Welcome to another chapter of my journey in overcoming sexual shame. If you’re new here, you’re jumping into the middle of my story—an honest and ongoing exploration of shedding the shame that’s been tied to my sexuality for far too long. Each post adds another layer to this process as I dig into the beliefs and experiences that have held me back. Whether you’ve been following along from the start or are just now joining, this is a space where we can reflect, grow, and break free together.
As I finished my teenage years and moved through adulthood, I asked myself the same questions over and over, never quite landing on solid answers. What happened to me? What did I do? Why do I feel obsessed with this one story? How come I feel so awful? Overcoming. sexual shame wasn’t even on my radar.
For some reason, I felt I needed validation from outside myself to make my experience real and worthy of the space it took up in my head. Yet at the same time, I refused to discuss the experience with anyone beyond using it as material for creative writing exercises. Through that type of writing, I found elements of healing – though the struggle to name my trauma continues to haunt my late-night thoughts.
Why didn’t I answer my dad differently when he confronted me? Oh wait, I know. Because it wasn’t a question, not a safe question at least. It was an accusation. And at the time, I couldn’t wrap my head around what happened at all.
Had someone taken the time to build just a moment of intimacy with me, asking just a few simple questions, perhaps I wouldn’t have spent the next 15 years experiencing the hatred I felt for myself.
You see, even though God forgives, people don’t forget. And while Christians are supposed to forgive us for our sins, I didn’t feel forgiven. Not by my dad, or my little brother. I’m not even sure I experienced forgiveness from my mom other than the passage of time.
I wasn’t a good Christian girl anymore, was I?
And the thing is, everyone knew it.
I didn’t want to tell my parents that I had sex, but somehow, I felt it was the right thing to do. Even as a young person, I didn’t like secrets. So, when my youth pastor (using the term loosely here) urged me to tell my parents, I easily agreed. That doesn’t mean I felt excited about the conversation. Little did I know that I was setting myself up for overcoming sexual shame one day down the road.
Looking back, I realize how unfair I was to my little brother. My trauma occurred the same morning our youth group left for our mission trip. I spent a few hours that day hanging out with my work friends until I needed to leave for my trip with my church friends.
Apparently, a 10-day mission trip across the continent and doing God’s work was enough to change my heart and get me back on track with God. I had to confess my sins as part of that process.
By the end of the day, I was a mature kid who played games trying to tell my parents. I didn’t handle it well at all.
You know how you have a secret that’s bad but delicious? You know you shouldn’t tell anyone, so instead, you salaciously dance around the secret, playing a kind of cat-and-mouse game. That’s how this secret felt to me. It seemed like something too big for me to take seriously. I knew I had broken the cardinal rule and had no idea how my parents would handle it.
I truly didn’t want to tell them. But at the same time, I wanted to feel free from the pressure of my secret. I struggled to balance this act. In fact, I pretty much tortured my little brother. He knew, after all. He was there when I first disclosed the worst thing a Christian girl could do. And I didn’t even call it assault. I told everyone I liked it and that it was all my choice. Neither of those statements was true, of course. But again, I didn’t understand consent beyond the fact that I didn’t say “No,” so I thought it must have been consensual.
“Mom, I have a secret to tell you!” We were in the basement where the second TV was, along with the foosball table and endless games, puzzles, and toys. She was either finishing up cleaning the guest room or working in her craft room down there. Jerry was there too. He and I were goofing off, sort of getting along but not really. We felt we had a new bond from our recent trip, I think, though it wouldn’t be strong enough to withstand the next few minutes.
“What is it?” my mom asked.
“I’m not going to tell you yet,” I teased in reply.
Jerry had been urging me to tell my parents that I had sex since we arrived home a few days ago. Of course, it weighed on him. I was his big sister, and he looked up to me, I think, until this disclosure at least.
“Jessica, just tell her,” Jerry said, irritated.
My mom looked at us both and realized he knew the secret.
“Well, somebody tell me!” my mom said.
I laughed and pranced around the room, preparing to make my escape. I was having too much fun with this game, plus I had no idea how to start a conversation like this anyway.
Jerry, fed up with me and my games, blurted it out. “She had sex!” he yelled.
Everything in the room stopped. I didn’t say anything; I just nodded my head when she looked at me.
“Oh, you stupid girl!” my mom yelled. “You stupid, stupid girl!” She turned and ran upstairs, crying and shouting about her “stupid girl.”
Jerry and I stood alone in the basement, in silence.
I think I might have hated him in that moment. Perhaps he hated me too. Either way, none of it was fair. It wasn’t fair that I disclosed a significant trauma in a way that hurt someone else, someone I cared a lot about. It wasn’t fair that he felt the burden of my secret and then hurt me to lift that burden. I wonder if that burden actually lifted after all that. I’ve never thought to ask.
This story of overcoming sexual shame is one part of a book I wrote called Freedom Between the Sheets. As I edit my first draft of all 11 chapters, I am publishing the stories for free right here. I hope to take these stories and publish them one day and for build a course. Your feed back is important me. Please comment below.
Start at the beginning of Freedom Between The Sheets here.
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