WHEN I was nine months pregnant with twins, my obstetrician became ill. I’d been seeing her every few weeks due to a high-risk pregnancy with two footling breech babies. My Caesarian section was booked in advance so we could control as much of the birth as possible.

At my last appointment, I had a new doctor. He glanced at my charts, felt my bump and moved my section back a week to “keep the babies cooking”.

I’d given birth before and knew that there was no way I was holding on to them any longer, I told him about the contractions I’d been having for weeks, and all of the other signs of imminent baby-drop. I burst into tears, and I was sent on my way.

I went into labour late at night on my original op date, resulting in a hasty emergency section, with both babies out in minutes. It was everything their birth didn’t need to be. I have no doubt that if I’d seen my original doctor, it wouldn’t have happened.

This is an extreme example of how some men talk to women about their health, sure, but its general oeuvre is one I see in conversations around similar subjects on a daily basis.

This is not to be dismissive of male doctors, or of education. I mention this to draw attention to how ideas about men’s natural state as those in the know overrides the things that women know about themselves. Man as knower, woman as pupil. Book smarts trump body smarts.

Don’t get me wrong; I welcome conversations with men about our health. They’re so important because so much of what men know about women’s bodies is left up to chance. For far too long, the divide imposed at school with one subject being for the girls only persists into adulthood.

It’s almost as if when we divide the sexes to talk about periods, reproduction etc we’re exempting men from having to learn anything about women’s health, even though they may be the catalyst for the most significant change in a woman’s physical condition in her lifetime. When men take an active interest in women’s health, it’s refreshing. Knowing the nitty-gritty can make a man a better partner, a better father, better teacher or better friend just by understanding how women and girls feel at a particular time and being open to hearing their experiences.

This week, I watched two men talk online about women’s health. One effort was a painful example of what not to do, while the other moved me in its sincerity and offered a template for talking to women about their bodies. I’d like to share them in the hope that it will help men to be better allies to the women in their lives and a better support to women in general.

Conversation one: Women were talking about reproductive care. A helpful gentleman appeared to tell us that abortion makes women irresponsible and that too many use it as a form of contraception. He enlarged on this, explaining how we lie to providers to get terminations, and that we should only access them if we pass some hideous morality test, such as having been raped. It got sweary and personal.

Conversation two: My friend Doug shared a news piece about menstrual cups and toxic shock syndrome. He asked questions and women responded. They shared their experiences and their misgivings. He asked more questions. It became a discussion about unattributed research, big pharma’s vested interests and the lack of progress in menstrual hygiene management.

He sought advice about removing the post in case of spreading bad information but was praised for raising it and encouraged to keep it up so others could learn. I felt like kissing my screen.

First of all, men need to understand why women get skittish when men talk about their health. Often we’re not considered authorities on our own bodies and lived experience, so myths and assumptions too often shape the cultural beliefs about what women need to stay healthy.

Men have a long legacy of talking garbage about women’s bodies and making decisions based on what they think they know, without listening to women.

See Trump and his henchmen pictured in the Oval Office, signing away women’s rights to abortion and reproductive healthcare. Todd Akin’s proclamation, “If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down”, is another unforgettable moment. Oh, and there’s the whole hysteria thing that’s persisted for centuries, despite advances in medicine.

Women’s access to healthcare and knowledge about their health is shaped by beliefs and cultural narratives about women. It’s also affected by their educational level, their income, their ethnicity, where they live and what language they speak.

When men wade into conversations on subjects that don’t directly affect them and proclaim the definitive take, they contribute to a flattening of women’s experience and health to a single dimension. As women’s experience is flattened and homogenised, misguided beliefs that impact women’s health are produced and maintained.

You don’t have to look far to see the consequences of the unconscious bias. “Women misuse the morning after pill” as justification for the inflated over-the-counter price; “Abortions are painful and traumatic” as a reason to limit access; “Women are hypochondriacs” as one reason women are less likely to have their pain taken seriously.

There is an essential role for conversations here in challenging these damaging narratives. This is one benefit to the public nature of social media – with one conversation you can educate and inform an entire group of people, even if they don’t participate directly.

A clumsy but sincere question is worth far more than 100 confident assertions because one invites contributions with an open mind, the other is almost always set in stone.

Doug’s post was a perfect example of how to talk to women about their health: adopt a novice mindset. That’s not to say revel in being ignorant, but to let go of the desire to be a “knower”.

If you are willing to ask sincere questions about what you don’t know, you invite the experience of those who do. When you take yourself out of the centre of the conversation, asking questions instead of making statements, you open yourself to opportunities to think differently about a subject.

Being alive to what you don’t know puts you in the best position to learn something new. This is vital in changing conversations about women’s bodies, what they can and can’t do with them, and what they need from society to stay well.

This is a love letter to all the men who try to or want to talk the language of our bodies, and a gentle nudge of encouragement for those who don’t know where to start.