All images by Nicholas Chang for RICE Media.
“I regret not being naughty before marriage.”
“If I had maybe experimented or had pre-marital sex, I would be able to meet my parents’ sexual expectations and provide for my husband,” Rachel* laments.
Guilt lingers in her voice, though she bears no blame for having a sexual condition that ended her seven years of marriage. The pressure to meet others ‘sexual expectations’ shouldn’t haunt her, yet it continues to weigh heavily on her mind.
Rachel found out she was suffering from vaginismus right after marriage. It used to physically hurt when the 30-year-old had, or at least tried to have, sexual intercourse.
It’s not as abnormal as one might think. As of September this year, nine out of ten patients seeking help at KK Hospital’s Sexual Health Clinic were diagnosed with vaginismus.
It’s a physical condition that often takes an emotional toll on women—frustration, resentment, despair, helplessness, fear, and anxiety.
In Rachel’s case, confusion and self-doubt took over: Why is this happening to me? Will I ever be able to have sex? What about kids? Will my family not be complete?
Her upbringing further intensified her self-reproach. Her staunchly Catholic parents preached against pre-marital sex, leaving no room for open conversations about physical intimacy, boundaries, or self-worth.
Growing up, her only knowledge of sex was what her parents fed her.
“My parents used to tell me that sex feels like a knife and that I will bleed,” she recounts. “They brainwashed me and told me that if I had sex before marriage, they would check to see if my hymen was broken, and if it was, that no one would want me anymore.”
At the relatively young age of 22, she married Marc*. Neither had any prior sexual experience, so they were eager to fulfil a milestone.
But when the pair tried to consummate, all Rachel felt was intense pain and her vagina involuntarily clamping shut whenever they attempted penetration.
It started her on the path that would unravel many aspects of her life: her relationship with her partner, the way she views intimacy, and the family she used to rely on.
Let’s Talk About Sex
It’s clear that the trauma is still palpable for Rachel—she fidgets while unpacking unpleasant memories from her past, voice cracking at some points. But she’s candid about her vaginismus journey.
Slowly, she details every experience—from her childhood to her relationship with Marc and the difficulties she faced during her recovery. She admits that she fears being recognised by people in her life—hence the pseudonym. But I suppose there’s a certain catharsis in being able to tell her story to a complete stranger like me.
Before her marriage, Rachel could only keep silent and listen as her friends spoke openly about their sexual encounters. Contrary to the narrative her parents had fed her, sex actually sounded fun.
She and her then-boyfriend Marc hadn’t gotten far physically. It wasn’t that there wasn’t any desire—she admits to being envious of her friends’ sexual exploits—but her parents’ warnings echoed in her head.
“Sex is a sacred bond for marriage,” they’d told her time and again. And so she waited dutifully.
Still, Rachel couldn’t help wondering if the stories she’d heard about passion and intimacy were true.
“I regret being too obedient,” she sighs. “Maybe I would have found out about my issue earlier on and have it treated.”
At the time, Rachel believed she and Marc had a good thing going. She thought she’d snagged a nice, genuine guy. He checked all the standard boyfriend boxes, sending her to work and paying for most of their dates.
But looking back without the rose-tinted glasses, it was, all in all, a pretty unremarkable relationship. Rachel laughs sheepishly as she says, “He was… very practical. He listened to most of my requests. The most romantic thing he did was to send my laptop for repair.”
The love was just enough for them as young (and inexperienced) adults at the time. When they decided to get married, they were both just starting their careers, so they planned a small, simple affair. The wedding was a restrained get-together of 25 tables at a small restaurant—no fancy banquet.
Rachel and Marc anticipated their first night as a married couple with bated breath. It was, after all, the moment they had waited for all their lives—the first time they would surrender to the passion they had only ever imagined.
Unfortunately, they were so tired from their wedding festivities that they went straight to bed.
They attempted to have sex the morning after, but penetration proved to be a problem. Thinking they were still exhausted from the wedding, they decided to give it another try during their Bali honeymoon. Again, they hit a wall.
That was Rachel’s first inkling that all was not well in the sex department. But she didn’t anticipate just how much they’d continue to struggle to have sex.
“It was really frustrating for us to keep failing,” she admits. And it made for several awkward conversations with Marc.
Since they never spoke about intercourse before marriage, they’d often dance around the topic, with Marc simply offering to “go gentler” if Rachel wasn’t comfortable. It took them some months before acknowledging that this was a medical issue that required the input of a professional, says Rachel.
Her experience mirrors that of many women, especially those from conservative backgrounds. Already, there’s a prevalent social stigma surrounding sex and sexuality. In the absence of open conversations on sexual health, how do you even know if what you’re facing is ‘normal’?
Doctor, Am I The Problem?
Rachel and Marc’s first experience at a fertility clinic was not a smooth one.
Her brows furrow as she recalls how the male gynaecologist yelled at her: “If you don’t have sex, then where is your husband going to get sex from?”
The gynae then asked her to spread her legs and came close to putting his gloved fingers into her vagina to “examine her response to penetration”.
Instinctively, she clamped her legs shut. The gynae’s ‘prescription’? Handing Marc a syringe and saying, “If you want to get pregnant and still cannot have sex, can ejaculate into the syringe and push it into her.”
Embarrassed by the encounter, Rachel found herself speechless in response. Instead of confronting the gynae, she blamed herself for being “cursed” with her condition. They quickly left the clinic and never returned.
As a young woman in her early 20s, she had no point of reference or a friend she could call to ask about their first gynae experience. In hindsight, Rachel knew that the experience was messed up, but to her, she felt that she deserved the gynae’s gaslighting because it was “her fault she couldn’t have sex”.
While some clinics do recommend the syringe method, the rest of Rachel’s experience was definitely abnormal, certified sex, love, and relationship coach Andrea Tan confirms.
She adds that what Rachel experienced isn’t entirely uncommon. Her clients have felt judged or embarrassed—potentially from past experiences—about having to justify why they need to seek medical consultations. Women also anticipate and fear the discomfort from check-ups, especially since many are invasive.
“The gynae ignored or trivialised her discomfort. He didn’t explain or check if she’d be comfortable with inserting anything like fingers or a syringe,” Andrea explains.
“His treatment method doesn’t address her key concern around discomfort or pain due to penetration. Instead, he bypassed that and assumed she wanted to work on her fertility issues.”
Andrea justified that Rachel’s horror story isn’t uncommon. The mere notion that to understand our bodies, we’d have to unpack our sexual issues and bare our naked bodies in front of a person we’ve never met—professional or not. It can leave even the bravest vulnerable.
As a 31-year-old, I know I’m long past the due date for a gynae visit. Heck, when the clinic sent a reminder at 25 for a pap smear, I dismissed it.
Rationally, I know it’s an essential part of keeping up with my health screenings. But, still, I can’t help feeling apprehensive about having a foreign object stuck up my vagina. For people like Rachel who are dealing with sexual health conditions, I imagine the process is even more intimidating.
After Rachel’s traumatic first sexual wellness consultation, she turned to the internet for her answers. Comparing her symptoms with her research, she found vaginismus to be the closest diagnosis.
What most women don’t realise in the earlier stages of vaginismus is that the condition doesn’t manifest solely in physical pain. It’s a psychosomatic condition shaped by relationships and cultural influences, with a unique blend of factors contributing to each individual’s experience of vaginismus.
These could be underlying fears about the hymen being torn, sex and masturbation being shameful in repressive religious upbringing, painful first sexual experiences, traumatic events—past emotional, physical, and sexual abuse—and a lack of emotional safety with one’s partner.
With such a diverse array of factors affecting couples differently, there’s no one-size-fits-all treatment model.
To understand the emotional baggage behind her sexual health, Rachel approached a sexologist. She was introduced to other non-invasive penetration methods. She learnt theories about sex—the stages of arousal and the method of insertions. But everything was explained on a whiteboard in an office.
Armed with only theories, the couple had to practice on their own, leading to further confusion and frustration when things didn’t work out.
The Hidden Struggle
Marc tried to stand by Rachel as they sought solutions. Her parents were questioning why she wasn’t pregnant yet. Believing that infertility issues were behind it, they threatened to send her to gynaes overseas.
To stop the hounding, Marc told a white lie; that they were already actively having sex and seeing professionals for help.
Rachel deduced that the constant invalidation from her parents and in-laws of her sexual ability—on top of her guilt—were the likely culprits behind her continued inability to perform.
Even during the early days of their marriage, Rachel’s mum interrogated her about her sex life. Her mum described her own sexual experience, proudly declaring that “her first time, she couldn’t walk for a week.”
It made Rachel feel even more worthless. She believed in the same values as her mum, so why couldn’t she fulfil Marc’s needs as easily as her mum described?
“I [wish] I had a strong bond with my mum at least. Isn’t it natural for them to be more protective and want the best for their child? Her strict upbringing and controlling nature made my experience worse.” Rachel’s voice cracks as she says this.
Horrifyingly, her father-in-law even went to the extent of sending her pornography, telling her that she was inexperienced and that she should mimic its actions.
Andrea doesn’t recommend a “just do it” response, nor does she condone placing the blame on your partner by saying, “Maybe you just don’t like sex” or “You’re not good enough at sex”.
“It pushes the client into feeling more helpless and does nothing to address the underlying conditions,” Andrea explains.
This sense of helplessness was only compounded by Rachel’s strained relationship with her parents and the mounting frustration from being unable to have sex—and, by extension, conceive. It seeped into her married life.
As their issues wore on, Marc eventually started siding with his parents. After a while, communication between Rachel and Marc came to a standstill. Rachel was left all alone with her struggles.
Both sides were breathing down their necks, pressurising them for grandchildren. Feeling cornered, Rachel had no choice but to tell her parents that she had been suffering from vaginismus.
Instead of the empathy she hoped she’d receive, her parents invalidated her emotions and judged her. Marc did nothing to aid her.
“I explained to him how our marriage had turned sour due to his family’s involvement and how I felt unprotected and unprioritised by him,” Rachel says. She eventually reached her breaking point and initiated a divorce.
As a traditionalist who believes marriage should last forever, Marc was reluctant to divorce. However, it saddened him to see Rachel suffer, so he eventually agreed. The pair mutually parted in 2018.
Understandably, it was a difficult decision to end seven years of marriage. Rachel hoped that Marc would be able to find a better partner—“someone with no issues” who could bear children without any problems.
Moving Forward
As common as FSDs like vaginismus are, the road to seeking help is a long—and mostly lonely—one.
It took a while, but Rachel managed to find her answers through persistence to find the right professional to help. The female gynae she approached prescribed a dilator kit and advised her to hold on to it even after overcoming vaginismus.
“She said the issue might come back after I give birth, so I just need to keep the set clean, and I can reuse it,” Rachel explains. The set costs around $500, while the consultation and treatment added another $500.
With assistance from the female gynae and some numbing cream, they started with the smallest dilator. When they were still together, Marc and Rachel practised working through the dilator kit at home on their own, slowly progressing to the largest size.
Though she felt a pinching sensation every time she used the dilators, Rachel kept telling herself that she had to go through the process to overcome her vaginismus and move forward.
By the time they divorced, Rachel’s condition had improved so much that she no longer needed the dilator kit. She also discovered a vaginismus support group on Instagram, where sharing her struggles became a crucial part of her healing journey.
Rachel describes how she felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.
“I finally found a place where I can share my stories and my journey. Like I can breathe and not feel judged. They encouraged and supported me, so now it’s my turn to do the same thing for others.”
After years of blaming herself for a failing relationship and spending time alone trying to come to terms with her condition, Rachel is finally able to let her walls down again.
She’s finally able to seek some form of normalcy in her life. She reconnected with friends, made new ones, and eventually hit it off with her current partner, Luke*.
With Luke, their relationship feels freer, she says. He embraces open communication, speaking honestly about his feelings while genuinely listening to hers.
Luke even made the effort to read up about Rachel’s condition, making sure that he understood her comfort level and boundaries during sex. With his active support, intimacy has become a natural part of their relationship, and she no longer feels constrained by her condition.
Trusting Luke, Rachel decided to give sex another try. When penetration was finally successful, she felt an overwhelming wave of relief, bringing her to tears. The long wait was over at last.
For Rachel, the first time she could enjoy sex wasn’t about whether the experience lived up to her expectations. Instead, her relief came from finally feeling “normal again.”
Her self-blame and guilt haven’t gone away. But she’s finally free of the expectations other people set on her.
“I’m finally having intimacy on my own terms,” she smiles.
Doing The Deed
Overcoming vaginismus was a pivotal moment in Rachel’s life, but it came with a cost. She no longer speaks to her parents.
The pressure they put on her to be ‘pure’, to please her husband, and their misinformation on sex ultimately caused her to lose her trust in them. Though she understands their intentions, she isn’t able to come to terms with the treatment she endured.
When sex becomes an obligation, and marriage is seen as a fulfilment of societal norms rather than a mutual bond, it distorts intimacy. The expectation becomes: “I’ve waited so long, let’s do it now.”
This creates an unhealthy dynamic, where sex is no longer a natural expression of love but a transactional act tied to fear—fear of missing out on an experience or fear of emotional rejection from someone you love.
Furthermore, societal narratives, bolstered by studies that stress the importance of sex and intimacy, label them as crucial for relationship success. These ideas transform sex into a marker of harmony, pressuring couples to prioritise it as the defining factor in their relationships, regardless of whether it naturally aligns with their emotional connection.
But how did sex come to define marital happiness—and, more troublingly, a woman’s worth?
The roots of this are in traditional gender roles and rigid social constructs. Women’s lives have long been shaped by the expectation that marriage is an essential milestone. Any delay in marriage or childbearing becomes fodder for gossip, compounding the societal pressures women already face.
Three years into marriage, I’m grateful that my partner and I aren’t rushing to raise children, nor do my in-laws plan our future for us. We’ll have kids when we have kids.
But for some of my friends who are getting on in years, the not-so-subtle hints from parents about marriage and grandchildren continue to haunt them at dinner tables and family gatherings.
When women are unable to live up to society’s expectations, it leaves them questioning their own identity and self-worth. But there’s no right, singular way for a woman to live her life.
As a woman in her early twenties back then, Rachel felt the need to prove her worth to Marc and defined it as love and acceptance.
“I thought it would be worth the wait,” Rachel says.
“Turns out, it was just painful intimacy.”
