The week the pandemic shut down all the schools, I went to the gynecologist. Over the past six months, I had been plagued by non-stop yeast infections, and I had tried every home remedy under the sun to cure myself. Then the gynecologist told me I actually had chlamydia.

The diagnosis started me on a path to recovery that would span years. The chlamydia itself cleared up within a week, but the psychological damage of enduring painful sex for so long remained. My partner at the time was abusive, and did not care about my pleasure, or my pain. Sex had been painful, every single time, for six months straight. 

I was ashamed, firstly, when I realized I couldn’t use so much as a menstrual cup without experiencing immense, lasting pain, like a cold, persistent ache.

Recalling my lessons from Family Life courses in middle school that taught me to seek out a doctor if I experienced pain using menstrual products, I booked several more appointments with gynecologists, hoping that the next one would find something wrong with me, or tell me some way forward. Each one only had a vague answer, finding nothing and asking for a followup if the pain continued (it always did). I was sure something was wrong down there, to the point where I asked the gynecologist doing my pap smear to look for scarring. There wasn’t any, and she reassured me that any past trauma I had was unlikely to do permanent damage—after all, vaginas are built to push out babies and heal from them. 

My paranoia began to eat me alive. Despite the placations, I was still experiencing pain. To top it off, every time I felt an itch I feared it was a yeast infection, or that I had somehow re-infected myself. I asked the nurse to test me for every STI, just in case they had missed it before. They told me it wasn’t necessary to test again if I had no symptoms, but still, I needed to know for sure that I was in the clear.

I was. But the pain continued.

Over and over I had been dismissed, largely because I didn’t have a sexual partner. It seemed as though the nurses and doctors that attended me didn’t see an issue with my pain because they saw my vagina as a sexual vehicle through which sex or birth is performed. Since neither was happening, I was relegated to the margins, told to come back if the pain persisted with a partner. So, the next time I saw a doctor, I lied.

This time she listened to my concerns, and asked me more specific questions: Did the pain persist in all positions, or were some easier than others? Had I tried using pillows to prop my hips up in a comfortable position? Was I using lube? Maybe my cervix was closer to the entrance than most cervixes (the cervix, she informed me, changes positions throughout the menstrual cycle, and canal length varies between bodies). She did a full exam, providing the kind of care I was used to receiving from a doctor when I came in with an issue.

But at the end of the exam, she came up empty. The best advice she had for me was to experiment with positions and keep trying. 

The last doctor visit was both the most helpful and simultaneously the least encouraging. I tried a different tactic with this doctor, being extremely honest and upfront about why I was there. I relayed to her all my past experiences and told her the immense pain that had brought me there. After deciding for me that an internal exam wasn’t in my best interest, she leaned forward and whispered, “Do you need to speak to someone?”

Looking back, I am almost certain she asked with good intentions, but at the time, it felt condescending. It felt like she was invalidating my pain, insinuating it was all psychological. Despite having had years of therapy under my belt, I instantly declined the offer, insisting I would just like to figure out what was wrong with me. I was certain it was physical.

The doctor, who was really a nurse practitioner, offered to go and get the head doctor of the practice. She said he could examine me and, with his decades of experience, hopefully give me an idea of what was going on. “But,” she added hesitantly, “he is male. Is that alright?”

It wasn’t alright. I didn’t want a man anywhere near me, especially not when I was so vulnerable. But more than that, I wanted this over. So I agreed. And I waited. And waited.

The head doctor never came. He was busy and wouldn’t be able to make time. It had taken over an hour for them to relay this to me. The nurse practitioner came back in with the printed resources they always gave me, and on the back she had written down a URL for a local pelvic floor physical therapist. The therapist was out of network, but the website provided me with validating information: this pain was not just in my head. Other people experienced it, too; it was called vaginismus. And it could get better.

Sex was not better the next day—it took a lot longer than that. I had to tackle a number of various issues, starting first with getting to know my own body. Finding the right positions is tricky, too, and it can change throughout the month with your hormone cycle or just the way your body is feeling that day. Medications and mental illness also got in the way, lowering my sex drive to null at times. Talk therapy helped a lot, and I am lucky enough to have a therapist that enrolled in additional courses to find a better treatment plan for me. My partner was patient with me, and understood that sex will be painful at times, but we can switch positions, use pillows or lube, and get intimate in other ways to make me more comfortable. Memories of a time when sex had been good kept me going when it seemed impossible to continue.

It was difficult to admit, but sex was painful for a long time for me, both emotionally and physically. I felt like something was wrong with me, that I was doing something wrong somehow. It took countless doctor visits to learn that I needed to first understand my own body, and then to learn how to trust myself. I had to learn to stop saying, “Thank you so much,” and start saying, “Actually, I don’t understand the results. Can you go over them again with me?” I learned that the sex ed I had been taught was severely lacking, because it didn’t go over what to do when sex isn’t fun anymore. I learned to be prepared for when sex becomes difficult, whether due to injury, sex drive, or disability.

When Michel Foucault wrote, “Tomorrow sex will be good again,” he didn’t mean it to be hopeful. Tomorrow does not guarantee a better day; sex is a constant negotiation of power and embodiment. Still, sex can be good again. But tomorrow’s progress does not come without today’s work. If you’re in a similar position, keep trying—learn more about your body, be open and honest about your pain, and don’t stop advocating for the care and comfort you deserve.

On today's episode, Dr. Anson speaks with Prof. Michael Wilson, Professor of Drama and Director of the Storytelling Academy at Loughborough University in Leicestershire, UK. Dr. Wilson shares information about his ongoing research agenda into storytelling as a scientific tool. 

This project's connection to UMBC is through Dr. Sarah Jewett of UMBC's Department of Sociology, Anthropology, and Public Health, who is completing a Fulbright semester at Loughborough this year.

Check out the following links for more information on UMBC, CS3, and our host:

• The UMBC Center for the Social Sciences Scholarship
• The University of Maryland, Baltimore County
• Ian G. Anson, Ph.D.

Subscribe on Spotify, Apple, or Amazon!

Retrieving the Social Sciences is a production of the UMBC Center for Social Science Scholarship.  Our podcast host is Dr. Ian Anson, and our acting director is Dr. Eric Stokan. Our production intern is Jean Kim. Our theme music was composed and recorded by D’Juan Moreland (UMBC '24).  Special thanks to Amy Barnes and Myriam Ralston for production assistance.  Make sure to follow us on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and YouTube, where you can find full video recordings of recent UMBC events.

• Health and Patient Care Equity (co-led by Vunnathi Ankem and Natalia Cooper)
• Environmental Justice and Sustainability (co-led by Bianca Canales and Tanzila Malik)
• Reforming Juvenile Justice (co-led by Aanayah Trotman and Nyssa Vilchis)

Since 2006, the StoryCenter network in partnership with universities and international organizations has promoted Digital Storytelling Conferences, providing the global community with an opportunity to exchange ideas and share experiences.

In its first time in Latin America, the 12th International Digital Storytelling Conference will take place in Belém, Brazil, in November 2025. Hosted by Museu da Pessoa , this edition will have as its theme 'Lives, Voices and Knowledge in a World on Fire' , exploring the power of storytelling in climate justice. We are confident that this gathering will be a pivotal moment to inspire action and strengthen partnerships towards a more sustainable and just future.

Part One: A Strange and Friendless Road, For a Tomorrow Without Tears

or, being a woman (mostly), queer, and autistic. Self-diagnosing, and the fear of an official medical stamp.

Content Warning for mention of the r-slur.

By Katlynn Seghetti.

Over my time working at the women’s center, I’ve been doing a lot more reflection and thinking about the future. Fun topics, assuredly. In this post, I wanted to verbalize my own, and I’m sure many others’, feelings on being autistic in the current climate. 

I was not recognized as autistic, until I took an AP Psychology course in my sophomore year of high school, (2017/2018, to age myself.) I saw the criteria for autism and literally went ‘hm. That all seems average. Can’t be me though, I’m able to take care of myself.” Consider me shocked when, not even months later, I entered the worst burnout state I’d ever been in – not in school, though. I still kept up my grades, still socialized well enough, but at home, I did nothing but scroll on the internet, or play one particular game until my eyes burned. I was lonely, and I couldn’t understand what the hell happened. 

But I still couldn’t be autistic, right? I’m excelling where it matters. I’m not a burden on anyone else. Ignoring the fact that consistently throughout my entire life, my family referred to me as retarded:

• “Why are you acting so retarded?” 
• “Don’t do that, you retard.” 
• “Aw, you’re serious? You’re our little retard in the family.” 

I couldn’t be autistic, I was purposefully refusing gender norms – I’m non-binary, of course. I couldn’t be, I have friends (who would treat me as a pet- one even did so at one of my more recent birthday parties, or make me the butt of the joke.) I couldn’t be, statistics show it’s a ‘boys’ disorder. 

It wasn’t until I was deep in that burnout that I got content online, tagged #ActuallyAutistic. This post suggested getting fidgets, I did so. It helped- but only because I wanted it to. A weighted blanket helped. But again, only because I wanted it to. Anything that helped me wasn’t because I was autistic. It was just because I’d been doing SO much research (…another sign in and of itself,) that I was simply just fooling myself. Then, came the reflection of my childhood, lots of tears, anger, and all that fun. 

Needless to say, I’m no longer in denial – I even got unofficial testing done at the health center here, and was told, “I can’t diagnose you, but I would say you are probably extremely highly likely autistic.” But… I think that’s where this ends. At least for a few years. I don’t need accommodations to succeed, I have a support system at home to help with the things I do need aid with. What would an official diagnosis give me? Another figurative target on my back. We’re an ‘epidemic’, we’re a social media trend, and we’re not to be taken seriously. Being queer, being connected to womanhood, I’m already terribly at risk. There’s no reason to add another one in the eyes of the government, the medical system, and anyone doubting my passions and my ability to do good work.

What I can do, though, is focus on community. My work in the Women’s Center, creating a Neurodiversity club, and connecting with other autistic (and other neurodivergent) adults at UMBC, allows me this. I can give space to those who feel like they don’t have it, and encourage change and progress. It’s not over until (drumroll) there’s a tomorrow with tears.

Part Two: The Journey through Genesis

or, my goals for next semester, and how we get there. 

What does that mean though? Campus-wide, where do all the neurodivergent students exist? Everywhere, and nowhere. You see someone every day, and probably just call them a ‘weird’ kid. Here’s how we can start.

A Neurodiversity Club.

• This is in the works, but it is genuinely astounding to me that, other than the Disability Advocate Union, something like this hadn’t been created. However, neurodivergent people are so rejected, shoved aside, and treated like a bad thing to keep hushed and under lock and key. Why would they feel empowered to create a club? Going through the process of founding this club, it’s so simple but very scary, in a way. Will the people who ‘verify’ that this club needs to exist agree with us? Will the students think we’re doing a good job? The only way to know is to take the jump.

A Neurodiversity Support Group, for students, and for staff and faculty.

• I can only speak for students, but I understand there’s been some frustration getting recognition on campus. Accommodations feel like interrogations, and going to professors is a stunted legal-speak conversation. Let’s get community, connections and actual neurodiversity knowledge around. Well, my group this spring semester will be part of that- starting a group and collecting resources for neurodiversity. It’s a lot of work. But it’s good work. Students deserve to have good work and support. One thing I didn’t expect is how much support I’ve gotten from the Women’s Center, and how many neurodivergent staff and faculty supported my events. I see you, and I appreciate you. I feel like the work I’m doing is deeply fulfilling, and I know that I wouldn’t have gotten as much headway without everyone.

Trained Specialists; both in SDS and for faculty and staff support

• Yes, working with neurodivergent students can be hard. Seeing the invisible struggles, while making sure people don’t ‘overuse’ or ‘abuse’ the supports is valid. Why not add people who know the details about neurodiversity? Who can support staff and faculty in supporting these students? Who can support SDS in navigating accommodations? Who can empower students to get what they need?

Open Dialogue

• Students need information. That’s why we’re students. Neurodivergent students especially. Let’s create conversations about neurodiversty. Change can’t happen without voices. Students don’t feel heard or respected. This is not anyone’s intention, but it is the impact. We can work together to fill in the rift.

If you are interested, please complete this interest form.

On today’s episode we hear a rebroadcast of a special event hosted by the UMBC Center for Social Science (CS3).

The roundtable, which took place in October, was the second in-person iteration of a series designed to bring together fabulous UMBC alumni from across the social sciences. The roundtable was moderated by CS3’s acting director, Dr. Eric Stokan. The panel brought together the following fantastic UMBC alumni:

Michele Berry received a master’s degree in environmental policy from the school of public policy at UMBC, having completed a bachelor’s degree at the New School. Michele now works as a stormwater coordinator for the Chesapeake Stormwater Network.

Amanda Cardone currently works as a survey methodologist at RTI International. Amanda received a MA in applied sociology at UMBC, in which she honed her expertise in survey science and programming.

Amy Soukoup currently serves as a community data analyst for Live Baltimore, a nonprofit that helps potential homebuyers find the right place to live in Baltimore, among other goals. Amy received a MA in economic policy analysis from UMBC.

Manisha Vepa earned a bachelor’s degree in global studies and economics at UMBC in 2018 and now works as an economic research analyst and East Asia expert at Ascendant Program Services. LLC which contracts with the federal government.

Check out the following links for more information on UMBC, CS3, and our host:

• The UMBC Center for the Social Sciences Scholarship
• The University of Maryland, Baltimore County
• Ian G. Anson, Ph.D.

Subscribe on Spotify, Apple, or Amazon!

Retrieving the Social Sciences is a production of the UMBC Center for Social Science Scholarship.  Our podcast host is Dr. Ian Anson, and our acting director is Dr. Eric Stokan. Our production intern is Jean Kim. Our theme music was composed and recorded by D’Juan Moreland (UMBC '24).  Special thanks to Amy Barnes and Myriam Ralston for production assistance.  Make sure to follow us on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and YouTube, where you can find full video recordings of recent UMBC events.