I didn’t know what questions to ask
She had written a few down the night before.
Then deleted them.
They felt silly.
Too small, too strange, too specific.
But inside the room, something shifted.
The chair wasn’t cold.
The air didn’t buzz.
And the doctor just waited.
No clipboard between them.
No typing.
Just stillness.
She asked, “What brought you in?”
And meant it.
I thought they would only ask about my period
But the questions weren’t that narrow.
She asked about my sleep.
How often I pee.
Whether sex was painful.
If I ever feel pressure.
If I ever avoid mirrors.
Nothing felt like a checklist.
She followed where my answers led.
Even when I wasn’t sure myself.
The room didn’t feel like a hospital
There was no humming fluorescent light.
The paper crinkled, sure.
But that was the loudest thing.
The rest was calm.
No rushing in or out.
No nurse knocking.
Just me, sitting
With enough space to hesitate
And still be heard
She explained everything before touching anything
It wasn’t fast
It wasn’t silent
She explained what she would do
And asked before doing it
Not just once
Every step
That changed everything
I knew what was coming
And it made the unknown less sharp
I thought the pelvic exam would hurt more
It wasn’t pain
It was exposure
And not even physical
But something else
Something about being seen
And staying still
And letting someone examine what no one else talks about
But it passed
In seconds
And left no echo
They didn’t assume I was sexually active
Or inactive
Or partnered
Or curious
They just asked
And let me say what I needed
Without apology
Without needing to explain why
Or why not
I didn’t know what a speculum looked like
She didn’t hide it
She showed me first
Warmed it
Described its shape
Told me how long it would take
There was no surprise
Just a few seconds
A pause
Then she moved on
No one made weird comments when I said I was nervous
I said it right away
Before she even asked anything
And she said, “That’s completely okay”
That alone helped
Because she didn’t try to fix it
She just accepted it
And kept moving gently
They didn’t weigh me first
There wasn’t even a scale in the room
She asked if I wanted to be weighed
I said no
And she said okay
That was it
Nothing else
And I exhaled
I thought I had to shave
I had shaved the night before
And nicked myself
Turns out, it didn’t matter
She didn’t notice
Or if she did
She said nothing
Because that part wasn’t important at all
She asked about my family, not just me
About my mom
And her periods
And if she had fibroids
Or cancer
She asked if twins ran in my family
And if my sister had irregular cycles
I never thought that information belonged here
But it did
It wasn’t a one-time thing
At the end
She said, “Next time, we can talk more”
Not because something was wrong
But because it didn’t all need to fit today
That gave me room
To return
To grow into this
She didn’t flinch when I asked about pain
The kind of pain I never say out loud
Not even to friends
Not even to myself
She didn’t look surprised
Or worried
She just nodded
And asked more
I was surprised by the number of things they check
It wasn’t just my cervix
She checked my skin
My neck
My breasts
My lower back
She asked about digestion
About fatigue
About discharge
About the kind of pain that comes and goes
It didn’t take as long as I thought
I was in the room for 25 minutes
That’s it
But it felt longer
Not in a bad way
But in a full way
Like all the waiting outside the door had stopped
And time folded for a while
I left without knowing all the answers
But I left knowing this was a place I could ask questions
And that was enough
More than enough
Because now I had a name
And a voice that didn’t interrupt
And space I could come back to
She didn’t tell me what to do—she offered choices
Not instructions
Options
She asked what mattered most to me
What I feared
What I didn’t want
She adjusted everything based on that
And made it mine
I didn’t know I needed that visit
I thought it was too soon
Too awkward
Too much for nothing
But I left lighter
Like a quiet thing had shifted
Like I had taken up space
And nothing bad happened