I resisted writing this for months. 

Part of me is convinced this is the worst decision I’ve ever made. My face on an article about sex? What the fuck am I on? What if my old classmates see this, or friends, or extended family, or a future employer?

If any of the above applies to you, well… What’s done is done.

And if you’re of the online troll subspecies looking for someone to bully, oh boy, you’ve come to the wrong place. I’m not emotionally available for any sort of blame or insults. I’m my own worst critic here.

So, let’s get right in. I’ve never been on a date nor had a relationship nor had sex. And I know now I’m not the only mid-twenties Gen Z in this situation.

So why?

While I can’t speak for other people, there seem to be several patterns running through modern society that account for the so-called sex recession.

For me, culture, generational trauma, my insecure attachment style and an early exposure to pornography appear to be the top quartet for my fears of intimacy. In that order.

At least two of those are shockingly common among my peers.

It doesn’t even matter which ones you picked because you made the right choice either way.

I grew up hearing how sex hurts, only the man enjoys it, and I mustn’t get pregnant. My virginity is something I can lose, and if I lose it I’ll be worth less. The catholic school I went to didn’t talk about sex at all.

When I was a teen, my sex ed consisted of Youtube channels like Lacy Green where archaic ideas about sex were challenged and sexuality was normalised.

But by then, the rest of the world had already ingrained their puritanism into me.

See, puritanism has all sorts of silly side effects.

Judging women who are comfortable with their genitals and calling them sluts. Torturing myself over feeling arousal, as bodies are prone to do. Crying when I was forced to buy my first bra because I wasn’t not a girl anymore, but a sex object.

And the funniest thing: I’m still convinced I’m too young to have sex.

I kid you not, 60% of me behaves like a helicopter mom, wrinkling her nose when you ask for permission to hang out with your friends for another fifteen minutes.

The other 40% are baffled by her tenacity. Because her answer is always no.

Cognitively, I know this is bullshit. In fact, I know I’m almost ‘too old’ to not have had sex.

But what my mind thinks doesn’t matter because the trauma lives in my body. Trauma is nothing but stuck energy, and until we release it, it will gleefully remain in the driver’s seat to Victim Ville.

Nevertheless, trauma responses are valid. Do they keep us from fully expressing ourselves? Yes. But they do so because they’re a protection mechanism.

For example, as I’m writing here, I have the biggest knot in my guts. My brain is sweating at the thought of people reading this. The topic of sex is a blazing sword that burns me long before it can cut me.

My nervous system can’t touch it. I can’t talk about it with my therapist without looking like an anemic ghost on diuretics. But I’m aware of my current limited range and I respect it.

Regular somatic practices and time are essential to train our nervous system into holding more sensation.

Lots of time. And patience. And stubbornness.

Being with sensation is what life comes down to. What I mean by that is staying connected to our bodies while something activates our fight or flight response.

Like being hit on: I completely dissociate from myself. I freeze. I feel backed into a corner with no way out. Bone-chilling terror followed by anger because how dare this stranger violate me?

Fun times, eh?

That’s what bad boundaries due to unprocessed trauma look like. We’re incapable of standing up for ourselves, so we self-abandon, smile nicely, and try not to look like we’re dying inside. Followed by the rage of giving up our voice once again, and demonising the other person for “making” us suffer.

I know so many women who go through this exact process on the regular.

If you’re a securely attached individual, you might be thinking, “Well, doesn’t that make you resent anyone who comes too close and triggers that response?”

You’d be right. It’s why my subconscious has developed an avoidant attachment style.

An avoidant attachment style is basically an anxious attachment style with a layer of “Actually, fuck you guys,” on top. Being avoidant means being constantly annoyed by people. Add introversion, and now we endure the bare minimum of social interaction to get by at our job or school, at the cost of finding fulfilling intimate friendships and relationships.

Not like we think those even exist.

There are avoidants who can have sex without intimacy. I can’t. I don’t want to either.

I remember Destin Gerek teaching about how some people are more connected to their heart, and others to their sex, depending on their unique life experience. It’s up to us to align and integrate both aspects without shame.

After accepting the hell out of the avoidant part, it’s time to give that anxious bedrock some love. If the avoidance is the cemented armour, the anxiety is the sticky goo protected by that shell.

“I don’t deserve healthy relationships. I’m unlovable. Something’s wrong with me. They’ll hurt me. I’ll die if I open up. I need them to like me.”

For us avoidants, this is the disgusting part. Ew. So clingy. So needy. So dependent. Acknowledging our innate desire for intimate connections means feeling our pain. Pain that’s festered inside since childhood. Talk about popping open a pus-oozing cyst.

Intimacy is tough. Even securely attached people have fears and hang-ups.

But does the thought of being in a relationship make you nauseous? Do you feel crippled by anxiety at the idea of baring yourself, emotionally and physically?

Then I guarantee there’s something deeper going on. That’s always worth exploring. The better we know ourselves, the better our life gets.

How can we improve our experience on this planet without first gathering information?

Listen, I won’t lie. Self-work is one hell of a commitment. It’s the hardest and most important investment we can make. It’s a lifelong journey.

Feel your emotions. Question your fears. Be the loving adult that your crying inner child needs and deserves. No one else can do it for you.

You’re your own savior.