Recently, I spoke to someone who worked in sexual health across the North East for over a decade, leading major developments within the NHS. Her perspective was clear, direct and rooted in experience: the North east are still not getting this right.
“Do schools feel confident delivering comprehensive sexual education?”
Her answer was simple: no.
The lack of confidence, she explained, comes from multiple directions. Many teachers have only basic knowledge. Some do not actively want to teach the subject. Unlike RE, English or History, there often isn’t a dedicated, trained team within schools responsible for delivering high-quality sexual education. Instead, it becomes an “add-on”, slotted into another lesson or delivered inconsistently.
And that matters.
She stressed that relationships ,how young people understand themselves and others , are equally, if not more, important than the biological facts. Yet too often, sexual education is reduced to diagrams and reproduction. There is far less space for discussions about consent, self-esteem, emotional literacy, and recognising unhealthy dynamics.
“Staying safe” by skimming over topics isn’t the answer. Good sexual education should challenge societal, cultural and religious norms when necessary. It should challenge gender stereotypes. It should reflect the realities young people are actually navigating, including social media, online pressure and exposure to pornography.
In the North East particularly, there are additional sensitivities. Schools can feel nervous about complaints from parents or communities. Sexual health is emotive. It intersects with religion, culture and family values. For a teacher to deliver it well, they need to feel confident the school leadership will support them if controversy arises.
Without that backing, hesitation creeps in, and the subject becomes diluted.
The North East Context
The North East has its own dynamics. Communities can be small and tightly connected. As she put it, “North East people can talk themselves related.” In small towns, relatives and neighbours know each other. Young people often worry about confidentiality because the likelihood of seeing someone they know, even in a clinic, is high. I have personally experienced this as I was getting my coil fitted… and yes, it was awkward as I was legs apart on the gynaecological chair talking to someone who knew my mum for years! How great!
Infrastructure can also be limited. Not everyone has easy access to larger towns or specialist services. That makes in-school education and local access points even more critical.
And yet resources are stretched. There is little sustained political will. Investment in prevention rarely feels urgent, despite mounting evidence that mental health issues are increasing, and that social media and easy access to pornography are shaping unrealistic expectations and distorted norms around sex and relationships.
Young people are absorbing messages constantly. If schools do not counterbalance that with informed, grounded education, they leave a vacuum.
The C-Card Scheme and Confidential Access
She was also involved in the C-Card scheme, a system providing young people with confidential access to contraception. In the North East, she describes it as “crucial.”
Young people were consulted directly about where they wanted services located and how they preferred to access them. Many expressed that they did not want lengthy conversations every time. Once registered, they preferred discreet collection points, sometimes even anonymous pick-up systems within schools or community spaces.
But confidentiality anxiety remains strong.
In the UK, young people under 16 can access medical advice and treatment, including contraception, without parental knowledge if they are deemed “Gillick competent,” meaning they understand the advice and its consequences. This legal framework underpins much of youth sexual health provision.
Professionals are trained extensively in confidentiality. It is not optional, it is foundational. Confidentiality can only be breached in limited circumstances: risk of serious harm, safeguarding concerns, legal requirements or overriding public interest. Even then, only minimal necessary information is shared, and decisions must be documented.
These protections are not minor technicalities. They are what allow young people to seek help in the first place.
Prior to 2000, she describes services as “hit and miss.” Over time, training and legal clarity have strengthened professional practice. Acts of Parliament, codes of conduct and safeguarding policies are now embedded into lesson plans to reassure young people of their rights.
In a region where community ties are close and privacy can feel fragile, that reassurance is essential.
Beyond Biology
What struck me most in speaking to her was how consistently she returned to the same point: SRE (sexual relationships education) is not primarily about sex. It is about relationships, with yourself and others.
It is about challenging rigid gender norms. Recognising coercion. Understanding consent beyond a checkbox. Learning to analyse whether something is truly in your best interest, rather than following a projected “fantasy norm.”
In a world where young people are constantly exposed to curated perfection and hyper-sexualised content online, pretending that “keeping it minimal” will protect them is unrealistic.
Education that is timid does not shield young people. It leaves them underprepared.
If We Could Redesign SRE Tomorrow
Her vision was practical rather than abstract.
First: dedicated, qualified SRE teachers. Professionals up to date with health guidance, legal frameworks, online trends and the social pressures facing the specific groups they teach. A targeted approach, not one-size-fits-all. Teachers who know their cohort, their cultural backgrounds, their vulnerabilities, their strengths.
Second: SRE embedded into the curriculum properly, not bolted on. Age-appropriate education beginning in Year 3. Not explicit content, but foundational conversations about bodies, boundaries, respect and self-worth.
Third: follow-up systems for students who miss sessions, ensuring they receive information in a format that suits their needs. Some young people may need smaller group settings. Others may benefit from gender-split discussions for certain topics.
And perhaps most importantly: normalisation.
Take away the mystery. The sniggers. The embarrassment. The myths fuelled by television, influencers, fashion and film industries, industries that profit from fantasy. Sex has existed since the beginning of humanity. The “norms” will look different for each young person, and that is valid.
Knowledge empowers. But empowerment only works if it is paired with self-esteem and critical thinking skills. Young people need to value their bodies and understand their own boundaries before they can make informed decisions.
Growing up in the North East, I remember the awkwardness. But I also remember the gaps — the questions left unasked because no one created the space.
Listening to someone who spent ten years on the frontline of sexual health here, it is clear that progress has been made. Confidentiality frameworks are stronger. Schemes like C-Card have expanded access. Professional training has improved.
But confidence within schools? Political commitment? Adequate resources?
Those still feel uncertain.
And if we truly believe in empowering young people, not just warning them, then sexual health education cannot remain an afterthought.