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I was raised to reserve sex for marriage and to make my partner’s pleasure the default goal. Decades later, after leaving religion, transitioning, and rethinking intimacy, I’m learning to place my own desires first—starting with small choices and, eventually, my sexual life.
A honeymoon that masked a deeper disconnect
The first time I saw an adult penis, I felt an instinctive urge to respond physically. The moment played out the summer after my sophomore year, when a Mormon temple officiant had just declared us married and we had a few hours before our photoshoot. We parked beneath a bridge in an industrial part of Provo, Utah. When I moved toward him, he refused.
How can someone who’s overcome people-pleasing discover their sexual desires?
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I grew up in an environment shaped by abstinence-only messages and strict teachings about purity. Those lessons left me with little practical knowledge about sex and a lot of fear about my own body. On our honeymoon I surprised myself by acting with sudden sexual confidence, but that was not comfort so much as dissociation. I went numb, and that numbness smoothed over a pattern that lasted for years.
How purity culture shaped sexual roles
For much of my first marriage, I occupied a familiar script: he led, I followed. Sex became something that ended when he reached pleasure, regardless of what I experienced. That arrangement felt normal because it had been taught to me—first as a moral mandate to protect “virginity,” then as a marital duty to satisfy a husband.
Even after I left organized religion in my twenties, those expectations clung tightly. They pushed me into the role of the helpmeet and the appeaser, eroding my sense of choice and agency.
People pleasing as a survival strategy
What looks like politeness is often coping. I learned, painfully, that my tendency to put others first was less a personality quirk and more a response to threat—an attempt to prevent conflict, abandonment, or harm.
Psychotherapist Cassidy Dallas describes bedroom people-pleasing as acting “when we only think about the other person’s experience and if they enjoyed themselves, versus whether I enjoyed myself and how the experience was for me.” That frame helped me see my behavior as protection rather than moral failing.
From silence to study: unlearning shame
After leaving my Mormon upbringing I dove into sexual and reproductive health learning. I filled my shelves with age-appropriate puberty books, taught sex education at my son’s middle school, and later navigated queer dating after my transition and divorce. Each step forced me to relearn what my body could feel and ask for.
I reached out to the work of writers and clinicians who study the intersection of religion and trauma. Dr. Laura Anderson’s book When Religion Hurts You pushed home an important point: overcoming sexual shame is not primarily an intellectual exercise. It requires retraining the body as much as the mind.
Practical resources and small experiments
Recovery has been gradual and practical. I drew on podcasts, recovery guides aimed at survivors of purity culture, and frameworks like the Wheel of Consent to map consent and desire. I also started to craft a personal sexual ethic—a set of standards about what feels right for me.
Two simple practices changed everything: cultivating interoception through mindfulness and doing body scan meditations. Those exercises helped me notice subtle sensations and begin to distinguish my needs from the habits I’d learned to perform.
Reclaiming everyday agency—and desire
Rebuilding trust in myself began with tiny declarations. When my current husband asks what I want for takeout, I pause, check in with my body, and answer—curry, kebab, whatever I’m actually craving. Saying a preference aloud used to spark panic. Now it’s routine.
That same willingness to name wants has reshaped my sex life. I can tell a partner, “I’m not feeling it today,” or offer precise direction during intimacy. Centering my pleasure feels vulnerable, but also clarifying. As Dallas told me, focusing on our own enjoyment is both brave and necessary.
Tools that helped
Alongside partners who are patient and curious, I’ve used toys and solo exploration to learn what I like. These practices—and the humility to experiment—helped me move from dissociation toward presence.
Recovery is ongoing. It requires patience, self-compassion, and repeated small choices that affirm my needs. For someone raised to silence their desire, each honest preference is a kind of reclamation.
