The room full of flowers and pain

I used to think that working with sexuality would be fun, joyful, exciting — a constant pleasure ride. I imagined myself as that kind of Instagram coach — encouraging women to explore self-pleasure, guiding men in wild, exotic places like Bali. Super empowered. Super magnetic. Seen. Heard. Followed.

And sure… sometimes it is like that.

 One of my teachers once said to me:

 “You’ll work with people around their relationships and sexuality, and this is one of the most beautiful things you can do — because there is an insurmountable amount of pain that humans carry in these areas.”

I believed her. But I didn't really understand it..

Not until I sat across from a client, doing my best to hold my tears. 

Not until I cried with them. 

Not until I heard stories that cracked my heart wide open.

Not until I realized that the same energy that brought me so much joy… had been, for many, a source of shame, silence, and deep confusion.

Some human experiences are nearly impossible to hold with grace. And yet… that’s where the real work begins. That’s where love begins.

Life has a way of stripping away illusions — and inviting us into deeper service. It’s not always easy. But it’s devastatingly beautiful.

They had booked a couples retreat. We’d already met for a few sessions, and the day before, I had seen them separately. I worked with him around naming his desires. I supported her in understanding that her partner has needs too.

Both sessions flowed easily. Each of them walked away with fresh insights, even a sense of relief. But something still felt… unspoken.

I went back to their intake forms — everything matched what they'd shared.

No red flags.

Nothing that stood out.

And yet… I couldn’t shake the feeling that something important was hiding just beneath the surface. A subtle uneasiness began to creep in.

Their couples session was next. The team had set up the space beautifully — flowers and candles everywhere, my favorite playlist playing softly in the background.

Ocean view in front of us. 

Food to taste. 

Scents to explore. 

Textures to awaken the skin. 

It was perfect — sensual, elegant, inviting.

I was ready to guide them into an erotic five-senses experience. But the energy had shifted. As I invited them to sit on the bed, something felt off. Most couples sit close together… or at least face each other. But these two moved to opposite corners.

She sat cross-legged, arms wrapped tightly around herself. He stared down at the floor, his shoulders slumped.

The distance between them wasn’t just physical. It was dense. Heavy. Like a fog of something unspoken and painful hanging in the room.

My heart started to pound. This isn’t how these sessions usually begin. And I knew — we weren’t about to guide a sexy experience. We were about to walk into something else entirely.

So I asked, gently, “Is there anything you didn’t share with me in your session that you want me to know?”

He looked at her.

She bit her lip.

We all remained in silence until she spoke softly, barely above a whisper: “I was sexually abused when I was a child. I blocked it from my memory for many years. It resurfaced almost 15 years ago, and I went to therapy to work through my trauma. During that process, I couldn’t even tolerate him touching me, even slightly. Obviously, sex was completely out of the picture. I finished my process, but somehow, we haven’t been able to reconnect physically again. We just can’t, and I don’t think we’re ready for this.”

She said this as they both looked around the beautiful room we had prepared for them. I could feel the sadness rise between them. Not just for the 15 years of sexless silence, but for something deeper — the ache of two people who once loved each other with their bodies, now afraid they might never ever find their way back.

There was something so fragile in that moment. The way her voice cracked as she said, “I don’t think we’re ready for this.” 

The way his shoulders curved inward, like he was trying to disappear inside himself.

It wasn’t just that they hadn’t touched in years — it was that they believed the moment had passed. That the door to intimacy had closed and would never open again.

They weren’t angry. They weren’t blaming. They were just… tired. Tired of trying. Tired of pretending it didn’t matter. Tired of hoping for something they no longer knew how to ask for.

And still, underneath all that sadness, I felt their longing, their desire and the deep love that had kept them together all these years. It touched me deeply.

The feeling of desiring something and just not knowing how to make it possible is one of the most painful human wounds. But what touched me the most was their courage, their willingness.  

Can you imagine? To still show up in a room full of flowers and scents and beauty, even when you’re full of doubt and fear. That was so brave. And that bravery was contagious.

“It’s actually very normal,” I reassured them, “for a woman healing from abuse to feel unable — or unwilling — to have sex. And once intimacy disappears, it’s not easy to find the way back. The fear of reliving trauma is very real. And for your partner… he probably had no idea how to support you through that. It must’ve been terrifying, frustrating, confusing — even painful — for BOTH of you.”

He looked up, just slightly. His back uncurled a little, and his eyes softened. Whatever he had felt, I had just put words to it. And maybe, no one ever had. Not even him.

“Who taught you how to deal with sexual trauma in marriage?” I asked gently. “Where did you learn how to navigate something like this?”

They both sat in silence. Not defensive, not ashamed — just quiet. The kind of silence that comes when you realize you simply never had the tools.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. They hadn’t failed. Like most people, they were just never taught how to move through something this tender, this human.

We tend to hide this stories so much, we live them in so much secrecy that it is really hard to find empathy and support.

When that recognition lands, something shifts.

The shame begins to crawl out the door.

And in its place, a new reality enters: we can learn. We can do this differently. We are not alone. We are not the only ones that have gone through this. Our experience is normal.

“You didn’t have the tools,” I said softly. “But… if you’re open, I’d love to guide you through some really gentle practices. Just small steps. Something to help you begin feeling safe with each other again.”

His face changed — a flicker of hope, quiet but real. Please, let’s try, his expression said.

She nodded shyly.

And in that moment, it felt like the whole room exhaled. There was still something alive here. Still a doorway. Still a chance. And they deserved to walk through it.

We did some gentle breathwork to calm their nervous system. A little bit of eye gazing. They said out loud what they were grateful for, asked for forgiveness, and expressed their love. It was soft and real — something in the room started to melt.

Then I introduced some very gentle BDSM tools, the kind that work beautifully in cases like this. They only explored each other’s hands with touch. She practiced saying what she wanted, and how she wanted it. Most importantly, she started using a safe word.

That changed everything. She began to feel in control. He could relax, knowing he wouldn’t accidentally trigger her.

They were smiling now.

Even laughing a little.

The weight they’d walked in with had started to lift, and I felt the space open for something deeper.

I could feel that they were both ready.

“I want to share something with you,” I said, “something we often don’t talk about.”

They both looked at me, listening.

“When a woman has gone through abuse recovery, the focus is usually — rightfully — on her healing. But often, we forget to look at what happens to the man in the relationship, too. Especially when there’s been no intimacy for a long time.”

He looked down again. I could already see it landing.

“When a man doesn’t have sex with his partner for years, he starts to feel unseen, unloved, undesired. That wound rarely gets named. And people assume it’s just about sex, or ego — but that’s not the full story.”

I paused for a moment and continued gently.

"For many men, sex is more than physical pleasure — it’s a way to open their hearts, to feel love, and to connect deeply. When intimacy fades, their hearts slowly begin to close. A quiet pain settles in. They start to suppress their emotions, not knowing how to express them or where to place them. It’s only through the loving, conscious touch of their partner that their heart begins to soften again — that they reconnect with their feelings. This is why sex can be incredibly powerful for men. It’s not just physical. It’s emotional. It’s spiritual. It’s a real need."

His jaw tightened, and he brought a hand to his chest. I could see the tears gathering — not in his eyes, but in his throat. Held there. Stuck. It was painful to witness. 

That truth had hit him deeply. It had lived inside him for fifteen years — never acknowledged, never named — but always felt. Felt and numbed. But now, it had nowhere else to go. It needed to be seen — and more importantly, it was ready to be met with love and compassion.

Her face changed. She brought her hand to her mouth — the way someone does when something clicks inside. I’ve hurt you… and I didn’t even realize…and I'm so sorry.

With that new awareness in the room, I said softly,

“Would you be open to healing your husband’s heart and body with your touch?”

And slowly, with so much care, softness and devotion, she reached for his face.

He had been waiting for this moment for so long.

Not just her touch — but her presence.

To be seen.

To be felt.

To be met in his hurt, not as a problem to fix, but as a man who had been silently carrying so much.

It was a moment charged with truth. So much pain and so much love. Longing and reconciliation.

 In that instant, they were no longer lost in the past — they were finding their way back to each other. Back to the safe space that only exists when two people meet in real, raw intimacy.  Meeting each other exactly as they are, without expectations, without trying to fix — just choosing to be there, together.

It was too beautiful not to notice. I could not hold my emotions. I was crying with them. Feeling with them.

I quietly stepped out of the room to give them space. My heart was full. I felt deeply honored to have witnessed such a raw, human, and profoundly beautiful moment.

We tend to forget that every expression, every action — no matter how painful or confusing — is either an act of love or a call for love.

Even in the most devastating circumstances — like the heartbreak of not knowing how to navigate sexual trauma in a relationship — there is space for love. For compassion. For understanding. For reconnection. And when we allow this to happen, we reach a new level of humanity, all of us together. We don't need to do this human experience on our own.  When we share, we also crack open something inside those who witness us. True love always wins.