A few weeks ago, I had a doctor's appointment that, to summarize, did not go well. Sparing you the gory details, I will simply say that the procedure caused excruciating pain, aided only by a single 800mg ibuprofen. I cried the whole way home from Salt Lake City, and after sharing my tale of woe and sadness with multiple female friends, I don't think I stand alone.
Beyond the physical discomfort, stepping into a doctor's office also tests my patience. For myself and many other women, the chance of being labeled "oversensitive" or being accused of having a "low pain tolerance" hovers as a possibility in every appointment. I often wonder, am I the problem? Am I to blame for insisting that I know my own body and that something isn't right, or is there a systemic bias that encourages healthcare professionals to minimize women's complaints?
It seems fair to say that the system has some explaining to do. The World Health Organization's research on gender disparities in healthcare paints a persistent portrait of imbalance, and studies have found that women who report pain are more likely to receive only sedatives, whereas men with matching complaints are sent for imaging studies and other diagnostic tests.[1][2] This divergence translates into genuine delays in treatment and an uneasy sense that certain health systems trust female patients less.
If that wasn't enough, these issues extend beyond clinical decisions. One example can be found in the very language used in exam rooms. Occasionally, in a pattern called "medical gaslighting," physicians imply that a female patient's pain is happening primarily in her head.[3] A separate study concludes that women who are labeled as "emotional" receive lower-quality care.[4] In essence, the reflex to assume that women are overreacting to ordinary bodily sensations is ingrained enough that many of us leave the doctor's office questioning whether we are indeed the problem. It's not you; it's me!
The consequences become clearer when looking at distinctly female conditions such as endometriosis, PCOS, uterine cysts, and others. According to the World Health Organization, diagnosing endometriosis can take seven to ten years.[5] The idea that nearly a decade might pass before recognizing and addressing a serious, if not debilitating, source of pain is alarming, particularly for women who require interventions to be able to maintain personal, professional, and family commitments. Insufficient research into these conditions fuels a cycle in which physicians lack adequate training, and women remain misunderstood.
This particular issue grows even more complicated when race intersects with gender. The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services reports that Black women are three to four times more likely than white women to die of pregnancy-related causes. [6] Even Serena Williams, one of the most famous athletes in the world, has spoken publicly about nearly losing her life after childbirth because her concerns went unheeded.[7] Despite her status, she still faced the challenge of convincing medical personnel that her pain was worth looking at. These stark statistics yet again show that a system that doesn't actually listen to women can be dangerous, if not deadly, for those who are doubly marginalized.[8]
Although medical institutions have attempted to fix these issues, progress has moved glacially, and many physicians still have to rely on outdated information if they can even find it.[9] Practical obstacles created by insurance structures don't make these challenges any better. The Kaiser Family Foundation reports that gaps in coverage for reproductive health, preventive care, and other essential services are often the actual barriers that make working with insurance even harder for women.[10] [11] Patients who need referrals to specialists or advanced imaging are frequently thrown into a confusing world of paperwork and expensive copays, and those who are able to work around these barriers still confront short appointment windows that restrict in-depth conversations about symptoms that are not easily reduced to a five-minute checklist, among other issues.
Achieving equity in women's healthcare requires both institutional commitment and personal advocacy. Medical schools can integrate deeper (and better) training on sex, gender, and race-based biases into curriculums, case studies, simulations, and board exams. Empathy and active listening can be better taught to challenge ingrained stereotypes that drive misdiagnoses or dismissals. Governments and insurers can broaden coverage for women's health, which then helps more women to access routine care, preventive interventions, and specialized treatments. It isn't impossible to change this system! Multiple "fixes" can help shape a healthcare landscape that is both equitable and effective.
So, is it me or the system? The data suggests the latter. Women's health too frequently remains an afterthought, shoved in the back corner rather than treated as an integral part of medical research, policy, and practice. The problem isn't women's personal failings or hypersensitivity, but is actually a structural shortcoming that requires broader awareness, research, and policy interventions. Genuine reform calls for a healthcare model that listens to women's concerns for the first time. Until that day arrives, the answer to the question "Am I the problem?" remains a resounding no.
