A love letter to my vulva

"My dear vulva, forgive me. I'm sorry that I was afraid of you, that I hid from you, and that I just wished you were something other than what you really are."

We met a long time ago. According to my mom, you were a "private place" or "down there", but we were friends even before I learned your name.

I couldn't see you, but I felt you. I often felt you. And I liked you. I grew up, and you became a "vagina".

It was in fifth grade that I learned that someday blood would flow out of you, and that one day a baby would come out of your folds. I began to be afraid of you.

Over the next few years we battled periods and tampons together, but somehow that closeness drove us apart.

I didn't understand what I had between my legs or why it was there. All I understood was that it meant pain, discomfort and the awkward rustle of a tampon once a month.

Well, you know all those tricks and ploys to hide a tampon up your sleeve or behind your belt, or, worst of all, that moment when you take your purse to the bathroom during class (it's not that hard to hide a tampon in it, but it's terribly embarrassing).

We didn't talk all that much. Actually, we didn't talk at all. In high school I finally learned your name. Vulva. Labia. Pussy. Then, a little later, I saw photos in a slideshow in biology class. Ruined, shriveled and diseased. That's what would happen to my beautiful vulva if I ever had sex.

I started peeking, desperately trying to understand you. I studied you. And I liked you. Soon the internet came along, and I looked for you there too. But I didn't find you. I found something soft, smooth, bare, pink and small. I felt ashamed. Others had obviously gone searching too, because lots of jokes about you appeared. I heard jokes about your smell, color and size from boys and girls alike. I learned about another terrible consequence of sex: you would grow and grow, and no one would respect you for it.

I hated you.

I hated you for so long.

When I finally had sex, I was obsessed with you. I didn't want you to be seen or touched any more than necessary. I watched you closely, waiting for you to change. To darken, to stretch. But that didn't happen.

I began getting to know you all over again, both on my own and with the help of others. I met your crown, my clitoris, the thing they never told us about at school and that had been hidden from me. I learned your purpose and your strength. Your power.

My dear vulva, forgive me. I'm sorry that I was afraid of you, that I hid from you, and that I just wished you were something other than what you really are. I'm sorry that I listened to jokes about you, that I laughed to hide my awkwardness, and that I kept up the lies about your anatomy and how it supposedly relates to the number of partners a person has and how often they have sex.

My dear vulva, I love you. It took me a very long time. It wasn't easy. I'm still trying to understand you. But you are mine. You don't frighten me, you empower me. You are my intimacy and my pleasure. I see your complexities and I see your beauty.

My dear vulva, thank you.

With love, me"

Originally published in Sunday Morning View. Written by Jenny Vo.