Fear says: Something is dangerous.
Anger says: Something isn’t right here.
Shame says: Something is wrong with me.
Maybe that’s what makes it so hard to pin down. Shame doesn’t just criticise what we do. It goes after who we believe we are. During sex, it reaches us somewhere we already feel especially exposed, vulnerable and less in control.
And shame is clever. It likes to disguise itself as something else.
As indifference. As a joke. As perfection. As “I’m just not a very sexual person.” As the instinct to switch the lights off. As an orgasm that absolutely has to happen so nobody notices how far away you feel.
I know this kind of shame
When things became difficult in my family, I learned early on to put my own needs aside. Without quite realising it, I became convinced there was no room for my sexual feelings. That became shame. Later, it became a habit.
From the outside, my sex life didn’t necessarily look like a problem. I had sex. I had orgasms. So everything was fine, wasn’t it?
It wasn’t.
I had learned that sex can work while you lose touch with yourself. Realising that has shaped both my personal life and my work.
Shame doesn’t disappear because we prove how open, sexy or experienced we are. Sometimes that openness becomes another costume. Underneath, the old question is still there: What happens if someone really sees me?
Shame tries to keep us connected
In a widely shared video, adults and children were asked what they would change about their bodies. The adults mostly named things they saw as flaws. The children were more interested in superpowers: a mermaid’s tail, cheetah legs or the ability to teleport. It wasn’t a scientific study. But it offers a lovely glimpse of how we learn, so early, to look at our bodies through other people’s eyes. Read about the video in TIME
We aren’t born believing our stomach is wrong, our desire is too much or our vulva isn’t beautiful enough. We learn those judgements.
Through looks and remarks. Through families where sex was only ever whispered about. Through religion, school, porn, advertising and past relationships. Through experiences where someone laughed at a desire or ignored a boundary.
Shame then tries to make sure we still belong. If I fit in, I won’t be rejected. If I hide my body, nobody can judge it. If I don’t want anything, nobody can make fun of what I want.
That doesn’t make shame pleasant. But it helps explain why a positive affirmation rarely sends it packing. As far as shame is concerned, it’s protecting us.
When you watch yourself having sex
Many women aren’t just in bed with another person. Part of them is also standing outside the experience, watching.
How do I look? Is my stomach flat enough? Is this taking too long? Am I making the right sounds? Are they enjoying themselves?
The more that inner camera keeps rolling, the harder it becomes to notice subtle sensations. Part of you is busy, the whole time, managing how your body looks and what it does.
That doesn’t mean every insecurity automatically gets in the way of pleasure. Shame and desire can even be there at the same time. Human beings are more complicated than a tidy story of cause and effect. I certainly am.
But if part of you is constantly checking how you come across, there’s less attention left for how you feel. Makes sense, doesn’t it?
Shame can change through connection
Shame says: Hide.
That’s why showing something true about yourself, and finding you aren’t judged for it, can matter so much.
It doesn’t have to be a huge confession. Perhaps you tell your partner you’re feeling unsure. Perhaps you put a desire into words for the first time. Perhaps, in coaching, you notice that a sentence sounds less powerful once you say it out loud than it did in your head. And when you aren’t put down, there’s room to be curious together about what happens next.
Change rarely comes from a heroic declaration that “from today, I’ll be shameless.” It happens in those small moments of connection. I show you something. I want to go slowly. Nobody laughs at me. We get creative together. I can set a boundary, and we’re still here.
Sometimes you feel more shame at first, because you’re finally noticing it. That can happen too. Being seen doesn’t immediately feel like freedom.
Shameless doesn’t mean without boundaries
I like the word shameless. To me, it doesn’t mean having to show everything, try everything or always say yes.
It can mean no longer treating your body as something to apologise for. Taking a desire seriously. Saying no. Laughing about something that used to feel unbearable to mention (especially that!). Or letting sex rest for a while without deciding you must be broken.
Maybe my shame will never disappear completely. It doesn’t have to.
What matters is whether it still gets to decide how small we make ourselves and how much life we allow ourselves to have.
Feeling ashamed doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with us. But I want you to know this: You can feel shame and still be so wonderfully alive that your stomach hurts from laughing. That’s what I wish for you.
If shame makes it hard to say what you want, you might like to read Talking About Sex: Finding the Words for What You Want.
If you’d like to explore shame around sex in a space where there’s room for respect and humour, you can find out more about my sex coaching for women in Munich and online. You can write to me privately.
Big Love & Pleasure from the Allgäu,
Mia