A Hysterectomy Saved My Sex Life

By Catherine Renton

By my mid-30s, I’d resigned myself to a life without satisfying sex. As far as I could tell, great sex was a thing some women had that eluded me, like clear skin and effortless style. 

I had uterine fibroids and endometriosis, conditions that left me bleeding for three weeks out of every month and in so much pain I needed a cocktail of up to 14 pills a day to function. Unfortunately, I was also one of the two-thirds of women with endometriosis who experienced sexual dysfunction as part of the condition. Rather cruelly, the orgasms women’s magazines touted as self-care would sometimes trigger painful spasms or lead to a bedsheet-ruining flood, so I barely even masturbated. 

Having tried every treatment imaginable in the 20 years I’d had gynecological issues, including an IUD that washed away during a heavy period and a clinical trial of hormonal medication that made me suicidal, I chose to have a hysterectomy at the age of 39. The surgery was the only cure for the fibroids that made my womb expand to the size of one carrying a six-month fetus, making strangers pat my belly and say “congratulations,” when all I wanted to do was curl up and cry. 

As a woman without children, a hysterectomy wasn’t a decision I took lightly, but I had no quality of life to speak of. I had clinical depression, didn’t date, struggled to concentrate on work, and canceled plans so many times people stopped inviting me out. I was living in isolation long before the pandemic started.  

A week before the operation, my (male) gynecologist asked me if I had any questions. I quizzed him on practical things, like recovery times and when I could return to work, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask what sex would look like ‘after.’ I’d been voluntarily celibate for three years, so I wasn’t sure why sex was high on my list of priorities. But, after years of only seeing my sexual organs as a source of pain, not pleasure, I allowed myself to imagine the possibility of an enjoyable post-op sex life. 

I said goodbye to my womb and one of my ovaries in the summer of 2021, with a healthy ovary left behind, so I didn’t immediately plunge into premature menopause. The morning after surgery, I noticed that although I was tender, the familiar pain that used to drag me down wasn’t there anymore. I already felt physically and mentally lighter.

I was given a pamphlet on discharge that told me not to have penetrative sex for at least six weeks but said nothing about self-pleasure. Great to know that in the 21st century, the medical profession still subscribes to the idea that the only sex that ‘counts’ is penis-in-vagina. 

Despite the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) stating that around 1 in 3 women in the US will have a hysterectomy by the age of 60, the conversation around postoperative sex is lacking. Lauren Streicher, MD, clinical professor of obstetrics and gynecology at Northwestern University’s Feinberg School of Medicine and the author of The Essential Guide to Hysterectomy, found in researching her book that only half of gynecologists initiate a discussion around postoperative sex and few patients are willing to bring it up.

While I healed, I worked on getting to know my body again after years of feeling estranged. My libido went AWOL for the first few weeks, but soon I was exploring myself in front of a full-length mirror, finding the tender spots I’d forgotten existed. One of my biggest fears about the operation was that I would be less womanly without a uterus, that somehow my identity as a female was defined by whether I could reproduce, but I felt more feminine than ever. And then, my sex drive returned. 

I wanted to ensure I could pleasure myself before considering partnered sex, so I stocked up on sex toys, including a clitoral massager, a G-spot stimulator, and lots of lube. 

My first few attempts at self-love fell a little flat; I couldn’t fully let go because I was bracing myself for pain that ultimately never came. However, I persevered and found myself having quick, intense, and plentiful orgasms, my first in several years, and when my healing period was over, I was ready attempt sex again. 

On dating apps, I found myself drawn to younger men who were cute, flirty, and not phased about the hysterectomy or threatened by sex toys. I thought I’d be nervous about getting naked in front of a new partner, but the time I had taken to get to know my body again translated to a self-confidence I never possessed in my younger years. I also knew exactly what I needed to get off and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. 

There were a few duds, but mostly partnered sex exceeded my expectations, with orgasms so intense that I felt like I would pass out (not from pain, finally). Colleagues and friends had told me that sex gets better as you get older, and I struggled to believe it. But now I’m having better sex in my 40s than I ever did in my 20s. The hysterectomy improved my physical health, and throughout my recovery I developed better communication around my body and needs, leading to more self-confidence. Now, if I meet someone and the sex is bad, rather than carry on seeing them out of a sense of obligation (something I was guilty of in the past) I am happy to say, “thank you, next.” 

Research supports that a hysterectomy may improve sexual response, leading to a healthier sex life, particularly in those who had the surgery for intense pain and heavy period bleeding. Dr. Streicher found similar results in her reporting. She surveyed 1,000 women who’d undergone hysterectomy and says, “For the majority of women, there was no difference [after surgery], but in those who experienced painful sex or bleeding beforehand, the sex was better.”

I only have one regret when it comes to my hysterectomy — I wish I’d done it sooner. I’d expected to grieve a loss after my operation but instead found only joy, confidence, and pleasure. Now, my sex life is the best it’s ever been, and I expect it to keep getting better. The hysterectomy pamphlets should really lead with that.