Calling all somatic practitioners, health care workers, and pelvic health clients: let’s get on the same page.
“Queer” can describe a person’s gender or sexual identity — but it’s also a political identity, and more importantly, a political action. To “queer” something means to question, disrupt, reimagine, challenge, resist, or transform it. This framework, rooted in queer theory from the 1980s and ’90s, is often associated with the work of Judith Butler. It can feel abstract, but hopefully, the art of “queering” becomes a tangible practice that changes spaces, relationships, and systems.
So what does it mean to queer pelvic health?
To answer that, we first need to examine the many limitations of mainstream pelvic health models — where they come from, who they serve, and who they harm.
The Problematic History of Pelvic Health
Racism at the Core of OB-GYN History
Before we get into the horrors of the field, it’s important to remember that midwives, healers, and witches were the original reproductive caregivers before colonizers stole and medicalized their practices. These roles were often held by Indigenous and Black women, who were later horrifically exploited through the creation of what we call “obstetrics and gynecology.”
The history of OB-GYN is steeped in anti-Black violence. In the 17th and 18th centuries, enslaved people, especially Black women, were experimented on and subjected to physical, sexual, and emotional abuse. Many medical “advancements” were made through this exploitation. At the same time, Black people were almost always denied medical care when giving birth. “It was common practice to test new therapies on Black bodies before applying them to white bodies.” (Campbell)
This blatant harm continues through the decades– literally even in the tools used in the exam room. The speculum design (invented by a white man through nonconsensual experiments) has not changed significantly since the 1840s. On a larger scale, Relf v. Weinberger (1973) exposed widespread sterilization coercion on Black bodies and poor people by government-funded clinics. To this day, Black women are both overmedicalized/pathologized, and medically neglected– especially in obstetrics.
2. Loaded Language and Ideology
Mainstream pelvic health is often rooted in cis, hetero, and white ideologies. This often shows up through language and assumptions about who’s in the room, and what they want or need.
To start with, much of the language we still use today is named after white male doctors who “discovered” pelvic anatomy — or rooted in Latin terms with problematic implications.
For example:
The “G spot” is named after German gynecologist Ernst Gräfenberg, who studied the role of the urethra in orgasms. But– check out Alice Laddas and Beverly Whipple, who were instrumental in researching and educating people about this erogenous zone.
The word masturbate is believed to derive from manus (hand) and stuprare (to defile), reflecting long-standing stigma. My mentor, Marisa Sullivan, uses the term “self-pleasure” instead.
Modern OB-GYN assumes our average patient to be a white cis woman, with a vagina, uterus, and ovaries — who has penetrative sex with a cis man, and prioritizes fertility and motherhood. This narrow model of care excludes many people who need pelvic support — including queer, trans, and nonbinary folks, disabled people, Black and brown communities, and any number of marginalized groups.
This history and language actively shapes who receives pelvic and reproductive care today, and what kinds of assumptions, diagnoses, and treatments they receive.
So, How Do We Reimagine Pelvic Health?
It’s 2025, baby. Time to wake up. Here’s how we can begin to queer and decolonize pelvic health practices:
1. Reclaim the History and Language
Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story? (for Hamilton nerds)
The Mothers of Gynecology by Michelle Browder
In 2022, a monument called The Mothers of Gynecology was created to honor Anarcha, Betsey, Lucy, who were some of the enslaved Black women abused by the so-called “Father of Gynecology,” whose name need not appear in this piece. The artist, Michelle Browder, created this piece to be “a first step toward teaching and reimagining the true story of the nation, facing the injustice of the past and honoring the courage of overlooked heroes” (More Up.)
Whose names and stories do we choose to tell?
What outdated beliefs are still informing medical practices?
Specific is Terrific
Let’s get as specific as we can with language– are we talking about pregnant people, which could include some (but not all) cis women, nonbinary folks, and trans men? Are we talking about people who have pelvic pain, regardless of reproductive anatomy?
One of my favorite tools is to leave blank spaces instead of checkboxes on intake forms — for gender, pronouns, anatomy, etc. We can mirror this language,a nd it also provides an opportunity to understand how a client thinks about their body, identities, and needs.
Where Can These Practices Show Up?
In doctor’s offices
On physical therapy intake forms
In yoga classes
In how we talk to our friends and healthcare providers
2. Competency Around Queer and Trans Bodies
What kind of support do queer and trans people actually need? How might it differ from the models we’re currently using? For example:
How do gender affirming practices like binding, tucking, or packing impact the pelvic floor?
What about HRT or gender-affirming surgeries?
What positive health outcomes is this client looking for– is fertility important to them? Is penetration part of their sexual life?
You know I love an example, so let’s take the practice of how binding can impact pelvic health:
Compression through the chest and abdomen can restrict circulation, limit thoracic mobility, lessen the shoulder’s range of motion, and lead to postural changes. All of this can shift our breathing patterns, and the respiratory diaphragm has a huge impact on our pelvic floor!
For someone who binds, we might actually start our work with the upper torso. We could focus on stretching the lats, pecs, and upper traps. We could strengthen our back muscles and experiment with posture. Then, we could get familiar with how our pelvic floor muscles are coordinating (or not) with the breath. Can the pelvic floor descend towards the floor on the inhale? Can it reset to “neutral” on the exhale?
As we increase mobility in the back, chest, and abdomen, we can find more movement through our pelvic floor.
These aren’t just sidenotes — they’re central to competent pelvic healthcare.
Does Language Really Impact Healthcare Outcomes?
Yes.
Let’s take a small scale example from my own life: Every pelvic floor physical therapist I’ve seen has assumed my partner is a man — sometimes even after I intentionally mention “my wife.” Instead of focusing on relaxing my pelvic floor muscles, I’m stuck in my head wondering:
Should I correct them?
How will they respond?
Can I trust them to be inclusive and competent?
That mental stress literally creates muscular tension — no wonder my pelvic floor muscles don’t progress much during a session! For some, this kind of medical anxiety can lead to avoiding medical treatment all together.
Imagine how language impacts higher stake situations— for example, the birthing experience for Black folks, sex ed for queer youth, etc. Everyone deserves to have their unique bodies and histories respected and included in their treatment.
Final Thoughts
Queering pelvic health means getting creative and specific about care for each person— and throwing out harmful molds. It means disrupting assumptions and building care that is trauma-informed, inclusive, and deeply personal.
If you’re curious about learning more, I’m offering a 5 week virtual course called Queering Pelvic Health. Let’s learn together.
Sources:
The Michigan Journal of Gender & Law: Medical Violence, Obstetric Racism, and the Limits of Informed Consent for Black Women Consent for Black Women by Colleen Campbell