Talking Menopause, Midlife, and Not Giving a Damn — Here's Why MAKERS Are All In
'Menopause? But why write a book about that? You're too young to think about it,' a (male) doctor
responds to my sharing my latest project. I feel a slight sting but then remind myself to not care about
this one person's condescending attitude, that the more appropriate response would have been
'Congratulations! How exciting and much-needed,' and that if he were better informed, he'd know that
many women experience premature or early menopause, even more experience some symptoms by
their early 40s, and the latest guidelines encourage healthcare providers to discuss the menopause
transition with women beginning at 35 (I'm 40).
'OMG, I don't even want to think about getting older,' a millennial girlfriend replies to my text asking
what she'd want to know about midlife health so I can ensure my book answers all her (and others')
questions. 'Menopause is so cringey.' She's someone who gave me a birthday card reading 'Forty and
no more f*cks to give!' so I decided to take that advice. Yes, it can be slightly awkward to discuss
menstrual bleeding patterns, low libido, mental health vulnerabilities, feelings of rage at anyone and
everyone – but I know that it's more than slightly important to do so. In fact, I believe it's imperative, so
that women know what to expect and how to navigate symptoms, and so they feel less overwhelmed.
The Choice to Not Care
I choose to not care about anyone's discomfort or doubt when it comes to spreading awareness about
women's health, when it comes to women learning what they need to know to feel like the best
versions of themselves, when it comes to supporting women.
I've been here before. In college, I participated in 'The Vagina Monologues' promotion for which involved
me shouting 'Vaginas are here!' on a crowded campus pathway. My skit was about periods and when
I first got cast I felt a bit embarrassed and unsure as to whether I could bravely pull it off. But then I
thought more about how cool it was to be on a stage in front of hundreds, talking about a very normal
and universal experience. (Nearly 20 years later, I'm still doing just that.) I told myself to not care about
feeling uncomfortable and to instead feel empowered. It worked. My guy friends bought and even
helped sell tickets for the show, cheering me and my castmates on as we talked about puberty,
sexuality, and femininity, raising thousands of dollars for the only rape crisis center in Philadelphia. Not
caring about other people's misinformed opinions (perhaps projected and not even real) was
invigorating.
I'm reminded of this outlook consistently by the older women I interview for my book Millennial Menopause. 'I have a much lower tolerance for BS, and it feels great,' they reflect on this phase. 'I know what my priorities are, and anyone can have their opinion, but I really don't care what people think of me.'
Women Join the "We Do Not Care Club" in Droves
They're not alone. Influencer Melani Sanders recently founded the 'We Do Not Care Club,' a social
media phenomenon through which women in peri/menopause share ways they have stopped trying to
please everyone, something women are conditioned to do starting in childhood. Thousands of women
have shared that they do not care about what people think of them when they don't put on make-up, or
avoid family functions they do not want to attend, or (gasp!) look like their actual age. And they feel
better for it.
Millennial girlies, it's (past) time to join this club. I know it's not easy. I care a lot, to be honest – my
feelings are so deep and my awareness of others' so high that I turned my emotional intelligence and
compassion into a career as a psychotherapist. Through my work I help other women so that they don't
let the impact of others' opinions consume them. I help them remember that it doesn't serve them to
feel bad about the views of someone they do not even respect. I help them reframe their negative self-talk into a more generous interpretation of others' actions. I help them care a little less about being
judged and a lot more about real self-care.
And of course, this is an approach I myself practice. I do not care that most mornings I walk my kids to
school still in my pajamas with my hair unbrushed, because I know we are all just trying our best. I do
not care that some may critique my business branding's pink for being cheesy, because it brings me joy
and feels authentic and fun. I definitely do not care that that some people are initially uneasy talking
about menopause or women's reproductive health, because I view their reaction as an opportunity to
teach, to learn, and to do better, together.
This Movement is an Opportunity
And that's what I think the 'We Do Not Care Club' movement is – an opportunity. Its sentiment isn't selfish but rather a chance to consider one's genuine values. Not caring about being judged offers an
opportunity to consider what matters to you, which boundaries you would not regret setting, who in
your life lifts you up or makes you laugh. Not caring about what other people think of you is liberating
and emboldening – much like, as we are learning, middle age and menopause can be, especially if we
embrace this period of life as a privilege.
I do care about women's longevity, agency, and ability to optimize their health with science-backed
choices and the autonomy to treat their symptoms in whatever ways work best for them. I do care
about women feeling equipped with knowledge, community, and resources as they enter into their life's
next chapter. I do care about normalizing conversations about topics that have been stigmatized and
undervalued, and about making women feel less alone or ashamed about natural life stages or, actually,
any struggles.
I may not care what others think but I really do care – about all women, and about you.
——
Lauren A. Tetenbaum, LCSW, JD, PMH-C is a licensed clinical social worker, women's rights advocate, and writer dedicated to supporting and empowering women through life transitions. With experience as a lawyer, psychotherapist, and mom of two, Lauren specializes in counseling women navigating identity shifts related to motherhood, career, and reproductive health. She frequently contributes thought leadership to digital and print media and professional organizations. Lauren is the author of the 2025 book 'Millennial Menopause: Preparing for Perimenopause, Menopause, and Life's Next Period.' Learn more about Lauren at thecounseLaur.com.
Solve the daily Crossword
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Yahoo
4 days ago
- Yahoo
Talking Menopause, Midlife, and Not Giving a Damn — Here's Why MAKERS Are All In
Why talking about menopause now matters — even if it makes people squirm 'Menopause? But why write a book about that? You're too young to think about it,' a (male) doctor responds to my sharing my latest project. I feel a slight sting but then remind myself to not care about this one person's condescending attitude, that the more appropriate response would have been 'Congratulations! How exciting and much-needed,' and that if he were better informed, he'd know that many women experience premature or early menopause, even more experience some symptoms by their early 40s, and the latest guidelines encourage healthcare providers to discuss the menopause transition with women beginning at 35 (I'm 40). 'OMG, I don't even want to think about getting older,' a millennial girlfriend replies to my text asking what she'd want to know about midlife health so I can ensure my book answers all her (and others') questions. 'Menopause is so cringey.' She's someone who gave me a birthday card reading 'Forty and no more f*cks to give!' so I decided to take that advice. Yes, it can be slightly awkward to discuss menstrual bleeding patterns, low libido, mental health vulnerabilities, feelings of rage at anyone and everyone – but I know that it's more than slightly important to do so. In fact, I believe it's imperative, so that women know what to expect and how to navigate symptoms, and so they feel less overwhelmed. The Choice to Not Care I choose to not care about anyone's discomfort or doubt when it comes to spreading awareness about women's health, when it comes to women learning what they need to know to feel like the best versions of themselves, when it comes to supporting women. I've been here before. In college, I participated in 'The Vagina Monologues' promotion for which involved me shouting 'Vaginas are here!' on a crowded campus pathway. My skit was about periods and when I first got cast I felt a bit embarrassed and unsure as to whether I could bravely pull it off. But then I thought more about how cool it was to be on a stage in front of hundreds, talking about a very normal and universal experience. (Nearly 20 years later, I'm still doing just that.) I told myself to not care about feeling uncomfortable and to instead feel empowered. It worked. My guy friends bought and even helped sell tickets for the show, cheering me and my castmates on as we talked about puberty, sexuality, and femininity, raising thousands of dollars for the only rape crisis center in Philadelphia. Not caring about other people's misinformed opinions (perhaps projected and not even real) was invigorating. I'm reminded of this outlook consistently by the older women I interview for my book Millennial Menopause. 'I have a much lower tolerance for BS, and it feels great,' they reflect on this phase. 'I know what my priorities are, and anyone can have their opinion, but I really don't care what people think of me.' Women Join the "We Do Not Care Club" in Droves They're not alone. Influencer Melani Sanders recently founded the 'We Do Not Care Club,' a social media phenomenon through which women in peri/menopause share ways they have stopped trying to please everyone, something women are conditioned to do starting in childhood. Thousands of women have shared that they do not care about what people think of them when they don't put on make-up, or avoid family functions they do not want to attend, or (gasp!) look like their actual age. And they feel better for it. Millennial girlies, it's (past) time to join this club. I know it's not easy. I care a lot, to be honest – my feelings are so deep and my awareness of others' so high that I turned my emotional intelligence and compassion into a career as a psychotherapist. Through my work I help other women so that they don't let the impact of others' opinions consume them. I help them remember that it doesn't serve them to feel bad about the views of someone they do not even respect. I help them reframe their negative self-talk into a more generous interpretation of others' actions. I help them care a little less about being judged and a lot more about real self-care. And of course, this is an approach I myself practice. I do not care that most mornings I walk my kids to school still in my pajamas with my hair unbrushed, because I know we are all just trying our best. I do not care that some may critique my business branding's pink for being cheesy, because it brings me joy and feels authentic and fun. I definitely do not care that that some people are initially uneasy talking about menopause or women's reproductive health, because I view their reaction as an opportunity to teach, to learn, and to do better, together. This Movement is an Opportunity And that's what I think the 'We Do Not Care Club' movement is – an opportunity. Its sentiment isn't selfish but rather a chance to consider one's genuine values. Not caring about being judged offers an opportunity to consider what matters to you, which boundaries you would not regret setting, who in your life lifts you up or makes you laugh. Not caring about what other people think of you is liberating and emboldening – much like, as we are learning, middle age and menopause can be, especially if we embrace this period of life as a privilege. I do care about women's longevity, agency, and ability to optimize their health with science-backed choices and the autonomy to treat their symptoms in whatever ways work best for them. I do care about women feeling equipped with knowledge, community, and resources as they enter into their life's next chapter. I do care about normalizing conversations about topics that have been stigmatized and undervalued, and about making women feel less alone or ashamed about natural life stages or, actually, any struggles. I may not care what others think but I really do care – about all women, and about you. —— Lauren A. Tetenbaum, LCSW, JD, PMH-C is a licensed clinical social worker, women's rights advocate, and writer dedicated to supporting and empowering women through life transitions. With experience as a lawyer, psychotherapist, and mom of two, Lauren specializes in counseling women navigating identity shifts related to motherhood, career, and reproductive health. She frequently contributes thought leadership to digital and print media and professional organizations. Lauren is the author of the 2025 book 'Millennial Menopause: Preparing for Perimenopause, Menopause, and Life's Next Period.' Learn more about Lauren at Solve the daily Crossword
Elle
7 days ago
- Elle
How Perimenopause Became the New Midlife Catchall for Aging Women
Every item on this page was chosen by an ELLE editor. We may earn commission on some of the items you choose to buy. We have reached peak perimenopause. And I don't mean that I have reached peak perimenopause, though maybe I have, I'm not sure. There's no definitive test for it, but as the saying goes: 'You'll know it when you see it.' So let's look in my mirror: I'm 44. Sometimes at night I get hot. I've been a bit moody lately. Occasionally, I'll notice something that ordinarily I wouldn't think twice about—a child holding his mother's hand, an older couple, deep in conversation—and start to cry, right there on a New York City street. I'm an ice queen by nature, so it's got to be my changing hormones. Right? What began a few years ago as an eye-opening conversation about women's health—no one told us we were going to experience a mini-menopause! A decade before actual menopause! This stinks!—has gone mass, to the point that perimenopause is now just shorthand for 'I'm in my 40s.' The watershed moment happened in 2023, when Hollywood babe Naomi Watts went public about her experiences with early menopause, introducing many to the word 'perimenopause,' and using her platform to destigmatize this time in a woman's life, which had previously been only whispered about as 'the change.' Shudder. The same year, a cover story about menopause ran in the New York Times magazine that went into detail about the author's perimenopause symptoms. Every woman of a certain age and demographic emailed it to each other with subject lines like, 'THIS IS WHY I'M SO SWEATY,' and 'I'm going on estrogen…right now!' Suddenly it was everywhere: in books (The New Menopause; Hot and Bothered; It's Not Hysteria; Millennial Menopause), articles, podcasts ('Perimenopause Power,' 'Hello, Hot Flash'), and on social media, where funny #perimenopause memes flooded my feed, the algorithm seemingly well aware of both my age and penchant for time wasting. Perimenopause, for those who are living under a rock—or who are, you know, male—is defined as the years of hormonal fluctuations leading up to menopause, the point at which a woman hasn't had a menstrual cycle for 12 months. Lately, I cannot attend moms' drinks without the subject coming up, whether it's someone sharing how they had to change sweat-soaked pajamas in the middle of the night, or confessing that they screamed at their children in a fit of hormonal anger. I was at a recent dinner with an old college roommate, and, as is often the case, talk went to perimenopause as we began comparing our symptoms as if rattling off medieval ailments—achy bones; flaky skin; hair loss. We laughed as my friend told me a story about her 'gushing blood,' having a grand old time until we noticed that the table of young finance bros next to us was listening in, quaking in fear. (Sorry to ruin your meal, guys, but at some point you too will have a wife who bleeds through her pants. Cheers!) The last time I knew so much about my friends' menstrual cycles was when we were 12, and it was a question of if you'd gotten it or not. Now it's a question of: How many times this month? Three? Women's reproductive health has been routinely understudied, and so the burst of interest in perimenopause is, on the whole, a great thing. My cohort and I feel lucky that we have information about this life stage that our mothers did not, though at the same time, knowing that we're entering this process, and all that goes with it, doesn't exactly feel great, either. We should be at the height of our powers; peak career time, kids who are out of diapers, still relatively attractive. But instead of being able to enjoy it we're all focused on our inevitable lurch towards the big M. Decline is on the horizon, ruining our day in the sun. When women feel out of control—or fat, or ugly, or old—what makes them feel better? Products! Many companies have jumped on the opportunity to profit off of the perimenopause surge, from telehealth startups, to vitamin ventures, to businesses making vaginal gels, hair masks, skin oils, and cooling towels, none of which I have bought, but many of which look bright and fun and cute. By 2033, the global menopause market, which includes products aimed at both perimenopause and menopause, is estimated to be more than $25 billion. There are perimenopause tracker apps, and jewelry that claims to relieve symptoms, and for $19.99, you can buy a Clearblue test to pee on that will inform you where you are in your perimenopause journey. (Instead of indicating you're pregnant, those two lines now just mean you're a grump.) But for all the positives, I can't get rid of the nagging sense that perimenopause—or rather, Perimenopause™—has gotten out of control, morphing into yet another cultural catchall, putting a medical term on what used to just be called 'aging.' Because it has so many potential symptoms—the list includes, among other things, mood swings, low libido, weight gain, sleep disturbances, joint pain, irregular periods, anxiety, depression, memory problems, skin changes—it's become a kind of dumping ground for the range of normal human emotions and experiences. I'm reminded of that moment a decade ago, when anyone who was shy, or a little quirky, or couldn't sit through a movie was suddenly 'on the spectrum' or self-diagnosed with ADHD. You couldn't just be an oddball anymore, it had to be a diagnosable condition. And now, I can't just be a 44-year-old woman; instead, I am perimenopausal. When I'm feeling a little bloated? It's definitely perimenopause, not that cheese plate I devoured. Snappy with my children? Perimenopause—sorry, boys! Woke up in the middle of the night? Pesky perimenopause, certainly not the two large glasses of red wine I had at dinner. Oprah said perimenopause gave her insomnia—'For two years I didn't sleep well. Never a full night. No peace,' she said. Salma Hayek said it caused her breasts to grow. 'A lot of people said that I had breast augmentation, but they have just kept growing. Many, many sizes.' And Gwyneth Paltrow said it made her sweaty and moody: 'You're all of a sudden furious for no reason.' Some of this is most certainly true. I am definitely hot at random times, and I never used to be hot. And my period is…weird. But let's say it all together now: It's not always perimenopause. It can't be. The fact that I forgot to put cookies in my kid's lunchbox? I was thinking about something else, and I just, well, forgot. My leg hurts because I banged it into the side of my bed. My skin is dry because I've always had dry skin in the winter. My sleep sucks because I'm 44 and not 24, and my mind is circling a drain of mortgages and parent-teacher conferences and unfulfilled career goals instead of just, like, which bar I'm going to that weekend. No supplement is going to reverse that fact, no matter how much I'm willing to pay for it. Here's another idea—and we all have to agree to have this be our little secret. I'm not against weaponizing perimenopause when I need to, so long as we're honest with each other that we're doing so. I'll even go one step further and say we deserve this, after everything we've been through. Remember when we used to lie about having our periods to get out of swimming at school? And who amongst us hasn't faked a heavy flow to avoid sex? I'm fine with it if you're fine with it, but we just can't tell the men. The other day, my husband and I got into an argument about something or other, I can't remember what (brain fog is a symptom of perimenopause). I was dismissive of him and slightly irrational throughout. Afterwards, when I went to apologize, I cited the raging hormones that have besieged my perimenopausal body. 'No, Emma,' he said. 'That's just your personality.' And so then I yelled at him again. Might as well use the excuse while it lasts! After menopause, I'll just be a regular old bitch again. Emma Rosenblum is the national bestselling author of Bad Summer People, Very Bad Company, and Mean Moms. She's the former chief content officer at Bustle Digital Group, overseeing content and strategy for BDG's editorial portfolios. Prior to BDG, Emma served as the executive editor of ELLE. Previously Rosenblum was a senior editor at Bloomberg Businessweek, and before that a senior editor at Glamour. She began her career at New York magazine. She lives in New York City, with her husband and two sons.
Yahoo
31-05-2025
- Yahoo
Logging off helped me orgasm for the first time
When I look back at pictures of myself in my early 20s, I see a confident young woman who was willing to talk about anything with anyone. But behind closed doors, I was hiding a secret shame that totally contradicted my public brand. I couldn't orgasm — not with a partner, not on my own. There had been fleeting attempts over the years to get the ol' engine rolling. I thought I could reason my way to climax: the internet, with its endless resources in the form of Reddit threads, message boards, and YouTube videos, seemed like the place to go. I turned online for information, emotional (first-person narratives from others who struggled) and practical (sex toys and tutorials). Nothing helped. In fact, all the accumulating knowledge only served to make me feel worse. For it to finally happen, at the age of 25, I had to strip everything back and take my sex drive fully offline for the first time. There's a scene in Eve Ensler's legendary play The Vagina Monologues when the audience hears from a woman who didn't have an orgasm until she was 72. "When she finally found her clitoris, she said she cried," the introduction goes. I remember hearing those words at the age of 18 and feeling a fluttering sense of recognition. Then came the chaser: dear god, please let me have one before I'm a septuagenarian. SEE ALSO: Is AI porn the next horizon in self-pleasure — and is it ethical? At that age, the inability to orgasm wasn't something that surprised me all that much. I'd read enough teen magazines, seen enough Sex and the City, to know all about the orgasm gap, and that 61 percent of men orgasm every time they have sex compared to 30 percent of women. Multiple studies have found that women are more likely to orgasm during masturbation than intercourse; a similarly consistent finding is that 10 percent of women never orgasm, no matter the circumstances. Yet as I moved through my twenties and failed to rectify the problem, I realised the friends I'd once bonded over this experience with weren't struggling anymore. I felt like an anomaly. But as a forthright young feminist on the cusp between the Gen Z and millennial generations, I was also unofficially educated under the tutelage of sex education YouTubers like Shan Boodram, Laci Green, and Hannah Witton. They taught me about the importance of people with vulvas knowing their bodies and having the confidence to tell sexual partners if they weren't getting them off. I spread their message far and wide. Female pleasure was so my brand that a close male friend once gave me a T-shirt with the words "The Future is Female (Ejaculation)" as a Secret Santa gift. I laughed, then went to the bathroom and cried, so deeply full of shame at the disconnect between my public confidence and inward inadequacy. Theoretically speaking, I knew just about everything there was to know about the orgasm…apart from how to have one myself. Very few people, beyond a handful of friends and former partners, knew about my struggle with anorgasmia (where people struggle to climax even with the application of sexual stimulation). I was scared of speaking the words "I can't come" into reality, or of feeling like even more of a failure if they checked in on my progress in the future and I had to tell them that no, I still couldn't. Theoretically speaking, I knew just about everything there was to know about the orgasm…apart from how to have one myself. As Emily Nagoski writes in her bestselling book Come As You Are, so much of the female orgasm is in the mind. Nagoski theorises that female sexual pleasure has dual controls — an accelerator to turn you on and a brake to turn you off — and that balance is needed to achieve orgasm. But my brake was hyper-sensitive thanks to all that fear and panic and shame, making it near impossible for me to actually have one. (Of course, that's an easy observation to make three years on the other side.) Sex toys felt like a good starting point (god forbid I actually touch myself!), and my limited student budget meant I wanted a vibrator that gave a good bang for my buck, so to speak. I'd spend hours trawling through positive customer reviews for phrases like "can't come" or "never usually orgasm," hoping the same would happen for me if I purchased a clitoral stimulator or CBD lube. When it didn't, I felt more frustrated than ever. What I was searching for was a sense of recognition — an "oh, I'm not alone in this" feeling that my friends, while empathetic, understandably couldn't provide. (Yet whenever I now mention to friends that I didn't have an orgasm until I was 25, similar stories are divulged.) So I looked further afield, scouring message board threads and online articles for narratives from people who'd not been able to come either. The snatched moments of understanding made me feel less alone, albeit not necessarily always better. The next approach was more unconventional. Two friends bought me a subscription to OMGYes, the adult sex education website dedicated to facilitating female pleasure. Initially, I was embarrassed that it had come to this, but I gave it a go. A membership provided access to a library of practical (and extremely NSFW) tutorials on different masturbation techniques. I tried to follow along, but lacked perseverance and was quick to abandon the mission when things didn't happen immediately. At every stage, my attempts to orgasm were hindered by these deeply rooted feelings of shame and inadequacy, and a fear of feeling like even more of a failure should I try and not succeed. I knew I was missing out on an integral part of the human experience, but once the terrifying words "you're going to be on your deathbed never having had an orgasm" enter the mind, they're hard to shake. In order to halt this nihilistic spiral, I stopped trying altogether. It wasn't all bad. The sex, with both long-term and casual partners, was often even pleasurable. Sometimes I faked orgasms, sometimes I didn't bother — the former usually when I didn't want to explain myself and give them an excuse not to try. So the problem bubbled away beneath the surface, rectifying it as simply not a priority. As with much of life, the arrival of COVID-19 changed things. I remember turning 25 and looking down the barrel of a new year and a third lockdown in the UK. I'm officially in my mid-twenties, I thought. If not now, when? Those interconnected feelings of embarrassment and failure were clearly holding me back. If I was going to figure out how to orgasm, that would only be achieved by removing expectation; expectation that, I realised, was coming directly from the internet aids I'd sought out for help. I needed to strip away the technological trappings and do the one very simple thing I'd been so scared to do: touch myself, and do it consistently. I set myself a challenge. Every day, I would put my phone on the other side of the room and masturbate without sex toys. The experience felt utterly alien at first; at some point, it crossed my mind that sexual partners had touched my genitals far more than I ever had. Once I acclimatised to the sensation of taking my time and not trying to speed up the process with a buzzing pink lump of plastic, it felt good. Things started happening, although not the earth-shattering fireworks that society had led me to expect. I didn't think these faint flutters were orgasms, and briefly returned to the message boards to see if others had experienced anything similar. Nobody described my exact feelings, but I kept at it. It was a conversation with a close friend, a doctor, that made the most marked difference. I told her about my current state, where I wasn't sure whether I was experiencing an orgasm or not. "You know if you want that to count, it counts," she told me. For the first time, someone was saying that I was on the right path, and not crashing into a wall. Without being dramatic (although said friend still laughs about how I credit her with my first orgasm), those words triggered a switch in my brain. As soon as I stopped feeling like I was foolish for even attempting to fight what I'd always perceived to be a losing battle, orgasms — proper ones, I was sure — came. I didn't cry or rush to text the friends greatly invested in my journey. Don't get me wrong, I was thrilled, but it felt like a wholly personal achievement, and one I wanted to sit in for a while. SEE ALSO: What is a ruined orgasm? Mostly, the feeling was one of relief, the lifting of a huge weight from my chest and the dissipation of so much secret shame. I remember thinking that if I never had an orgasm again, I would be happy. Given how easy I was now finding it once that bridge was crossed, though, I was pretty sure that wasn't going to be the case. It would be a while until I was able to orgasm with other people, but even before I did, my partnered sex life improved dramatically. I didn't feel like I was lacking anymore. I remember thinking that if I never had an orgasm again, I would be happy. If there's one thing I now know, it's that you can't intellectualise, let alone buy, an orgasm. Sure, products and internet resources may help, and in those most isolating moments, it was undoubtedly useful to see my experience reflected back in others. But over time, I found the accumulation of all this knowledge only added to my feelings of failure. I had to remove it all from my mind and do the thing I was most scared to — confront my own body — to make it happen. Given all that, I'm aware of the irony of writing my own "how I finally had an orgasm" narrative. But I know a story like mine, as long as it wasn't dwelled on too long or used as a point of comparison, would have helped my younger self. It's why I keep far less personal aspects of my life out of my work, yet have always known I wanted to write about this experience someday. There are so few narratives about a total inability to orgasm out there. If you're reading this now and see something of yourself in my story, I hope it can provide some. It can happen for you — I truly believe that — whether you're 25 or 72. You'll get there.
