Young woman hospitalized after having…See more

Then tears slipped down my face as my best friend and a nurse held my legs apart, while another nurse inserted gauze into my vagina to try and stop the bleeding.

Everyone always says you’ll remember the first time you have sex, but I’d thought it would be because of how awkward it would be. My first time featured a blood-stained bed, carpet, bathtub and three different hospital rooms.

So after my disastrous first time, I want to make sure others don’t have to go through the same thing – and that starts with this cautionary tale and a call for better sex education for all.

I was in my late teens when I first had sex with a boy I was dating at the time.

On that fateful day, he’d booked a hotel room but it never even crossed my mind that I’d lose my virginity. Needless to say, I was completely unprepared for it.

Even before we got to the room, I was nervous to the point of feeling nauseous. He made me feel too anxious and jittery. I didn’t know how to behave or what to even say around him – I felt awkward.

As we got down to it, there was no foreplay for me and he didn’t touch me anywhere other than my chest. Looking back, I should’ve seen this could cause issues.

It felt like a piercing pain when he put it in and I remember thinking that something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. He asked if I was on my period and I said no.

At the sight of the blood, panic flooded my system – I felt scared and anxious. It looked completely different to period blood, in the sense that it was more fresh and looked like it was never-ending.

He asked: ‘Why are you bleeding so much?’

There was pain and there was blood, but the blood made the room look like a crime scene. It spilled everywhere in a gushing waterfall, staining through the bedspread and into the mattress, down the sides of the bed frame and onto the carpet.

After the bleeding started and we stopped having sex, I started using sanitary pads to try to stop the bleeding. When I got through six of them, I decided to call 111 and they asked if the sex was consensual and to describe the events that led up to it.

They told me to go to the nearest walk-in centre. At this point, I’d nearly fainted once and felt dizzy, like my entire body was experiencing pins and needles. My mouth was so dry. All I could think was that my family would kill me.

We went to the local walk-in centre – where they told me I had to go to A&E, I almost passed out, breaking my phone screen when it slipped out of my hand, as they didn’t have the equipment to find out what was wrong.

I ended up telling a nurse that I didn’t want my parents knowing I’d had sex because I wasn’t supposed to be having it

On the way there, alone, I nearly fainted again in the Uber – the driver had to pull over and get me a packet of cereal bars and a bottle of water, which helped. While in the waiting room, I’d managed to contact my best friend and by the time I’d been taken into one of the wards for serious injuries, she’d arrived.

When I arrived at A&E – about an hour and a half after the bleeding first started – I saw two gynaecologists and a revolving door of nurses – all women. One of the medical staff told me that if the bleeding didn’t stop by the next day, I would have to go into surgery.

‘You have a tear on both your vaginal walls,’ someone said to me after using a cystoscope to try to figure out what was wrong. They said it could’ve happened because the penetration was too rough or even because I wasn’t ready or turned on. After that, they all settled on using gauze to stop the bleeding.

By this point, I’d been bleeding for more than three hours and soaked through more than 10 sanitary pads even when two were used together. I find it oddly hilarious that I hadn’t got a drop of blood on my jeans.

One of the nurses helped me put on a pair of disposable maternity-style briefs and on the end of the bed, I spotted the red and black silk and lace thong I’d bought specially from Ann Summers. Fat lot of good it’s done me, I thought.

I felt everything from panic and shock to amusement at everything that was unfolding. I ended up telling a nurse that I didn’t want my parents knowing I’d had sex because I wasn’t supposed to be having it.

I had my mother’s words ringing in my ears that I shouldn’t be having sex because it’s a taboo in our South Asian culture. We’re taught never to do it with anyone because it’s all boys – or men – want and once they get it, they leave.

‘They’ll make you all these promises,’ my mum told me in Bangla when I was 15. ‘They will tell you they love you or will marry you, so you have sex with them. But once you do, they will break every promise and leave.’

I went to sleep that night in the hospital feeling sick and frustrated. I also hadn’t been able to keep any food down and I couldn’t sleep either.

Every two to three hours, a nurse would check my blood pressure, do a blood test and take my temperature. I also had a catheter attached, which was extremely uncomfortable.

The next day in hospital, I spoke to a gynaecologist and told her I never want to have sex again. She laughed and said this isn’t how sex was supposed to be. ‘When you’re ready, it’ll be so much better,’ she assured me. I felt wary but nodded anyway.

It is important for young women to understand that first time sex is definitely not meant to be inherently painful and not everyone bleeds

I ended up staying in the hospital for two nights, and the bleeding finally stopped the day after I was admitted—sometime after lunch, after my body had already been through more than it knew how to handle. I remember feeling weak, disoriented, and honestly, a little disconnected from everything around me. It didn’t feel real. One moment I had been trying to convince myself that what I was experiencing was “normal,” and the next I was lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by quiet urgency, nurses moving in and out, and the kind of silence that makes you realize something wasn’t right from the beginning.

That night, they removed the gauze. It’s hard to explain just how painful that moment was—it felt almost as intense as when it had been put in. There was a sharp, lingering discomfort that stayed with me even after it was over, like my body hadn’t yet caught up with everything it had gone through. I felt exposed, physically and emotionally, but I didn’t really know how to process it. I just wanted to go home.

But going home wasn’t as simple as it should have been.

Because I had told my parents I was staying at a friend’s house, I couldn’t explain where I had actually been or what had happened. I walked into my house carrying something heavy—something I wasn’t ready to talk about. I couldn’t tell them. I couldn’t tell anyone in my family. And so, I stayed quiet.

That silence followed me for a long time.

It wasn’t just about what had happened physically—it was about everything I didn’t understand, everything I hadn’t been prepared for, and everything I felt like I should have known but didn’t. I kept replaying it in my head, trying to make sense of it, trying to figure out where things had gone wrong.

Later, when I started talking to friends, I realized something important.

One of my friends told me that the first time she had sex, all she felt was wetness everywhere and pain. Another told me that her first time hurt so much that she ended up crying. These weren’t isolated experiences—they were common, shared, and yet rarely talked about openly before they happened.

That realization was both comforting and frustrating.

Comforting, because I understood I wasn’t the only one who had gone through something difficult.

Frustrating, because it made me question why no one had talked about it honestly beforehand.

In a lot of ways, that experience became a turning point for me. It forced me to learn things I hadn’t fully understood before—about the importance of foreplay, about arousal, about emotional comfort, and about how essential it is to feel safe and relaxed during intimacy.

Because without those things, everything changes.

And when all of that comes together, the experience can quickly shift from something that should feel natural and enjoyable into something painful and overwhelming.

It made me realize that sex is not just a physical act—it’s deeply connected to how you feel emotionally and mentally. If you’re anxious, nervous, or unsure, your body responds to that. And if you’re not ready, no amount of pretending will change that reality.

A survey of over 3,000 women revealed that one-third were not ready for their first time having sex. Even more telling, 22% said they wished they had waited. These numbers reflect something important—many young women feel pressure, whether it’s from partners, social expectations, or internal beliefs about what they “should” be doing.

And the consequences of that pressure can be significant.

Over 51% of those surveyed said their first time hurt. Half admitted they felt nervous or scared beforehand. That fear, that uncertainty—it matters. It shapes the experience in ways that often go unspoken.

And yet, despite how common these feelings are, conversations around them are still limited.

There needs to be more open, honest discussion about sex—especially first-time experiences. Not just about protection or avoiding risks, but about understanding pleasure, comfort, and emotional readiness. Many educational systems focus heavily on abstinence or preventing negative outcomes like STIs, which is important, but it leaves out a crucial part of the conversation.

Young people deserve to understand their bodies.

They deserve to know what feels right and what doesn’t.

They deserve to feel confident enough to speak up, to set boundaries, and to prioritize their own comfort.

If I had been taught those things more clearly, I think my experience would have been very different.

I would have understood that sex is not something you do “for someone else.” It’s something that should be mutual, respectful, and grounded in comfort. I would have known that it’s okay to take things slow, to ask for what you need, and to stop if something doesn’t feel right.

Instead, I went into it with uncertainty and assumptions.

I thought my role was to go along with it.

And that mindset made everything harder than it needed to be.

It’s important for young women to understand that first-time sex is not inherently meant to be painful. Not everyone bleeds. Not everyone has a negative experience. But when it does hurt, it’s often a sign that something isn’t quite right—whether it’s physical readiness, emotional comfort, or communication.

In my case, I believe it was a combination of all those things.

I was anxious, nervous, and too caught up in my own thoughts.

And the result was an experience that left both physical and emotional impact.

For an entire year, I didn’t have sex with anyone.

I needed time—not just for my body to heal, but for my mind to process everything. I needed distance from that experience, and from the person involved. I needed to rebuild my sense of comfort and understanding before I could even consider trying again.

To understand not just what had happened—but why it had affected me the way it did.

It’s about rebuilding trust—not just with others, but with yourself.

There were moments during that year where I questioned everything. I questioned my decisions, my understanding, even my sense of control over my own body. But slowly, over time, those questions began to turn into clarity.

I started to understand that what happened didn’t define me.

It didn’t determine my future experiences.

It didn’t mean that sex would always be painful or uncomfortable.

It simply meant that I had gone into it unprepared—and now I had the chance to learn, to grow, and to approach it differently.

And when I eventually did have sex again, it felt completely different.

In many ways, it felt like a true “first time”—but without the fear, without the pressure, and without the same level of pain. There was still some discomfort, but it was different. It felt more like a natural stretching, like a muscle being used in a new way, rather than something forced or overwhelming.

I was there, in the moment, aware of how I felt and comfortable enough to respond to it.

Now, sex is something I associate with positivity. It’s something that brings happiness, connection, and excitement—not anxiety or fear. That shift didn’t happen overnight, but it happened because I took the time to understand what I needed and what I deserved.

And that understanding changed everything.

If I could go back and speak to my younger self, I would tell her to wait.

Not because there’s a “right age” or a strict timeline, but because readiness matters more than anything else. I would tell her that it’s okay to say no, to take things slow, and to prioritize her own comfort above everything else.

I would tell her that she deserves to feel safe.

And that her experience matters just as much as anyone else’s.

No expectation that is more important than her own well-being.

Far too often, young women feel pressure to go through the motions—to prioritize someone else’s desires, to meet expectations, or to avoid disappointing a partner. But that mindset overlooks something essential.

And it’s okay—necessary, even—to be “selfish” enough to demand those things.

Because being “selfish” in this context isn’t about taking from others—it’s about not abandoning yourself.

It’s about recognizing that your body, your emotions, and your experiences deserve respect.

Because at the end of the day, experiences like this shape how we view ourselves, our bodies, and our relationships. They can either create confidence or uncertainty, empowerment or doubt.

And that’s why conversations like this are so important.

Because the more we talk openly, honestly, and without judgment, the more we create space for better experiences—for safer, healthier, and more positive connections.

And in doing so, we help others avoid the same confusion, the same fear, the same feeling of being unprepared.

No one should have to learn the hard way.

No one should feel like they have to stay silent about something that affects them so deeply.

And no one should feel alone in something so personal.

Because the truth is—so many people go through similar experiences.

But when they do, when those stories are shared, something powerful happens.

And the next person who finds themselves in that situation might feel just a little more prepared, a little more aware, and a lot less alone.