Growing up, I never really felt like a “sexual being,” but for a long time, I couldn’t pinpoint why. In a Christian household, discussions about sex were non-existent. I found both boys and girls attractive, yet I lacked the drive to act on those feelings. While my friends began to explore their bodies and sexuality, I felt paralyzed. The thought of engaging in any sexual activities—oral, anal, or vaginal—never crossed my mind. My interest in sex was minimal, and I eventually realized that I am asexual.
It wasn’t until I was in my early twenties that I recognized my asexuality. I married my husband at 23 and still didn’t understand that I was different. Despite having a fulfilling relationship, I often felt something was “off.” Yes, we were intimate, but I was usually pretending to enjoy it. I faked interest and pleasure because I loved him and wanted to bring him happiness.
For years, I struggled with a sense of inadequacy, believing there was something wrong with me. I devoted over a decade trying to “fix” myself, exploring various sexual positions and fantasies, hoping to find a solution. Last summer, I had a breakthrough: the issue wasn’t me, but rather my perception of what I was supposed to be. I was burdening myself with societal expectations, which only left me feeling unworthy.
Ironically, my revelation came unexpectedly. While out for a walk, I listened to a podcast discussing identity and queer life—a topic I identify with as well. The guest was asexual, and her story resonated deeply with me. She expressed a complete lack of sexual attraction, mirroring my own experiences. This prompted me to dive deeper into understanding asexuality.
According to an article on WebMD, “Asexual is the lack of sexual attraction to others, or a low interest in sexual activity.” Some asexual individuals may engage in sex for various reasons, such as satisfying their partner or starting a family. Asexuality exists on a spectrum, as noted in Bell Magazine, ranging from those who feel sexual attraction to those who do not. I find people attractive but feel no physical arousal, and that’s perfectly fine.
I am still navigating my identity, but I feel comfort in knowing I’m not broken. My asexuality doesn’t define my worth; it simply is part of who I am. Being in a long-term, heterosexual relationship complicates matters, especially since I’ve only recently come to terms with my asexuality after being married for 14 years and having two children. Although my husband and I have discussed this extensively, uncertainty looms over how this will affect our relationship. I’m working with a new therapist to better understand my feelings and find confidence in my identity. Together, my husband and I are exploring intimacy beyond sex.
Will this new approach be sustainable? I can’t say for sure. But I can no longer hide my truth. I need to embrace who I am: a woman, a writer, a mother, and a queer individual. A queer ace.
For more insights, check out this related post on home insemination. For those interested in artificial insemination, Make a Mom is a great authority to learn from. Also, for a comprehensive understanding of pregnancy, the March of Dimes offers excellent resources.
Search Queries:
- What does it mean to be asexual?
- Understanding asexuality in relationships
- How to support asexual partners
- Asexuality and intimacy
- Exploring asexuality
In summary, embracing my asexuality has been a journey filled with challenges, but it has also brought me clarity and belonging. I am learning to navigate my identity and relationship without the pressures of conventional expectations, and I am committed to exploring new avenues of intimacy.
Leave a Reply