I Did Everything 'Right' And I Still Got Herpes. Years Later, I'm Finally Making My Peace With That.

I leaned back in the gynecologist’s chair, my fists clenched, while my doctor peered between my legs.

For the previous few days, I’d been experiencing pain. My first thought was that I’d torn something during sex, but then little sores began appearing, first slowly, then all at once, on my labia. As it got worse, a ball of dread started to form in the pit of my stomach. Now, as I gazed at the white ceiling of the doctor’s office, I said a silent prayer to whatever god might be listening that it wasn’t what I feared. But before I could even get to bargaining with the imaginary deity, my gyno popped back up.

“Yes, it’s herpes,” she told me matter-of-factly, pulling off her gloves and giving me a look of practiced, clinical sympathy. She’d been down there all of five seconds.

The words hit me like a punch in the stomach. I felt all the blood drain from my face and the air seep out of my lungs. Until that moment, I had still hoped it was something else. In fact, I reasoned, it had to be something else. Because for my entire adult life I’d been a veritable sexual health crusader.

The first time I ever had unprotected sex, with my second-ever sexual partner, I insisted we both get tested first. Later, when I had other partners, I initiated in-depth conversations about our respective sexual histories before we did anything sexual, and even then it was always with protection.

I would get full blood and urine tests every six months, even if my number of sexual partners was modest. Friends’ tales of “risky” sex terrified me and I advocated for condom use and regular testing within my social circle. I was by far the most careful person I knew, verging on paranoid.

But none of that mattered, apparently. Because I had still