Category: Sexual Shame

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Intimacy App Trends

— How They Affect Your Sex Life?

Intimacy apps allow more people to access sex and relationship therapy and communication skills due to their relatively inexpensive nature and ability to be accessed anonymously from many places worldwide. This has seen the rise in many apps, which can help increase intimacy, communication, and sex skills.

By Rhiannon John, MSexol

  • Sex and intimacy apps help couples and individuals to have pleasurable sex by reducing sexual shame and stigma.
  • Sex and intimacy apps can increase sexual confidence, education, and communication techniques.
  • While these apps help many people, it is important to ensure that the information being given is from health professionals, as misinformation is common in sexual health.

But users must be aware of the potential misinformation spread by these apps and check for their legitimacy.

How do intimacy apps affect your sex life?

Many agree that better communication with our partners can improve our relationship and sex life. But talking to our partners about sex doesn’t always come easy, as expressing our sexual wants and needs requires a bit of strength and vulnerability.

While we could all benefit from talking to a Psychologist or Sex Therapist about our intimacy issues, time and money often prevent many people from doing so. That’s why there has been an increase in sex and intimacy apps over the past couple of years, which aim to improve communication, strengthen relationships, and increase sexual pleasure.

But how do these apps affect your sex life? Most of the apps include a series of guided lessons and exercises to be completed as a couple or individual that are designed to educate you or challenge your attitudes and beliefs about sex and sexuality.

These exercises work to:

Help to undo shame

We live in a pretty sex-negative society that constantly feeds us messages that sex and pleasure are bad, particularly if you are a woman, which leads many of us to feel shame about our sexuality. These apps help to challenge these feelings of shame by providing a sex-positive environment that affirms pleasure and sexuality. This is important for undoing shame and increasing a person’s pleasure and well-being, particularly for marginalized populations.

Provide sex education

Sex education gives us the skills and knowledge necessary to make informed decisions about our bodies and sexuality, which in turn helps us to live healthy and happy lives both sexually and romantically. But unfortunately, many people miss out on this vital education.

Sex and intimacy apps aim to fill in these gaps, allowing their users to be sexually competent and aware of their bodies and their fantasies and desires, leading to better sex. They also teach vital communication skills that can be used with our partners to strengthen bonds and manage conflict.

Increase communication

These apps also aim to increase communication between partners, which is a vital ingredient in good sex. Effective communication ensures that both partners feel seen and safe and that their needs, desires, and boundaries are met. Communication also allows us to learn more about our partners by exploring their desires, arousal, and fantasies. Many apps provide guided lessons and exercises that allow us to communicate our needs and desires to our partners slowly and steadily, which is less daunting than laying everything out on the table.

Pros of intimacy apps

As stated above, there are many pros to intimacy apps, as they allow you to:

Learn about sexual pleasure, arousal, and desire in a sex-positive environment.

Learn communication practices.

Practice mindfulness that allows you to get out of your head during sex.

Set aside time for you and your partner to connect and build on intimacy.

Access information and therapy easily and relatively cheaply.

Reduce shame and stigma surrounding sex and sexuality.

Cons of intimacy apps

There aren’t too many cons surrounding intimacy apps.

However, you should ensure that the app you choose to use has information from qualified healthcare professionals who specialize in sexual health.

Unfortunately, there is a lot of misinformation about sexual health to be found on the internet, particularly about reproductive health, so it’s vitally important that you check your sources.

Another issue to look out for before signing up is the company’s privacy and data practices, as you may not like your sexual data being sold to other companies.

Intimacy apps to check out

Coral

Coral is a sexual wellness app for couples and individuals that aims to increase intimacy and pleasure and build sexual confidence by providing personalized lessons and exercises. The information provided in the app has been contributed by some of the biggest names in sexual health and is worth checking out.

Lover

Lover is a sexual wellness app created by doctors to help treat common sexual dysfunctions. Made for all genders, the app provides an 8-12 week training plan of personalized exercises, activities, and videos, all scientifically proven to address common concerns and help have pleasurable sex.

Ferly

Ferly is a science-backed sexual wellness app aimed at women and non-binary folks that provides audio programs guided by sexual health experts to help you have more pleasurable sex. There is a wide range of classes to choose from, including feature programs like “cultivating desire” or “sex after trauma,” as well as podcasts, interviews, and some erotica to help get you into the mood.

Intimacy apps help to improve people’s sex lives by providing accessible and personalized information, exercises, and lessons on sexual health. These apps aim to reduce the shame and stigma by providing sexually affirming information and communication techniques designed to strengthen the bond between couples. While there are many advantages to these kinds of apps, users need to ensure they are accessing information from reputable sources and be wary of the privacy and data practices of the app.

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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Why are some women still hesitant to masturbate?

“Why would I want to want to be intimate with myself? It feels like I would be doing something inappropriate.”

By BELLA BLACKWELL

Growing up, masturbation was often considered a taboo topic, shrouded in shame and awkwardness. The connotations surrounding female sexual pleasure (which largely do not apply to men) have understandably led to some women’s reluctance to try their hand at masturbation – literally.  

Fortunately, it’s become more normalised in recent times. Largely due to the pandemic and long lockdowns, vibrators and sex toys soared in popularity, with self-pleasure becoming the new self-care.

Many women (both single and in relationships) masturbate regularly, but not everyone is on board. According to certified sex coach Georgia Grace, there is a range of reasons why this may be the case. She lists “limited sex ed, not even knowing it’s a thing or how to do it, [and] living in a space that doesn’t allow for the privacy they need” as deterrents for some women.

Particularly for younger girls, female pleasure is rarely discussed and certainly not encouraged. For Amy*, who hasn’t masturbated, the topic never crossed her mind – it wasn’t spoken about at school or amongst her friends. “It wasn’t something I thought about and I didn’t think I was missing out on anything,” she tells me. 

Emma*, who’s also never masturbated, agrees. She explains “it wasn’t really talked about at all growing up, so it wasn’t on my radar in the slightest. I feel like I just missed the boat”. Sexual shame is a big thing for lots of women, who have been conditioned to see masturbation as weird or abnormal.

“I cringe at it and find it so awkward and taboo, it freaks me out and makes me uncomfortable. Being alone and doing a sexual thing feels wrong, even though I know it’s not,” Amy* says. “Why would I want to want to be intimate with myself? It feels like I would be doing something inappropriate.”

When sexual pleasure involves another person, it can be hard to shift that mentality and delve into a solo session. For Sophie*, who is recently single, orgasms are overshadowed by thoughts of her ex-boyfriend, leaving her reluctant to masturbate. “I think it’s a combination of feeling really sad, so not feeling sexual, and having overpowering thoughts of associating sex to being with him and I’m not with him, so I’m not inclined to do it,” she says. 

Even though self-pleasure can be painted as uncommon, unnecessary, or even wrong, it actually provides benefits for your physical and mental health. You might’ve heard of the post-orgasm glow for our skin, but masturbation can do wonders for our minds, too. “Orgasm releases the feel-good neurochemicals dopamine and oxytocin… that improve your mood, create a natural high, [and] boost your satisfaction,” says Georgia. 

While those in relationships may see it as redundant, masturbation can also improve sex with a partner. It “helps you learn about your body and creates more awareness of what you like,” Georgia explains. But even with all these benefits, masturbation can sometimes seem daunting. If you’re ready to give it a go but still have no clue where to start, don’t stress.

Georgia suggests “take the goal out of masturbating”, as this can lead to a lot of frustration stemming from difficulty achieving an orgasm. It’s all about discovering what feels good for you and enjoying the process. 

Mindful masturbation practices can be a great way to start. “Place both hands on your body and ask yourself, ‘Where do I feel pleasure in my body?’ This feeling may be subtle or it may be obvious, whatever it is, be with it,” Georgia says. “Bring awareness to your body and continue this process of intending to feel for pleasure and scan your body as a whole. What do you notice?”

Masturbation is an opportunity to explore your body, so slow it down! “Take time to build arousal,” Georgia says. “Start with full body touch, lengthening your exhale, pouring lube on your body/genitals.” Then, move on to external stimulation. “With a full palm start stroking upwards, massaging your clit in circles, up and down, side to side, playing with pressure and speed,” Georgia tells me.

While clitoral arousal is great, you can also give internal stimulation a try. Many vulva owners will be familiar with the noble-yet-often-unsuccessful quest for the elusive internal orgasm. Try “using a ‘come here’ motion with your fingers or a toy to stimulate the G-spot,” she suggests.

It may take a second for vulva owners who are reluctant to masturbate to unlearn the shame they feel surrounding self-pleasure. But the key point to remember is no matter the method you choose, masturbation is totally normal, enjoyable, and healthy. Give it a go – you might like it.

*Names have been changed.

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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Our culture isn’t sex positive just because kink is trending

Even “vanilla” people feel sex shamed.

By Tracey Anne Duncan

As a person who writes about sex and pleasure, I meet a lot of pleasure activists — people working to reclaim pleasure and sexuality as radical domains. Many are kinksters, queers, or both; all on a mission to return some dignity back to folks who have been marginalized. Recently, though, I came across a pleasure activist who’s advocating for the validity of “vanilla” sex. Frankly, I was a bit taken aback. Do people who like simple sex really need activism? Isn’t “normal” sex just, well, normal?

Sure, in the past decade, kinky sex has become much more socially acceptable. I’m not saying you should try to bond with granny about your favorite shibari harnesses, but you can probably post about them on social media without much to-do. But while the #trending of kink seems like some form of progress in our generally prudish society, if folks who love “vanilla” sex feel shamed by their preferences, our culture is still far from being a sex-positive Eden of earthly delights.

“As soon as you say something like, ‘Umm, you know, I love vanilla sex,’ you might as well grow a Victorian-style bonnet on your head,” Alice Queen, a sex writer in Detroit who runs a sex toy blog dubbed “Vanilla is the New Kink,” tells me. “I’m under the impression that society as a whole will never stop trying to whip us (back) into shape, one way or another, by framing any and [all] of our sexual behaviors into social mores.” Basically, Queen believes vanilla sex oftentimes gets the same negative treatment from others as sex that’s widely considered “deviant.”

“As soon as you say something like ‘Umm, you know, I love vanilla sex,’ you might as well grow a Victorian-style bonnet on your head.” – Alice Queen

But does Alice think there needs to be an actual, formal movement to advocate for those who like to keep sex simpler? “On the one hand, I’d love for people to be able to freely admit their vanilla preferences without being scoffed at,” she says. “On the other hand, I’m more than aware of potential pitfalls: Before long, someone would try to hijack my genuine vanilla [sex] pride and use it as a wrapper for exclusion because it’s just so easy to do from a traditional point of view.”

In other words, no, even vanilla sex “activists” view something like an earnest “vanilla sex pride” movement as something that would harm already marginalized communities who actually need or benefit from Pride movements.

The experts I spoke with agree that there’s a big difference between taking pride in your sexuality and trying to make a social justice movement out of it. “Benefiting from, or even being an activist in, a social justice movement or a project to make the word ‘sex’ non-judgmentally inclusive of more sexual options (especially your own) doesn’t necessarily open you up to true comfort with and belief in sexual diversity,” Carol Queen (no relation to Alice), co-founder of the Center for Sex and Culture in San Francisco, tells me.

“My starting point is that the only thing that should be excluded is exclusion itself — as well as, of course, any practice that lacks consent or can never have it by definition.” – Alice Queen

The truth is that while Alice may be a self-described vanilla sex “activist,” she’s not vying for the primacy of any one kind of sex. Yes, the name of her blog could be read as creating a divide between vanilla and kink, but it’s really just catchy phrasing meant to wink at sex negativity. “I wouldn’t want to end up unwittingly promoting exclusion,” Alice says. “On the contrary, my starting point is that the only thing that should be excluded is exclusion itself — as well as, of course, any practice that lacks consent or can never have it by definition.”

The point Alice is trying to make is that, while the preponderance of BDSM-themed merch may make it seem like America has gotten really freaky, our culture is actually still so sex negative that even people who prefer “normal” sex feel like they can’t state their desires without being judged. The fashionability of the aesthetics of kink in many ways masks the reality that the U.S. is still a sex-negative culture, as evidenced by, among other things, our egregious sex education policies.

In fact, the whole idea of kink versus vanilla is essentially just a tool used to create divisions between anyone who might attempt to reclaim pleasure. After all, there’s not even an agreed-upon definition of vanilla sex. We invent these categories in order to express our desires, which should be fun, but our overly prudish culture has turned even the most normative desires against us.

“We should not be put in a position of feeling shame about our sexuality unless we are hurting someone else via our actions.” – Carol Queen

Alice describes vanilla sex as simple and mindful, which honestly, is a great way to approach any kind of sex, kinky or otherwise. “We do not have to have sex a certain way — except, y’know, consensually — no matter what right-wing politicians and preachers [or] hipper-than-thou ‘sex-positive’ folks might say,” Carol says. Basically, in a genuinely sex-positive culture, all sex — vanilla, kink, clown, whatever — would be welcome.

In working toward such a culture, it’s crucial that we don’t get the idea of sex positivity twisted. “Since humans tend to one-up each other, that ‘Yippee, sex!’ POV has morphed into ‘Sex-positive means I like all the sex — [and] if you don’t, you are not sex-positive,” she says. “This is not what sex-positive means.”

The truth is, as Carol notes, that what’s considered sexually “normal” or “fashionable” is always in flux, and it doesn’t always correspond to how we actually think about — or do — sex. As Carol says, “We should not be put in a position of feeling shame about our sexuality unless we are hurting someone else via our actions.”

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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How I’m Unlearning My Shame About Sex

— One Orgasm At A Time

By Carli Whitwell

I don’t remember the first time I felt tingles “down there.” It may have been watching Marlena and John hooking up on Days of Our Lives, which my mom and I tuned into every afternoon after she picked me up from kindergarten. It may have been when I snuck a glimpse at the sexy scenes in one of the Danielle Steel novels stacked on her nightstand next to her glasses and hand lotion. It may have been making my Barbies kiss and rub their plastic pelvises together.

But I do remember the first time I told someone about that strange, definitely not unpleasant feeling beneath my belly button. I was five or six and at a family barbecue when I confided to my aunt and my mom that watching people kissing made my vagina feel funny. My aunt joked that my parents would have to keep an eye on me as I got older and my mom hugged me and laughed in that confusing way that adults do. All I could think was: Is there something wrong with those little pulses? And: I better not talk about them to anyone ever again.

That feeling, I know now, was shame. So many of us have been taught to feel this way about sex. Society’s moralizing of sexual pleasure has a way of sticking with you, even when you don’t realize you’re taking it in. Which we do, all the time — at home, at school, on our screens, in a bar, on the subway. And I say this recognizing the inherent privilege of my sexual coming of age: I’m a cis straight white woman. Anyone who exists outside the arbitrary lines of sexuality that have been drawn for us is likely to question themselves that much more. Unlearning that shame — where it comes from, where you’re holding it tightly inside you — can take a lifetime.

I wanted to embrace those tingles. In high school, like most teens, I was hornier than a Sally Rooney novel. I spent a lot of time “reading” dirty novels while pretending, like the rest of my friends, that masturbation was gross and something only boys did. I definitely wasn’t saving myself (my parents were pretty liberal despite their own sexual hangups) and yet my sex life was nonexistent. I didn’t have my first kiss until I was 17. I lost my virginity at 23. I can’t say if my reticence was entirely a result of my feelings of shame around sex (I was also struggling with a pretty intense, undiagnosed anxiety disorder in my teens) but I know that I wanted to and wished to be intimate with someone, and something was holding me back.

I didn’t want to be the girl who gave it up; I felt that I should be in love and in a relationship to enjoy sexual pleasure. I had the stifling notion that my sexual awakening should live up to something I’d read about or watched or seen play out in the cafeteria. When I did start having sex, it was fun, sure, but often I had trouble climaxing; sometimes I still struggle with it. My orgasms have always been private, done alone and under the covers. For a long time, letting go in front of someone else felt impossible. Nice girls don’t (publicly) enjoy sex, after all.

As a former health editor I’ve read and written a ton about sex and pleasure and, ever an A+ student, I’ve tried to apply everything I’ve soaked up to my hesitancies around pleasure. My biggest breakthrough came a few years ago when I went to see a sex therapist for a one-time session. I remember the sense of relief when she reaffirmed that everything I was feeling was normal. She also reminded me that retraining the way our brain functions around anxiety and sex and shame takes time and work. Just hearing that was enough to lighten some of the pressure I’d been carrying around for years.

Now, I’m learning to find pleasure from sex from start to finish. I know what will get me off and what definitely won’t (stop spending so much time on my damn nipples!). Most importantly, I’m not afraid or embarrassed to kick my partner out of the room, close the door and take matters into my own hands.

I’m trying to be kind to my eight-year-old self and I’ve been watching other people celebrate this agency too. Even TikTok has made me feel less alone, (armrest of the couch meme, anyone?) hearing from others who have experienced the same things and are also muddling their way through, one baby step at a time, sometimes taking a step forward, sometimes taking two steps back.

After all, we are all works in progress and that’s okay too. When my parents moved out of my childhood home recently, I came to help them and my father and I were packing up my bookshelf and found the stack of dirty books I’d hidden behind my French textbooks and Harry Potter collection. I resisted the urge to run from the room and find a new identity. Instead I paused and said calmly: “It’s natural.”

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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My Culture Taught Me Sex is for Putas

— Here’s How I’m Unlearning Shame

By Jacqueline Delgadillo

“If she’s slept with more than one man, she’s a puta,” my tía told my mom during her visit to our home in Riverside, California. I was 22 years old, and I felt heat rising to my face. I prayed no one could read the guilt in my sweat. According to my aunt’s definition, I was a puta—and her daughter was one, too. I was ashamed.

In traditional Latinx culture, sex is reserved for cis, straight men and women after they’ve wed. Virginity—albeit a social construct—is something sacred; it belongs to your future spouse, your parents, or a higher power, but certainly not to you. Those who own their sexuality, indulge in sexual pleasure, enjoy multiple partners, or dare to speak about their sensual desires are shamed and outcasted with words like “puta” and “sucia.” By claiming their sexuality, these women are a threat to the status quo and are condemned by the same culture that celebrates male sexual prowess.

Those who own their sexuality, indulge in sexual pleasure, enjoy multiple partners, or dare to speak about their sensual desires are shamed and outcasted.

Growing up hearing these ideologies, I’ve often been left with more questions than answers. Thankfully, social media has introduced me to women and femmes who own their sexuality and provide sex education. Connecting with other sexually liberated folks has reminded me that I’m the CEO of my body and I’m also not alone in my journey to reclaim my sexuality and desire for myself. As I scroll through Instagram, I see Latinas and Latinx femmes talking openly about sex and finding their sexy, whatever that looks like for them. For the first time, this level of sexual and bodily autonomy seems within reach for us—except so many of us still feel icky during self-intimacy, are scared about increasing our so-called body count, and would rather give up sex altogether than have abuelita know what we do in our bedrooms late at night.

Even when the world around us seems to make progress, there remains a tumultuous internal battle around sexual shame—and memes alone won’t heal us. Unlearning the harmful messages and feelings we’ve been taught to associate with sex and pleasure takes time and mind-body work. We spoke with four sex experts who share their advice on healing sex shame, no matter where you are on your journey.

Irma Garcia, CSE, Sex Educator and Creator of Dirty South Sex Ed, Texas

I lead abortion access work at Jane’s Due Process, a nonprofit organization in Texas that helps minors obtain a judicial bypass for abortions. I’m also a sex educator; in 2020, I created Dirty South Sex Ed to help my community of Black and brown folks release their sexual shame. I wanted to present sexual health information in a very relatable and palpable way.

I was raised in a culturally conservative and religious town where young women, especially in Black and brown communities, are told that they have to present a certain way in order to be seen and valued as respectable, and that always bugged me. Since I was a young person, I’ve always been in touch with my sexuality. When I took Women’s and Gender Studies classes at the University of Texas at Austin, I was able to gain the language that I needed to talk about my experiences and found a community that helped me be my most authentic self. Stepping out of that shame and voicing my opinions on sexuality, respectability politics, and purity culture have all been freeing for me.

As a certified sex educator, I recommend anyone who is experiencing sexual shame to try engaging in self-pleasure. For some, this could mean masturbation, but this level of self-intimacy isn’t for everyone. If you feel uneasy touching yourself, engage in other forms of pleasure like eating a cupcake (there’s a lot of stigma around food as well), resting, or doing anything that brings you joy, period. Practice giving yourself that “yes” and honoring it; this will help make it easier for you to say “yes” to sexual pleasure when you’re ready.

Still, overcoming sex shame isn’t a goal you can achieve quickly. It’s about healing, and healing can be a lifelong journey. You can be sexually liberated and still carry some shame. Wherever you are in your journey is valid, and it’s important to see sexuality as just another component of your overall well-being.

Dr. Janet Brito, Certified Sex Therapist and Sexual Health Educator, Hawaii

I’m the CEO of the Hawaii Center for Sexual Relationship Health, a therapeutic sex-positive practice devoted to helping people manage difficult aspects of their sexuality, gender, and reproductive health. While in this role I now mostly focus on program development, supervision, and management, I still wear a clinical hat, providing sex therapy for individuals and couples. I also run the Sexual Health School, which is an online training program for individuals who want to be trained in sex therapy.

As a queer woman, it took my family many years to accept my sexual identity and my partners. It was the most painful thing in my life. I dealt with it by studying human sexuality in school. It was so liberating to learn about sexual health and the diversity of human sexuality. I felt like I was home. I understood that nothing was wrong with me but that there was a lot wrong with society and its scripts around gender, sexual orientation, and sexuality. I wanted to give this feeling of home and freedom to others.

For some people, the struggle isn’t around their sexual orientation but rather their preferences. They might feel a lot of shame around being aroused by something atypical, wanting a threesome, or exploring a polyamorous relationship. There’s so much shame around doing things that are nontraditional, and there’s a lot of unnecessary pain caused by the scripts imposed on us

As a sex therapist, it’s important for me to validate where this shame comes from. For Latinxs, some of these scripts are defined by marianismo, which values harmony, inner strength, self-sacrifice, and morality in women, and famialismo, which promotes dedication, commitment, and loyalty to family. These are beautiful traditions and they’re part of our culture, but if we hang on to something too rigidly, then it can be harmful. However, sometimes there’s some grief and loss that comes with retiring cultural values and traditions. Some can wonder, Am I betraying my culture? It’s scary. But it’s not about letting go of culture and the values that make up the richness of our community; it’s about being open to other possibilities that are not as limiting.

Rebecca Alvarez Story, Sexologist and Co-Founder & CEO of Bloomi, California

I’ve been a sexologist for more than 10 years. As part of my work, I provide coaching for a variety of intimacy topics for singles and couples. I’m also a consultant for multiple projects, like company education and product development. About three years ago, my two worlds came together when I started a sexual wellness and intimacy company called Bloomi.

While there was a lot of sex positivity in the world, I realized it was hard to find in the real world. My parents did their best; we had that big awkward sex talk. But in high school, I had abstinence-only sex education. It left me curious, and I felt shame in wanting to know more. I didn’t have any conversations about sexual pleasure until I got to college. Understanding how healing and empowering these discussions were for me, I helped UC Berkeley create the first sexual wellness major. I later went into a master’s program in sexology, thinking, I’m going to make my own career out of this. I think the world needs this.

Growing up in a Latinx household, these conversations were uncomfortable. It reminds me so much of the cultural phenomenon going on right now with Encanto’s “We Don’t Talk About Bruno.” I think so many Latinxs resonated with that song because we don’t talk about uncomfortable topics. We don’t talk about our bodies. We don’t talk about pleasure. But to heal shame and stigma we must be open about it, even if it’s to ourselves or our communities

When it comes to healing sexual shame, it’s important to surround yourself with people who are sex-positive. This can be friends, a tía, a cousin, or anyone else. What’s important is to build a community you can lean on with these types of topics and conversations. This way, you can exist very confidently around people who hold shameful ideologies without absorbing it in the same way.

One of the beautiful things about sexuality and our sex lives is that our desires will change throughout our life. Give yourself permission to unlearn what doesn’t serve you. One way to do this is by exploring your body and interests so you learn what does work for you. Create a life that’s full of intentional pleasure; that’s what helped make a difference for me.

Stephanie Orozco, Podcast Host of Tales from the Clit, Boston

Trigger Warning: Sexual Violence

I’m the host of Tales from the Clit, a storytelling sex education podcast, and also a graduate student studying sex, sexuality, and gender as part of my Public Health master’s degree at Boston University. In many ways, my interest in sexuality and passion to destigmatize consensual sex is rooted in being sexually assaulted as a child.

I grew up in a Mexican immigrant community, and I felt like I couldn’t turn to anyone to talk about what had happened to me. I also went to a public school in Southern California that didn’t have comprehensive sex education or instruction on consent. Alone and confused, I thought I was pregnant for eight years after I was assaulted.

For years, I carried a lot of pain, doubt, and shame. I have post-traumatic stress disorder and have been in therapy on and off for 15 years. There wasn’t one particular thing that made me realize what I had experienced was sexual assault, but there was so much shame and pain attached to the experience that I started going to therapy because I knew it wasn’t something I could process on my own. At the time, I was so uncomfortable just being naked. To heal my relationship with my body, I first tried getting comfortable with being naked. I would hang out in my underwear while watching TV in my room alone. No one else needed to be a part of that. Once I started making peace with my body, including the parts that I didn’t like very much, it made it easier for me to think about consensual sex and be nude in front of other people.

In 2014, when I was 21 years old and had started learning about sex, consent, and pleasure through sex educators like Sex Nerd Sandra, I started to organize sexual health events in my community. As a member of my college’s Social Observation Club, I put together a sexual health fair, panels, and interactive activities where people felt safe enough to ask questions. I set out to be the kind of sex educator that my younger self needed when I was lost and afraid. I wanted to teach comprehensive sex education that is culturally relevant to my community.

Healing sex shame is a long-term project. This is not going to be fixed by learning how to orgasm or where the clit is. There’s more to sex education than just talking about managing STIs and pregnancy; there is anatomy, consent, and pleasure. But this isn’t going to be normalized in our communities overnight. It has to be intergenerational, and it has to start with our generation.

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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The persistent myth of sex addiction

Either we’re all sex addicts or nobody is

By Hallie Lieberman

According to every online test I’ve taken, I’m a sex addict. And if you took the quizzes, you probably would be too, at least if you answered honestly to questions like “Do you often find yourself preoccupied with sexual thoughts?” “Do you ever feel bad about your sexual behavior?” and “Have you used the internet to make romantic or erotic connections with people online?”

Even if you answered “no” to all these questions, you’re still not off the hook. If you watch porn, you might be a sex addict; If you “often require the use of a vibrator… to enhance the sexual experience” you might be a sex addict; if you spend some of your time “ruminating about past sexual encounters,” you might be a sex addict.

By these standards, nearly all human beings are sex addicts, as a recent study found that 73 percent of women and 85 percent of men had looked at internet porn in the past six months; other studies found that about half of American men and women have used vibrators. Perhaps that is right: sex is one of our strongest drives, and according to one study, the median number of times people think about sex is 10-19 times a day. But pathologizing all of humanity for expressing normal human sexuality is ridiculous in the least and dangerous at the worst. The fact that most people would be considered sex addicts is positive for only one group of people: those employed by the multimillion-dollar sex addiction industry.

Sex addiction treatment forces people into a kind of re-education program, which tries to convince them that perfectly normal consensual sexual behavior is the sign of a serious problem. Some of them are run by Christian pastors, others by licensed professional counselors. In-patient facilities are often located in picturesque areas, like palatial Arizona desert retreats, complete with poolside ping-pong and equine therapy (how nuzzling a horse cures sex addiction is never explained). These programs tell supposed sex addicts that they can reprogram themselves through behavioral modifications to become ideal sexual citizens: monogamous, non-porn-using people who rarely masturbate or fantasize about anyone other than their main partners. Some even take it further and force people to abandon healthy activities like masturbation for 30 days.

If this sounds familiar in a bad way, it might be because some of the same centers that treat sex addiction also offer gay conversion therapy, although they no longer call it that because conversion therapy has been banned for minors in 19 states (instead they say they treat “unwanted same-sex attraction” and “homosexuality/lesbianism“). This sad fact further illuminates the ugly truth behind the sex addiction industry: it’s based on a moralistic judgment on what sexual behaviors are socially acceptable, yet it’s cloaked in a scientific sheen that gives it legitimacy. Although gay conversion therapy is much more harmful, sex addiction treatment is similar in that both are about modifying behavior even though biology and psychology are compelling a person in a different direction.

One key question that appears on nearly all sex addiction quizzes is: “Do you feel that your sexual behavior is not normal?” The problem is, most people don’t know what a “normal” sex life is, and consensual sexual behaviors that are statistically abnormal are not the sign of a disease. As psychologist David Ley has argued in his book, The Myth of Sex Addiction, the criteria for sex addiction “reflect heterosexual and monogamous social values and judgments rather than medical or scientific data.”

Sex addiction isn’t a new concept, it’s a new name for an old one; it falls into a continuum of pathologizing sexual behavior going back to the 19th century when women were labeled nymphomaniacs for behavior we would consider normal today, such as having orgasms through clitoral stimulation. In fact, 21st-century sex addiction therapists sound nearly identical to 19th-century vice reformers.

“Pornography coupled with masturbation and fantasy is often the cornerstone for sexual addiction. This is a dangerous combination …A fantasy world is created, sometimes as early as adolescence, that is visited throughout developmental stages,” says the website of a current therapy center called L.I.F.E. Recovery International. “The sexual addict may use his or her addiction in place of true spirituality — sex becomes the addict’s God,” the website declares.

Similarly, 19th-century vice reformer Anthony Comstock wrote that “Obscene publications” and “immoral articles” [sex toys] are “like a cancer” which “fastens itself upon the imagination…defiling the mind, corrupting the thoughts, leading to secret practices of most foul and revolting character.” He suggested that young adults read the Bible instead of giving into their sexual urges.

Why do we continue to further such an outdated view of sex? Sex addiction is a way to police sexual behavior and impose conventional morality through a seemingly scientific, trendy addiction model. It attempts to slot people into some mythical standard of normal sexuality, one defined by monogamy and devoid of fantasy.

The sex addiction industry persists in spite of the fact that again and again sex addiction has been debunked by experts. Sex addiction isn’t considered legitimate by psychologists; the scientific literature doesn’t back it up; and it isn’t in the DSM-5, the authoritative catalog of mental disorders published by the American Psychiatric Association. Yet therapists benefit financially from sex addiction diagnoses, moralists benefit spiritually from them, and supposed sex addicts benefit practically from them. Sex addiction provides a great excuse for people who engage in socially objectionable sexual behavior (It’s not my fault! I couldn’t help banging the sexy neighbor! I’m an addict! I’ll go to treatment!).

This coincides with the fact that most sex addicts are heterosexual men, so the diagnosis frequently becomes a way to legitimize male sexual behavior, while also sometimes labeling their female partners as enablers. Convicted rapist Harvey Weinstein reportedly checked himself in to an in-patient treatment program after allegations against him were first published in late 2017, a path that many other high-profile men have taken in the wake of scandal.

The concept of sex addiction makes sex seem way more logical than it actually is. It fits into our culture’s view of controlling and constraining sex through rules, like the criminalization of sex work. Hiring a sex worker or engaging in any illegal sexual activities is a sign you’re a sex addict, according to most sex addiction screening tests. Yet, a wide range of more widely accepted sexual behavior is also illegal in the U.S., including having sex with an unmarried person of the opposite sex (a crime in Idaho, Illinois, and South Carolina) and adultery, which is a crime in over a dozen states.

But sex is messy and complicated, and hardwired and controlled by hormones, and no amount of counseling is going to stop you from having sexual urges. The sex addiction model provides a 12-step solution to the messiness of sex and the challenge of monogamy: if you follow these simple steps, the thinking goes, you too can be in control of the strongest biological urge and be free of daily horniness. If only it were that simple.

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How to Overcome Religious Shame in Your Sex Life

By Lindsey Ellefson

If you were raised to see sex and sexuality as a source of shame and embarrassment, you might notice that such feelings tend to linger, no matter how educated, open-minded, and open-legged you consider yourself today. If you come from a religious background, it’s probably even worse.

Fortunately, many religious leaders and secular counselors in the year of our Lord 2021 know that hardline teachings on sexual expression and orientation don’t do much to draw in the spiritually wayward, and can even ostracize believers. So whether you’re trying to balance your religious leanings with your carnal desires or overcome shame you internalized as a child and dragged into bed in your agnostic adulthood, we called on experts who can help.

Don’t be afraid to talk about sex

In a lot of religious households and communities, talking about sexuality is off limits, but refusing to talk about something doesn’t make it go away. A 28-year-old erotic artist in Philadelphia who goes by Claire Voyant tells Lifehacker that her religious upbringing is still causing problems in her sex life, but she’s slowly working through them by talking to friends and counselors.

Leo Morton, an associate pastor and drag queen in North Carolina, suggests the same, adding, “Everybody needs two really good things in this world: One is a good hairdresser and the other is a good counselor.” Morton is openly gay, but found that when he first spoke to a clergy member about his same-sex attraction in his youth, he was shut down and told not to bring it up. Obviously, that approach didn’t make him less gay—and not talking about sexuality isn’t going to make you less randy, either, only more needlessly ashamed of being so. Not acknowledging your sexuality only leads to repression, and that’s how archaic ideas about sex lead to such a pervasive shame. Talking about sex helps you to break the cycle before the cycle breaks you.

Fortunately, there are specialized counselors who can help—people like Kevin Salazar, a psychotherapist at the Gender & Sexuality Therapy Center in New York City, who tells Lifehacker they see lingering shame in their work often.

“I find it is common for clients who grew up in a conservative religious environment to feel shame around how they experience (or don’t experience) sexual and romantic attraction. Folks may feel shame about acting on their attraction even in a supportive and consensual environment,” they say.

Sex-positive friends can help, too

Counseling isn’t the only option, as friends make great listeners, too. Claire, who is also a retired sex worker, explains that because her Catholic education taught her that sexual pleasure was a woman’s duty to provide a man, she has struggled well into her late 20s to masturbate or focus on her own enjoyment during the partnered encounters she began having once she decided not to wait for marriage—in itself is a big step for people with a similar upbringing. Talking to friends, she says, helps, though she does admit she feels “jealousy” toward those who grew up in more liberal households and don’t really get where she’s coming from.

“I totally feel like the odd person out sometimes, like I’m hiding in plain sight,” she says.

Salazar explains, “Folks who grew up in a conservative religious environment and now have a liberal, sex-positive community have also expressed feeling isolated and not understood by their peers who did not experience the same kinds of shame and stigma.”

In some cases, a “hair of the dog” approach might work, especially if you’re still spiritual. Consider talking to insiders who can relate. Not all religious leaders are like the one Morton encountered when he was first questioning his sexuality, especially in this day and age. If you’re trying to square the sexual part of yourself with the religious or spiritual part, you don’t need to pick one.

“The shame and stigma the church has propagated around sexuality—regardless of orientation or gender—is longstanding,” says Rev. Mandy McDow, senior minister at Los Angeles First United Methodist Church, who strives to make sure her congregation is welcoming to members of the LGBTQ+ community and sex workers. “It has been a way in which the church has exercised power and dominion over the vulnerable, which is an actual sin.”

Find community online

Welcoming spaces also exist outside of traditional churches, the most obvious and vast option being right here, on the Internet.

“There are various religious and spiritual communities that will be welcoming and expansive in their understandings of gender, sex, and sexuality,” says Jesse Kahn, LCSW-R, CST, director and sex therapist at the Gender & Sexuality Therapy Center. “And if it’s important for you to be a part of a specific church that tends to have more repressive teachings, there are often variations in how the teachings are discussed based on geography and in progressive online spaces.”

Learn how to talk to yourself about sex

Don’t be afraid to work on yourself, by yourself, and for yourself. As Claire can attest, sex isn’t all about your relationship to someone else; it’s just as much about you. Salazar recommends journaling and listening to related podcasts or reading books; Claire suggests reading columns like this one, then taking time to explore your own beliefs and desires in a comfortable space. Go at your own pace, she says, and practice some gentle self-talk: “The more positive messaging you can incorporate into your life about sex, the better. Like, if you can, just max out until you’re sick of hearing people speak positively about sex, because you really need to rewire your brain completely.”

Echoing advice from Salazar, who mentioned replacing stigmatizing language with affirmations in their practice with clients, Claire advises, “Think about all of the time that was scheduled into your life for people to talk negatively about sex, and now you have to do that, like, twice as much positively.”

If you can believe an all-knowing god was angry at you for being sexual, why not try believing that same god would be proud of you for it? Morton sums up his thoughts accordingly: “God created us, and we are beautiful and our bodies are part of the extension of God himself.” Praise be.

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Why We Feel Shame After We Orgasm

By Gigi Engle

Have you ever looked at something you know is objectively “gross” and found that you’re a little … turned on? Read on if this sounds familiar to you. Because, you know what? It’s a lot more common than you think.

When we’re turned on, the part of our brain that registers disgust and fear tends to switch off. Things that we may register as gross, scary, or weird when we’re in a resting state take on erotic meaning once we’re turned on.

This is why people enjoy things like spanking, spitting, water-sports (when you pee on someone) and rimming. In the context of everyday life, these things probably aren’t appealing to you. You wouldn’t want someone to spit on you in the grocery store, or have your partner pee on you while you’re cooking dinner. Well, maybe you do (no judgement), but the majority of people require their minds and bodies to be in a sexually aroused state for these things to be hot and not off-putting.

Pam Shaffer, LMFT, a licensed marriage and family therapist, says that it’s totally normal to be aroused by something we’d otherwise find disgusting because of the complex nature of arousal itself.

“Our brain isn’t the best at determining why it’s in a heightened state (aka feeling arousal), but it could be due to a host of factors, including fear, disgust, and fascination with the taboo,” she tells TheBody.

Let’s get into the nitty gritty of post-orgasmic shame, why it happens, and where we go from here.

The Post-Orgasmic Blues

You’ve probably heard of the post-orgasmic afterglow, right? How after you’re finished having sex (whatever kind of sex), you sort of lie there in each other’s arms and feel super blissed out? This happens because our bodies are awash with a chemical cocktail of feel-good hormones like dopamine and oxytocin.

But there is a counter-state that doesn’t get very much airtime in the mainstream media that requires acknowledgement: The post-orgasmic (or post-coital) blues (also known as post-coital dysphoria). This denotes the crash that can take place immediately following orgasm. Can you relate to this? It happens. One study showed that nearly 50% of women experience sadness after sex.

Sometimes we don’t feel the way we think we’re supposed to. The release of all that orgasmic energy doesn’t always make us feel amazing in the minutes after sex. In fact, it can make us feel depleted, sad, or lonely. Lanae St. John, D.H.Sc., a board-certified sexologist and author of Read Me: A Parental Primer for “The Talk”, tells TheBody that laughing out loud, crying, feeling amazing, or feeling sad is all due to the release we experience in orgasm. It may manifest as all kinds of emotions—it’s a release of tension and intense feelings we’ve been holding inside.

Both the afterglow and the blues are completely normal and temporary. The two seemingly extreme opposite states are a great example of how complicated human sexuality really is.

But, if you find yourself unable to move on from the post-coital funk, it could be something more than the blues. If you feel depressed for a few days or weeks after sex, seek out the professional help of a qualified therapist, as this could be a sign of clinical depression or anxiety, rather than post-orgasm crash.

Shame About Sex Can Impact Us More Than We Realize

Data also shows that sex-negative messaging from childhood and subsequent shame around sex can impact your sexual wellness substantially. We live in a culture that finds sex wrong, sinful, and disgusting. And, at the same time, we’re inundated with sexualized images from the mainstream media. Sex is everywhere, but sex is forbidden. The world we live in is immersed in a sexual shame/sexual obsession paradox of its own design.

For instance, think about watching some really “sicko” level porn (I use the word “sicko” in the sense that it’s something we “think” we’re sickos for watching). We’re very turned on by the scene. Maybe we searched for it. Maybe it came up on the endless stream of clips available on free tube sites. We masturbate to it, have sex with someone while watching it, or some variation of this.

And then, there is often a switch; a flip in mental state that changes everything. After orgasm you look at the half-finished clip and are horrified. You think, “OMG I cannot watch this” and have to turn it off immediately. It is no longer hot, it’s bad and gross. This is, of course, also connected to how we associate sex with shame and being a bad dirty thing that makes us bad dirty people.

“When we are in the moment and following our pleasure, hopefully to the peak experience that is orgasm, then we are giving ourselves permission to enjoy and experience; but for some, once the experience is over, our thinking comes back online, [and] we become more consciously aware of ourselves, which can bring about negative thoughts or feelings (even though we have done nothing wrong),” Kate Moyle, a psychosexual and relationship therapist and host of The Sexual Wellness Sessions podcast, tells TheBody. We are in that heightened arousal state, and once we crash out of it, the shame takes over from where the hard-on was.

Untying yourself from sexual shame takes perseverance and a lot of internal and community work. Therapy helps. Admitting something is holding you back from being your true, authentic sexual self helps. We can’t begin to heal if we keep pretending we aren’t hurt. And we’re all hurt.

Sex isn’t shameful. You aren’t shameful for enjoying it—in whatever form you like having it—with other consenting adults, or on your own. It’s a hard message to learn, but as we shift into a more sex-positive future (hopefully) it can begin to manifest. “If you notice the self-criticism, think about where this comes from—question the messages and see if there are any alternatives that are healthier, or if your narratives need updating,” Moyle adds.

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6 Signs You Might Have Sexual Shame

—and How To Overcome It

By Morgan Mandriota

I recently uncovered, in therapy, that I have a shame-based fear of having casual sex; I’ve breathed in toxic sex-shaming messaging from a young age, dating back to middle school, when my dad and I had “the talk.” He walked into my bedroom, told me not to let boys get in my pants, then left. The message I received—and shame that came with it—has continued to define my sexual identity and has taken a heavy toll on my romantic and sexual relationships ever since.

“We pick up sexual shame from the world around us, beginning with the messages we receive as children from our parents, communities, churches, society, and culture,” says Erica Smith, sex educator and founder of the Purity Culture Dropout Program. A lot of the messaging may not even be overt or direct, though. “Most of us have internalized shame just from growing up in a culture that believes deeply that sex, our bodies, and our sex parts are bad,” says relationship and sex therapist Andrew Aaron, LICSW. “What makes the shame so insidious is that people are unaware of their shame: They don’t see it, identify it, or talk about it.”

Because sexual shame can fly so far under the radar, many may not realize how it can stand in the way of confidence, intimacy, and establishing healthy relationships with partners, sex, and self-pleasure. That’s why identifying the common thoughts, feelings, and behavioral patterns associated with sexual shame is the first step to overcoming it. Below, find six telltale signs of sexual shame and then learn how to overcome it.

6 signs of sexual shame, according to sex experts

1. Insecurity with the self

Sexual shame often manifests as a disconnection from the self, says Megwyn White, sexologist, licensed sex coach, and director of education at sexual-wellness product brand Satisfyer. “One of the key components to sexual shame is a break in the natural flow of personal expression and experience of the body,” she says. According to research, people who identify as women and who are not comfortable with the appearance of their genitals may experience a flood of intense self-judgment after sex or self-consciousness or body insecurity during sex.

2. A certain physical stature or diminished voice

Sexual shame can also present in how we carry ourselves. For example, maybe you frequently cross your arms, hunch your shoulders, slouch, or struggle to make or hold eye contact with partners. “The voice may also be affected in that there is a general inhibition to make sound during sexual exploration,” says White, who adds feeling uncomfortable expressing desires and needs during sex is a sign of shame as well.

3. Sexual dysfunction and dissatisfaction

Sexual response typically reflects sexual energy (or arousal) that flows freely. “When shame is present, it constitutes a closed state in which sexual energy cannot flow to produce arousal, excitement, or orgasm,” says Aaron. Correlation is not causation, though, which is to say that lack of arousal does not mean shame is definitely present. Smith adds that shame can make communicating with sexual partners difficult, which can, in turn, make sex less pleasureful.

4. Trouble with intimacy and relationships

“Shame is expressed through avoidance or being shut down and inhibited. Each of these responses is a form of distancing from the action or activity,” says Aaron. In this way, shame can lead you to forms walls, limits, and boundaries that may make relationships feel less secure and intimate. “I’ve worked with folks who avoided dating for years because they were terrified of what would happen if they got close enough to someone to become sexually intimate,” says Smith.

5. Viewing sex as “bad” or something that you “shouldn’t do”

“Some experience deep feelings of regret and shame immediately after any sexual encounter,” says Smith, who notes she has worked with women who bought vibrators in an attempt to masturbate, then threw them away after being overcome with shame.

“The shaming of masturbation is damaging because as children, masturbation is our first method to connect with our genitals and sexual pleasure,” says Aaron. “When masturbation is forbidden, the training from young is to view our genitals, sexuality, and sexual pleasure as shameful.” Yes, sexual shame starts that young.

6. You’re uncomfortable talking about sex

Some people feel nervous, or a deep burning embarrassment, when the topic of sex comes up, which Smith says is a sign of sexual shame. The typical response to shame is hiding it, but that’s the same way shame grows. “It’s also why being able to admit to what you’re ashamed of is the first step in overcoming it,” says White. “Once sexual shame is in the light, it can dissolve more easily.”

The benefits of overcoming sexual shame—and how to do it

The benefits of confronting and releasing sexual shame start with pleasure. “A person is able to experience sexual response, get beyond sexual dysfunction, and perhaps the experience of high arousal and orgasm where that was inhibited prior,” says Aaron. And according to Smith, these benefits may yield more confidence and self-esteem that can give way to more effective communication with partners, better solo or partnered sex, and a newfound interest in kink, sex toys, casual sex relationships, or polyamory, or perhaps the realization that you have a different sexual or gender identity.

When you’re ready to uproot and release sexual shame, Smith says the first step is to remove yourself from the source and then—whether that source is a friend, parent, media outlet or otherwise—to set boundaries and heal. Therapy, sensual self-care, and masturbation can all help, as can educating yourself with books (check out The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk, Pussy, a Reclamation by Regina Thomashauer, and Sex for One by Betty Dodson).

Also keep in mind that in the early stages of processing shame, things can sometimes feel worse before they get better. “This is a natural part of the process and needs to be honored with a great deal of compassion,” says White. “We don’t want to ‘shame the shame,’ if you know what I mean.” Ultimately, sexual shame is nothing to be ashamed about—there are many ways to explore releasing it, and no one way is the right way.

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How To Unpack Your Sexual Shame & Turn It Into Your Greatest Teacher

ByAlexandra Roxo

Once I was riding in a car back from Joshua Tree with a few progressive people whom I love. It was a long car ride, and the conversation turned to sex. A friend mentioned that the man she was dating loved blow jobs. Then I said something about having a mind-blowing orgasm when a yogi filmmaker and I were engaging in conscious kink, playing with pain, and that I was in an altered state of bliss for three days after. The car went quiet.

What did I say? Was it the trance of bliss or…the kink? It was consensual, of course, but I had crossed some sort of invisible line. I wondered: “How come blow jobs are OK to discuss, but a spanking is too hard-core for conscious folks? Couldn’t conscious spanking exist? And where is safe to talk about real sex if not with people we love?”

Most of all, I felt ashamed of my “freaky” sexual tendencies, and I internalized this and stopped speaking. It was clear that discussing some of my sexual adventures, even among the most progressive circles, could be seen as “too much.” Did someone in the car experience an encounter similar to mine that didn’t result in arousal? It’s possible. Was it the wrong space to chat about sex openly? Possibly. But if so, where is the right one? 

When we talk about sex, there’s a possibility shame or pain will arise.

Anytime we open the doors to talk about sex, there is a possibility that shame or pain will arise, as we are dealing with a vault of human experience that has been repressed for millenniums, resulting in mass pain and trauma. But does that mean we keep hiding it away? No.

In order to heal, we must actually start talking about it—the good, the bad, and the ugly—in safe places and with people we trust. Coaches. Healers. In sacred circles. With love and understanding and intentionality and no judgment. 

Sexual shame can prevent us from living a healthy sex life, first and foremost, which is one reason to face it. But we often bring it to other areas of life, too! Our repressed sexual shame can show up in friendships, as jabs at friends who may trigger something in us. It can show up as menstrual cramps, IBS, self-confidence issues. Sexual shame is often an elephant in the room in today’s world. 

Here again, as with every part of the transformational process, change begins with awareness. 

Becoming aware of sexual shame.

To be able to hold space for awareness around sexual shame, you must first create a safe space internally. Acknowledging your sexual shame and coming to your own internal acceptance about anything that may have instilled this in you is the place to start. From here, we can begin to process emotions that are stored away relating to your sexuality.

Your core wounds may come up, reflected in your daily life, relationships, and thoughts. You may attract some situations that trigger your wounding and may serve as opportunities for healing. Remember, this is how you know it’s working! This is not a bad thing. This is productive. It’s really important to let yourself feel whatever surfaces and not be afraid. Each emotion, each trigger, and each memory that arises is important. Do what you need to do to be safe, take it at whatever pace you need, care for yourself.

If you have had many sexual experiences that were intrusive and nonconsensual or are holding on to a lot of sexual shame, this may feel like a no-go zone for you. That is OK. I trust you to trust yourself and tread with gentleness and care. I trust you also to know when to stop if something feels like it’s too much for your system. When to take a pause and breathe. And when to keep going into the work. This takes a lot of awareness and discernment, skills you will cultivate over time, in your daily practice and contemplative work.

For me, dealing with multiple sexual assaults and healing through resultant pain in my system has happened in steps over the years. In circles. In writing. Journaling. Feeling. Therapy. With coaches. In ceremonies. And most of that I did on a very limited budget; somehow I called it in. It’s definitely been a 360 approach, and I didn’t have a road map. I went with my gut. So go with yours. Feel into what is right for you.

Keep up with your daily practice. Take impeccable care of yourself. Ask a friend for support. Take an Epsom salt bath. Other ways to move energy that feels sticky in your body: Have a deep cry, punch a pillow, find a place to have a good scream, shake your body out or dance vigorously, write like you’re vomiting words in your journal, go to a steam room or sauna. Whatever you do, letting the feelings move out of your body is key.

And, again, do not be afraid of the depth and breadth of the feelings that may come up when you are doing this work. Instead, look at it as an opportunity to reclaim some of your power. Remember that before acceptance may come rage, sadness, anger, and fear, and all of this is OK.

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