By Sophie Wallace

Theresa Carlson was 14 the first time she experienced period cramps so severe she couldn’t get out of bed. In the years that followed, Carlson, now a second-year creative industries student at Toronto Metropolitan University (TMU), was referred to St. Michael’s, St. Joseph’s and then Women’s College Hospital in Toronto.

“Each of those referrals took me about roughly two to four years just to get one consult appointment,” said Carlson.

In December 2025, seven years after her initial appointment, Carlson finally got permission to receive a laparoscopy—a minor surgery using a camera to examine the abdominal organs. The results of this procedure would be needed to diagnose: the stage of her endometriosis and polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS), a common hormonal disorder.

This is a familiar story. According to Endometriosis Network Canada, people wait an average of five years for an endometriosis diagnosis. Moreover, 80 per cent of people with endometriosis are initially dismissed by doctors saying their pain is “normal.”

CTV News reported that over four years of medical school, students receive roughly one hour of training on endometriosis symptoms and treatment options. The ongoing family doctor shortage means physicians are spending less time with individual patients.

Recent data from the Ontario Medical Association shows there are more than 2.5 million Ontarians without access to a family doctor. The number is predicted to rise, as only 42 per cent of current Ontario medical students said they would consider a career in family medicine. This means longer wait times and more barriers to managing chronic conditions, like Carlson’s.

The causes are complex and multifaceted but the results are clear: Ontario is failing to provide adequate sexual and reproductive healthcare to its young people.

According to Yumna Hussain, coordinator of the Centre for Safer Sex and Sexual Violence Support (C3SVS) at the Toronto Metropolitan Students’ Union, many students have a “broken trust” in the healthcare system.

“Wait times for appointments with doctors can be extraneous, emergency rooms are overworked and sexual health is not a priority in emergency rooms,” she wrote in an email to The Eyeopener.

Carlson recalled one visit to the ER. “I [was] trying not to throw up,” she said. “One side of my body literally [felt] like it [was] being stabbed nonstop.” Doctors offered her the hormonal contraceptive pill and some painkillers. After begging for an ultrasound, it was revealed that she had an ovarian cyst “the size of four green grapes.”

In Carlson’s experience, especially as a lesbian, there has been a lack of understanding from medical professionals on how these chronic conditions can impact relationships and intimacy.

“I experienced a lot of pain with sex, with orgasms. I’ve bled severely after sex a few times,” she said. “I’ve had one gynecologist look me deadpan in the face and say, ‘are you using strap-ons?’…like, maybe I’m going too hard with my partner, according to them.” Carlson describes being quizzed again and again on her sexually transmitted infection (STI) test history, to the extent that she describes feeling slut-shamed by medical professionals.

Zainab Siddiqi, a sexual health counsellor at the Hassle Free Clinic—a Toronto community health care centre—has seen the effects of healthcare professionals’ miseducation firsthand. “If somebody comes in that, as a person with the uterus, has only ever had sex with other people with uteruses, and other doctors have said ‘oh, you don’t need to do STI testing’—that’s not necessarily true.”

Siddiqi recognizes that 2SLGBTQ+ individuals face additional barriers and stigma accessing sexual healthcare—the clinic does its best to support them. “We have letters that go along with PAP smears, sometimes saying like, ‘hi, this person is a man and they also have a cervix, and so what.’”

Siddiqi shares that a lack of time and resources may be preventing family doctors from educating themselves on the most up-to-date resources. “[Many of] the doctors who are working went to school a long time ago and a lot has changed since then,” she said. “A lot of people aren’t educated about different identities and different bodies.”

Hussain, along with a team of C3SVS staff, regularly supports TMU students with their sexual health questions and concerns on campus. “We hear of too many scenarios where marginalized populations have very negative experiences trying to access basic and sexual healthcare,” she said.

According to Siddiqi, the lack of resources has a concrete impact on patients. The clinic used to absorb the costs of small procedures like PAP smears for people without OHIP—it now costs individuals $110 out of pocket. “Up until a year ago, we were covering everything for every patient…[reversing] that was a provincial decision,” she said.

The Financial Accountability Office of Ontario announced in December that there will be a $6.4 million deficit in healthcare spending in the years 2026-27. The gap between government spending and service demand is predicted to increase exponentially in the years to come, with damaging consequences.

Services like the C3SVS and Hassle Free Clinic are available. “We are often explaining to students that you do not need a family doctor in order to access sexual healthcare,” said Hussain. “We’ve heard more than once of students saying they wish they would have known about our services sooner,” she added.

Siddiqi shared that she believes more young doctors should choose placements in sexual health settings. More volunteers, funding for procedures and money for advertising would make a huge difference to the clinic’s capacity to support the community, she said.

Hussain is a huge advocate for destigmatizing sexual healthcare, and urges policymakers to take a more grassroots approach. “You are talking about young people’s sexual health, you should be asking them questions and listening to them,” she said.

But sexual health can be extremely complex, especially where it intersects with chronic and mental health conditions. Often in these cases, online community groups are plugging the gaps left by health services under strain.

According to Carlson, Facebook groups have provided her with everything from solidarity to insight into new treatment options. “[It] was so very validating to know that someone’s gone through what I’ve gone through,” she said.

Carlson also described having to become her own advocate. “Having boundaries in place for you in an intimate and a non-intimate setting is vital,” she said.

“You have to have a bit of strength,” she said. “At the end of the day, this is my body, this is my life that I’m trying to fight for.”