Lessons From My Year of Celibacy
Spoiler alert: I haven't died from lack of sex (yet).
Last April, I decided to go celibate. I had tried celibacy before — nine long months in 2020 during the pandemic — as a kind of personal detox/rehab from my unhealthy approach to dating, and relationships. That first stint did what it was intended to do at the time—I swore off boys so I could focus on myself—even though I eventually fell back into some old habits (I might get into that more in a separate post).
This second self-imposed period of physical fasting has been motivated by a desire to build a fundamentally different approach to relationships and intimacy. I had spent too much of my dating life practicing 'dissociated' sex and had become too good at compartmentalizing physical affection from emotional connection. My last fling was the final straw; it left me craving something deeper, more connected, more fulfilling.
I couldn’t keep going through the motions of fleeting, mechanical sex with virtual strangers. It became impossible to open myself up in such a vulnerable way to someone I barely had a connection with. What used to be just another hot lay started to feel empty and like a violation of my own boundaries. I realized that type of intimacy shouldn’t be handed out so casually and that I needed to reserve it for a genuine connection worth waiting for.
I promised myself that the next time I got it on with somebody, it would be a deep emotional and spiritual experience; and at the risk of sounding cheesy—and fully leaning into the cheese—I wanted it to be about 'making love' and uniting our souls in a deeply connecting way. While I haven’t found that connection yet—and I suspect that kind of connection doesn’t happen overnight—I’ve learned a lot about myself and, believe it or not, had some fun along the way.
The good news is that I haven’t died from lack of sex, but the lack of touch and affection did get to me. Like a thirsty person walking through a desert, I found myself tempted to lower my standards on multiple occasions. I’ve entertained bad romantic matches and pursued emotionally unavailable people because the need for connection was so strong. I have objectified men at times, craving instant gratification with total strangers. But, in hindsight, even though it is unpleasant at times, this experience is teaching me to sit with the discomfort of my unfulfilled need and to let it pass without having to act on it. It has also pushed me to rely on myself for self-pleasure and to find more creative ways to feel connected physically.
Celibacy is teaching me to enjoy the grey areas of physical affection. It turns out, we were onto something back in our teenage years—there are many flavors of intimacy, and they don’t always have to involve intercourse. With sex off the table, I’ve realized how much I had been missing in my rushed race towards an elusive destination. I have rediscovered the simple yet profound pleasure of cuddling, the infinite sensations of non-sexual touch, the healing power of massages, the spontaneous laughter, the playful banter, the games of seduction, and the art of making out that feels like an unspoken conversation.
As a result, I’m becoming far more discerning and uncompromising about who gets to be physically close to me. This new standard isn’t just a shift in my approach to physical intimacy, but also a reflection of how I now show up for myself in the dating scene. I’m no longer willing nor able to settle for superficial connections or engage with people who don’t align with my deeper values. And the great thing about being celibate while dating is that it filters out those who aren’t a good match, and saves me from wasting precious time on misaligned connections. As someone who’s always “developed feelings through my vagina”, being celibate protects me from forming premature attachments to the wrong people and the potential hurt that comes with them, allowing relationships to develop in a more authentic and organic way.
At the risk of coming across as an uber-conservative prude (a description I don’t identify with at all), I’ve come to believe that the hookup culture I was once caught up in is a scam we’ve been sold that doesn’t benefit anyone, particularly women (and likely men as well). It feels as though we’ve all tacitly accepted a culture that commodifies what I now view as a sacred union between individuals. This culture, deeply rooted in a capitalistic mindset, places a price tag on everything and treats human connections as disposable, leaving us feeling disconnected and profoundly unfulfilled. It reduces something deeply spiritual into yet another transaction. (Of course, this perspective is based on my personal experience, and I understand that others might have different experiences or viewpoints. No slut shaming here.)
Overall, this journey has been challenging and full of ups and downs, but it’s also been a crucial part of my growth—eye-opening and at times almost spiritual. I’m grateful for the insights it’s brought me. While one of my life mottos is to “never say never” and I’m all for embracing the grey areas and staying open to life’s surprises, it’s clear that for now, I’ll continue to prioritize meaningful connection until I meet someone who shares the depth I’m looking for.