Desire Felt Unsafe, So I Faked It

There are things I said “yes” to with a smile,
even when my body whispered no.
Moments I pretended to feel something—
pleasure, passion, presence—
not because I wanted to lie,
but because I didn’t know how to be honest
without feeling like I’d lose everything.

Desire felt unsafe.
So I did what so many of us learn to do:
I performed.

When Desire Becomes a Performance, Not a Feeling

Somewhere along the way, desire became something
I gave away, not something I inhabited.
It wasn’t a sensation in my chest or belly anymore—
it was a costume.
A role to step into.
A script to follow.

They wanted me to want.
So I gave them that.
Not because I felt empowered,
but because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t.

Afraid they’d think I was broken.
Afraid they’d stop loving me.
Afraid they’d find someone “better.”
Afraid they’d hurt me—emotionally, physically, or silently.

It wasn’t always loud fear.
Sometimes it was subtle.
A moment of flinching that I brushed off.
A hollow in my stomach I ignored.
A pressure to keep the mood going,
even if I was fading inside.

The Safety We Trade for Approval

It’s terrifying to realize how many of us have been trained
to prioritize someone else’s comfort
over our own safety.
To value being wanted
more than being well.
To fake confidence, pleasure, and enthusiasm
because the alternative—discomfort, disappointment, disconnection—felt worse.

So we smile.
We moan.
We say yes again.
We disconnect from the very body we’re supposed to feel from.

We say “I’m fine.”
Even when we’re not.

Faking It Isn’t Just in the Bedroom

It’s in the conversation where we laugh at what we hate.
It’s in the dress we wear even when we feel exposed.
It’s in the texts we send when we’d rather be left alone.
It’s in the way we touch when we feel nothing at all.

We don’t just fake orgasms.
We fake interest.
We fake ease.
We fake being okay.

Because desire isn’t safe in a world
that punishes female discomfort
and rewards female compliance.

The Disconnect That Follows

After enough times pretending,
you start to forget what real desire even feels like.
You lose the map back to yourself.
You confuse approval with arousal.
You confuse stillness with consent.
You confuse being chosen with being loved.

And afterward—alone in the quiet—
you sit with a body that feels foreign,
a heart that feels numb,
and a question that keeps circling:

“Why didn’t I stop it?”

The answer isn’t weakness.
It’s protection.
Your body did what it needed to survive.
You faked it to stay safe.
To stay chosen.
To stay untouched by something worse.

And even that is an act of resilience—
though it shouldn't have to be.

Relearning Safety Inside the Body

Healing starts when you stop asking,
“What’s wrong with me?”
and start asking,
“What taught me that my no wasn’t allowed?”

It starts with recognizing the brilliance of your nervous system—
how it protected you through freeze, fawn, or shut down.

It continues with slowness.
Gentleness.
A willingness to feel again.
To say no.
To not perform.
To let the moment be awkward.
To ask, “Do I want this?” and wait for an honest answer.

It grows with people who honor your pauses,
who don’t require your pretending,
who celebrate your honesty over your obedience.

Desire Doesn’t Have to Be Dangerous

Desire, in its true form, is not threatening.
It’s not something we owe.
It’s not something we perform to be worthy.
It’s a spark from within—
not something extracted from us under pressure.

True desire is born from safety.
From slowness.
From choice.
From presence.

It doesn’t roar on command.
It whispers when you feel held.

You Are Allowed to Want on Your Own Terms

You are allowed to say no.
To want slowly.
To not want at all.
To change your mind.
To speak up halfway through.
To stop faking it.
To be messy, uncertain, silent, unready.

You are allowed to feel nothing—
and still deserve everything.

Because your worth is not tied to your performance.
Your beauty is not measured by your desirability.
And your body was never meant to be a stage.

It was meant to be home.

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