!

The streets outside were teeming with people, a cerulean sky hanging overhead while the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the corner cafe. Despite the hustle and bustle around me, my mind was firmly anchored in that small, sterile room.

The doctor’s words replayed in my head, each iteration seeming even sharper than the last, pricking at my sense of self-worth. Every reflection I passed seemed to whisper back at me, a reminder that I was on the verge of tears the entire walk home.

Throughout the next week, I found myself hesitating at the bathroom mirror, contemplating over what should be the norm, questioning every grooming choice I made.

I couldn’t escape the mental image of him, reclined in his office chair, laughing with a nurse over how he’d discovered my unkempt state. Even worse were the nights—I would lie in bed, the looming specter of shame casting shadows that felt too real to dismiss.

In desperate search of solace, I confided in my best friend over coffee at that same corner cafe. Jenna was the kind of friend who would take a disaster and find a way to twist it into a charming anecdote or a life lesson, but that morning she seemed unusually pensive. Her silence was an endorsement of the gravity of my experience, a validation of my feelings.

‘Maybe you should write a letter to the clinic,’ Jenna suggested as she twirled her iced coffee absentmindedly. ‘Not necessarily to complain but to share how you felt. Sometimes getting it out can be therapeutic.’

I nodded slowly; the thought had occurred to me, but voicing it made it more tangible, more possible. It was a relief to know that at least Jenna didn’t dismiss my feelings as insignificant.

Later that evening, I sat by my window, a mug of tea cooling by my side, and poured my heart into words aimed at the clinic. I wrote about the discomfort, the embarrassment, the enduring shame—all of it. The process was cathartic, each word lifting some of the weight off my shoulders.

A week passed before I received a reply. The clinic had acknowledged my letter and assured me that they’d look into it. The mere fact they responded gave me some assurance, like my small voice had managed to echo in that seemingly indifferent world.

This incident sparked a curiosity within me—a curiosity about why I had let two offhand comments fester into a deep-seated sense of shame. I began delving into online forums, articles, and discussions about women’s experiences with male and female doctors. The stories were numerous, varied in circumstances but united in their complexity of emotions.

One evening, in a particularly engrossing thread, I stumbled upon a comment by a male doctor. He articulated the pressures and intricacies of his profession, how they sometimes inadvertently stepped on social landmines due to the sensitive nature of their field. It made me ponder—how many of these incidents were born from genuine malice, and how many were mere instances of tactlessness or professional blunders?

The culmination of these readings and reflections led me to a modest epiphany. The embarrassment and shame I felt didn’t have to shackle me. They were legitimate emotions, but they also pointed to a wider cultural narrative around body image, grooming, and gender perspectives. With newfound perspective, I reached out to my usual OBGYN, requesting a meeting under the guise of a ‘catch-up.’

My regular doctor, Dr. Harris, welcomed me with a warm smile as I entered her well-lit office. She listened intently as I recounted the experience with the male OBGYN. Dr. Harris listened without interruption, only nodding as if trying to absorb every nuance of my confession.

‘While I can’t speak for others, comments on grooming are often meant to ensure hygiene and facilitate easier examinations,’ she explained gently. ‘However, your comfort should always come first. If something bothers you, it’s your right to express that.’ Her words were a balm, soothing my wounded conscience.

Leaving her office, I realized that this uncomfortable experience had not been in vain. It had forced me to confront my insecurities, to seek understanding and support, and ultimately, to articulate my needs. I felt a sense of closure as I made peace with the incident—not by dismissing it, but by learning from it.

The experience taught me that while shame can arise from isolation, it diminishes with dialogue. Sharing my story had been difficult, but it had fostered understanding – a thread of shared humanity. I decided to embark on a project to create a small online group, a safe space for people to discuss similar experiences and navigate their feelings without fear.

Now I hope my journey encourages others to find their voice. It’s important we talk about these things, learn from each other, and heal together. If this story resonates with you, please feel free to share it, leave a comment, or join the discussion. We’re in this together, and your perspective might just be what someone else needs to hear.

As you navigate the flood of ads and tempting distractions online, please excuse us for them—they keep our content thriving. Consider liking this post, because that’s how we can continue crafting and sharing narratives that matter.

Remember, each share and comment makes a difference in keeping conversations like this one alive. You hold the power to amplify voices and stories; use it wisely.