Why no one taught us about vaginismus—And why that needs to change

"My vagina is like a Venus flytrap,” Lily confesses to Ola in Sex Education, struggling to make sense of her body’s resistance during an attempt at sex. Ola, in an awkward show of solidarity, tries to reassure her by admitting she has a single, stubborn hair on her nipple. 

“Do you know why this happens?” Ola asks. Lily then says it’s probably because she puts too much pressure on herself. She reaches into her drawer and pulls out a box of vaginal dilators. If she’s patient, she explains, she’ll eventually be able to work her way up to the largest one, without pain.

For some, this was just another moment in Lily’s coming-of-age story. But for many young Indian girls, it felt like the first time someone had put words and visuals to an experience they had only ever quietly wrestled with behind the privacy of browser tabs and closed bedroom doors. What Lily faces in the show is a condition called vaginismus. But don’t be surprised if you haven’t heard of it. For it’s hardly the first time the female body has been left out of the conversation. 

Vaginismus, as Dr Parul Prakash, head of Reproductive Medicine at Artemis Hospitals, explains, 211 is a condition where the vaginal muscles contract involuntarily, making any form of penetration—be it during sex, a pelvic exam, or tampon use—painful, if not impossible. Medically, it falls under genito-pelvic pain or penetration disorders. Now, before you’re led to believe it’s rare, a quick Google search will tell you otherwise: An estimated 5 per cent to 17 per cent of Indian women may experience vaginismus, especially those with limited access to comprehensive sex education or non-judgmental healthcare.

Dr Vaishali Joshi, obstetrician and gynaecologist at Kokilaben Dhirubhai Ambani Hospital, notes that roughly two in 10 women show signs of vaginismus. And yet, it remains largely overlooked, buried under stigma, silence, and a serious lack of sex education.

“For the longest time, I thought something was fundamentally wrong with me. Watching Sex Education was the first time I felt seen,” says Kavya*, who’s been dealing with it for nearly four years. What eventually helped was unpacking the anxiety around intimacy in therapy—getting to the emotional root, rather than just the physical response. Ishita* tells me she tried switching from pads to a cup and tampon, but both left her in instant pain. “I felt guilty, like as a grown woman, I was failing at something so basic,” she says.

For Megha*, it took pelvic floor therapy, transparent communication with her partner, and time. In her case, past trauma made even basic penetration feel impossible. Her doctor explained it as the body’s way of storing and expressing unresolved pain.

While debates persist over whether vaginismus is primarily psychological or physical, relationship and sex therapist Ruchi Ruuh insists it is both. “The body remembers what the mind tries to forget,” she explains. Past trauma, anxiety, and negative conditioning embed themselves in the nervous system, manifesting as physical symptoms. Treating only the physical aspect ignores the root cause. For vaginismus is where emotional and physical pain intersect, shaped by fear, anxiety, and unresolved histories.

The last time I encountered anything resembling proper sex education was the season one of the show Sex Education, I was 17. For most, it’s been a patchwork of Reddit threads, erotica, or wildly inaccurate porn. Millennials might recall reading sex therapist columns in Sunday papers; a fortunate few had candid conversations with their parents. But for the vast majority, sex has remained cloaked in stigma.  It conditions the body to associate sex with shame or danger. So, even when the mind understands it as “The body remembers what the mind tries to forget,” naturally, the body may still flinch, gripped by fear or guilt. That’s often where vaginismus takes root. 

In 2023, singer-songwriter Meghan Trainor opened up on her podcast about being diagnosed with vaginismus, describing how painful sex once left her unable to walk. The Netflix mini-series Unorthodox talks about this condition through the character Esty, as she struggles with the expectations of a conservative community and the physical toll on her body. In Joya Goffney’s book Confessions of a Good Girl, 17-year-old Monique’s journey with vaginismus confronts toxic purity narratives and reframes what it means to understand your own body. An episode of The Good Doctor tells the story of a 45-year-old virgin living with vaginismus, and even as far back as 2007, Private Practice featured a character whose experience of the condition talking about both emotional and physical trauma.

These examples, though important, are few and far between—and often tucked away in subplots or one-off episodes. Despite affecting millions of women, vaginismus has yet to find a consistent or central place in mainstream storytelling. When I asked Dr Ruuh if she sees patterns like low self-esteem, depression, or relationship anxiety tied to vaginismus, she said, without hesitation, “All the time.”

So if it’s this impactful, why are the struggles of the female body still left sitting on the sidelines?

Perhaps the problem isn’t that we don’t talk about the female body, it’s that we talk about it too much, just not in the ways that matter. There’s endless advice on how to get pregnant, how not to, what to do with an unwanted pregnancy, and what not to do. But when it comes to understanding female anatomy—really understanding it—we fall embarrassingly short.

Take vaginismus, for instance. There’s little empathy, even less education. Where are the bestselling novels, acclaimed documentaries, groundbreaking films, the school textbooks that explain the pelvic floor, trauma responses, or the complex mind-body relationship when it comes to sex? What we’ve been exposed to, instead, are glossy versions of intimacy, or really lousy sex-ed from a school textbook that falls on the shoulders of the biology teacher.

If you’re reading this and your struggles feel familiar, know that there is a way forward. Experts suggest starting by consulting both a gynaecologist and a therapist, and sticking with the process. It might take time, but with the right support, it gets better.

As for conversations around the struggles of the female body? Well, those will take even more time, and a lot more patience.

All images: Getty Images

This article originally appeared in the Harper's Bazaar India June-July print edition.

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