There was once a time when I was too scared to say the word “period,” and now I yap about genitals on stages to hundreds of college students at a time. Childhood Ginger would be absolutely mortified, but I also think she’d be kind of impressed.
Becoming a sex educator didn’t happen overnight. It has also turned me into an entrepreneur, a speaker, a writer, and, most importantly, a woman who is not afraid to talk about what goes on under the belt. But getting here was a complicated journey.
By 2020, I had somehow survived 17 years with no formal sex education. The only formal lesson I received was a few awkward hours in fifth grade: girls get pregnant, boys get erections, and everyone should be vaguely afraid. My mom pulled me out after I cried learning about menstruation, and after that, I was on my own. What I did learn came from friends, a brief and slightly uncomfortable conversation with my mom (where I determined that human sex somehow sounds way more awkward than what I witnessed on Animal Planet), and looking up “Sims 4 Woohoo” on YouTube. Otherwise, I was completely in the dark.
That all changed in the summer between my junior and senior year of high school, when I made it my mission to form a friend group. I had never had one. So, like Nick Fury, I united an Avengers-style group of lonely teenage girls from different walks of life. And while our experiences with sex varied wildly, we all had one thing in common: we had no idea what we were doing, and no one had ever really talked about it.
So when someone finally said “the S word,” we couldn’t stop talking.
For the first time ever, sex wasn’t scary; it was fascinating.
What began as curiosity turned into a full-blown summer of sex obsession. We bought matching vibrators at Spencer’s, played provocative games, and spent hours trying to answer each other’s questions with absolutely zero credentials. For the first time ever, sex wasn’t scary; it was fascinating.
Unlike my friends, my curiosity never abated. By the Fall, I was taking a human sexuality class at my community college, consuming every piece of sex-related media I could find, and eventually dedicating my high school senior thesis to sex education in my hometown. What I found moved me. Over 97% of parents and students in my town favored comprehensive sex ed: across religion and political party, everyone felt the gap, and nobody was filling it. That’s when I realized, maybe I could.
At first, my path wasn’t clear. My only reference point was the TV show Sex Education, so I briefly considered becoming a sex therapist until I learned it often involves working through trauma. Important, but not quite my lane. Couples counseling felt similarly heavy. Traditional school-based sex ed? Even worse. It was all fear-based: disease, pregnancy, danger. I did not want to talk about the bad side of sex. Enough people already were! I wanted to make them excited to understand it.
So when it came time to pick a major, I more or less guessed. I chose journalism, figuring I liked to write, so maybe I could write about sex. Turns out, I could.
As I moved through college, I realized that I didn’t dislike sex education; I just didn’t like how it was being done.
As I moved through college, I realized that I didn’t dislike sex education; I just didn’t like how it was being done. By sophomore year, I had the tools to communicate complex topics in a way people actually wanted to hear. So, I took a chance and pitched my sorority: let me teach a sex ed workshop.
Three people showed up. One left halfway through. And I loved every second of it.
Presenting on orgasm to three girls sitting on the floor felt more like performing at Radio City Music Hall. When one of them told me afterwards that this made her feel more comfortable, it clicked. This was it.
Over the next year, I worked to build credibility. The U.S. doesn’t have a clear path to becoming a sex educator, so I was determined to become a sexpert. That’s when I discovered my school had a major in Theories and Politics of Sexuality. It felt like an answered prayer. I added it immediately.
At the same time, I got serious about writing. One magazine turned into two, then three, as a regular sex columnist. I wrote about everything: pubes, smut, blowjobs, sex stores, and g-spots. Suddenly, I had a reputation as “The Sex Girl” on campus.
My goal is simple: get people talking, because that is what changed everything for me.
So, when I hosted my next presentation, those three attendees turned into over 100. The room was packed, loud, and electric. I told jokes, gave out prizes, ran games, and talked openly about female pleasure. It was everything I wanted out of sex ed: informative, yes, but also fun, engaging, and impossible to forget.
Since then, I’ve kept building, taking every opportunity to learn and teach about this incredible subject. I give advice on my podcast, I collaborate with sexual health brands, I talk facts on social media, I started a blog, and of course, I present.
At the end of the day, I do not play by the rules of sex ed. I am science-based — I have the degree and the certification —, but I refuse to make sex sound boring and scary. My goal is simple: get people talking, because that is what changed everything for me. Sometimes that means putting someone in an inflatable penis costume and tossing playing ring toss for prizes. Sometimes it means answering deeply personal questions on my podcast or Instagram. But every time, it starts a conversation, and that’s the point.
I know I don’t act like a typical sex educator, but I’m proud to be doing it differently — because if I can help even one person go from scared to say the word “period” to curious and confident, then I’ve done my job.