I have always had an extremely detailed, somewhat obsessive desire to know all about bodies, and to teach other people what I know. At the age of 5, I managed to extract an explanation of how babies are made from my mom that was more detailed than what most adults probably understand now (although she refused to draw me a diagram when I was confused by the mechanics). I took my newfound knowledge with me to school the next day, where I taught my kindergarten friends all about sex, condoms ("penis caps"), the fertilization of an egg, and the gestation of a fetus. They say knowledge is power: I didn't want anyone to have more power over my body than me, so clearly I needed to know the most about it.

When I first heard about GTAs in 2011, it seemed like an obvious choice for me. I had been working as a full-spectrum doula in New York City, supporting pregnant people through any and all outcomes of pregnancy, including birth, adoption, fetal loss, stillbirth labor induction, and abortion. I had seen several hundred pelvic exams in a very short period of time, and noticed that younger doctors were performing very different exams than many older doctors, and communicating with patients much more clearly. When I asked other doulas about this, they told me it was because the younger doctors had all been trained by GTAs. Because the world of radical gynecology is small, many of the other doulas already worked as GTAs; one soon hosted a party so we could see her do a self-speculum exam and view her cervix, and I was hooked.

As a medical anthropology nerd, I loved the idea of getting to be the person who shaped how medical students viewed and interacted with the female body. I also found out that GTA'ing pays outrageously well. I liked money, and I loved the idea that work that was so inextricably tied up in vaginas was so highly valued financially. It felt a little (irrationally) like mooning the wage gap. And of course, the anatomy-obsessed 5-year-old inside of me thought it was awesome. I signed up for the next certification course I could find.

The training was arranged around the parts of the exam we were learning to teach: a three-part breast exam, then a three-part pelvic exam. The first time my fellow trainees and I took off our shirts to practice giving each other breast exams was, I admit, a bit strange, but we got used to it fairly quickly. Then we reached the pelvic exam. Our instructor asked for volunteers to practice teaching it during the next class; I raised my hand and offered to go first.

I was very calm in the days between those classes, as I reviewed all the material I was expected to teach while I guided the other students through an exam on my own body. I was even calm about getting my period the same day I was first expected to drop trou in a professional capacity. So be it; we were expected to work with our periods, and I was just going to do it sooner rather than later. I felt fine straight through the morning of the exam, until it was actually time to put on my hospital gown.

Then I freaked out. I went to the bathroom to change, because somehow the idea of a classroom seeing my butt was more terrifying than anything else. What if my butt was ugly, or hairy? Should I have shaved my pubic hair? I hate shaving my pubic hair! What if people think it's gross? What if my vagina is gross? What if I smell bad? What if I bleed on someone??

I was panicking, but I was also awkwardly inching backward toward the exam table. And then I was sitting on the table, and it was time to start teaching. I felt a moment of calm and I realized: I could either freak out about my body, or I could teach. My brain didn't have enough processing power to do both. I chose to teach.

It felt like putting down insanely heavy bags that I'd been carrying for so long I'd forgotten about them. It was actually a physical sensation. I put the bags down, I kicked them over to the side so they weren't in the way, and I began. I remembered all the material I needed to be telling the students, I guided them to the right places on my body, I managed the room and checked to see if they understood me, I adjusted and engaged.

I wasn't thinking about my body, except to show them my anatomy and explain why it was "healthy and normal." GTAs teach students to use a phrase like that to transition between parts of the exam — "I've finished the pelvic exam; everything appears healthy and normal" — precisely because it's something the patient might never have heard or felt before. The power that simple idea gives patients — and the power it gave me — can be incredible.

It's an amazing thing to be so in control of how your body is perceived. I can go get groceries in New York wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt, and men will still catcall me. I'm trying to run errands, not be decorative, and I definitely don't feel sexy or sexual, but I get no say in that. But when I'm GTA'ing, even though I'm in a position that ought to be so vulnerable, I'm in complete control. I've never felt objectified or sexualized in my work; I've never felt anything but utterly respected. It goes beyond "doing no harm"; it feels healing.