Written by Leelee Benson
Before now, celibacy was never an option. The thought of abstinence never crossed my mind—not even as an afterthought. Like an unconscious addict, desirability was my drug, seduction my tool, and sex the endgame. Like the woman at the well, I was thirsty—my drums full, yet still unsatisfied. Every penetration left a deeper hole. Every hickey became a cloud of shame. My soul craved a satisfaction that could not be found in the fleeting arms of men.
Child sexual abuse (CSA) is one of the most prominent global public health issues, according to the World Health Organisation. It involves acts that coerce or manipulate children into engaging in sexual activities. These include exposure to pornography, public masturbation, posing erotically for photos or videos, sexual touching or caressing, and engaging in genital, anal, or oral sex.
According to UNICEF, approximately 370 million girls and women worldwide—or 1 in 8—experienced rape or sexual assault before the age of 18. This early exposure often results in abuse and molestation. Importantly, CSA is not limited to penetration. It includes inappropriate touching, vulgar communication, and exposure to pornographic material.
Experts agree that sex education should begin early and under supervision so that children can understand boundaries and develop healthy sexual identities, as they are highly impressionable. But when exposure happens through abuse or exploitation, it creates dysfunction—cognitive, emotional, and spiritual. This has detrimental impacts on the victims’ psychological well-being, including short-term consequences, i.e., isolation, bullying, stress, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Long-term effects encompass PTSD in later life, disrupted intimate relationships, social and emotional health concerns, revictimisation, and more.
From early on, young girls are told that their worth is tied to marriage or to their desirability in the eyes of men. For girls who are introduced to sex through traumatic, unchosen means, this narrative holds a far more dangerous weight.
Unwanted exposure to sex tinted my view of desire. I clung to it as a form of validation. How I felt in a dress depended on how much seduction I could muster, how many compliments I received about my waist-to-hip ratio, and how many men wanted me—not for who I was, but just to want me. Like a mouse chasing cheese, I chased the need to be desired. I stood for hours in the mirror—measuring, plucking, wishing, wanting—unable to see myself beyond the version of me that others wanted. Unaware that this dissatisfaction wasn’t ingrained in me by nature or by my loving parents, but by the hands that taught me I was only good for being touched.
The first time I told a man to stop touching me, I watched his eyes go blank. He recoiled, taking with him all the love he had professed only minutes before. In that moment, my belief was confirmed: that I was only lovable when I gave. But then something clicked.
I had an epiphany. I saw that my idea of romantic love was transactional, twisted, and dependent on how much of myself I was willing to give away. Questions sat in my chest. Did I enjoy giving? Would I still be loved if I stopped? Did I like this man, or just that he desired me?
The butterflies in my stomach mixed with acid and became worms. And in that moment, I realised something painful and true. I had never really said no.
On my way to class in early 2017, 17 years old and in the university, an average-looking man walked up to me and said I looked “fuckable”. And I laughed. Two years later, on a random Tuesday afternoon, I realised it wasn’t a joke. I shouldn’t have laughed.
Because beyond the hands that had already trespassed on my body, society had confirmed it: the summary of my worth lay in the organ between my legs. I had been told it was power, currency—a penny for love, affection, and every other good thing. So yes, being called “fuckable” felt like a win. Because how powerful is a woman if a man doesn’t want her?
I stayed five months without the chase. I avoided gazes and turned down touches. I fed myself with the love of my Maker, believing I could be loved without giving and that I was loved.
Then I met him. He told me I was too hot to avoid sex. That my body was sculpted to be bent. And once again, I fell into the rhythm of desire and seduction. I put on my boots, discarded the love I knew, and clung to this man with the pulchritudinous smile. He whispered that I was the epitome of seduction. I drank that affection with smiles, soaked in that validation in gulps. I felt like a woman again.
But after I let him in, he turned his back. His hands slipped away from the waist he once swore by, unconcerned with how I felt. I turned my back to him and cried out to the only One whose love for me wasn’t measured by how my ass giggled or how my breasts stood without support.
According to the Cambridge Dictionary, celibacy is defined as “the state of not having sex, especially as a result of a religious vow”. However, the reasons behind choosing celibacy can vary greatly from person to person. For me, it did not stem from a religious conviction but rather from a place of dissatisfaction and existential ennui, feelings that arose after engaging intimately with people with whom I shared no real connection.
The decision to abstain didn’t come with fireworks or clarity. I simply stopped giving. At first, it was just about avoiding sex. But over time, it became about rediscovery. Finding “me” who wasn’t defined by performance in the bedroom, societal expectations and trauma. It became about healing the inner child, confronting the pain, and breaking the soul ties forged in secrecy. Celibacy turned from deprivation to transformation. A spiritual maintenance of the soul, dismantling the false personalities I had built around sex, one layer at a time.
This undoing—this gentle unravelling of the habits and wounds that once defined me—would not have been possible without the knowledge of a love that exceeds transaction. In a world where love is deeply conditional, I encountered a love that keeps giving, even when my hands are empty.
This love did not demand that I earn it. It did not withdraw when I faltered or failed to show up when I had nothing to offer. Instead, it remained—faithfully, patiently. It filled the silence when I had no words, held me together when I came undone, and reminded me that I am more than my past, more than my pain, more than the things I once did to feel less alone. It redefined my understanding of intimacy, self-worth, and grace. In it I began to heal, to rest, and to remember who I was before I believed I had to earn everything.
I know I am loved. That truth is deeply rooted in me now. But knowing I am loved didn’t uproot every seed that had been planted. Sometimes, the need to be held by a man would arrive uninvited, as early as 8 a.m. on a Monday morning. As golden streaks of sunlight spilt through my window, so did a rambunctious hormone.
There were days I gave in. Days I fought with everything in me—wrestling with spirit and flesh, with memory and hope. But victory didn’t come through resistance alone. It came through surrender. Not the kind that is weak or passive, but the kind that opens its mouth and speaks honestly to its Maker.
I told Him how my body reacted to a certain man’s hug—how it wasn’t just my skin that remembered, but my soul. I told Him about the flashbacks that visited me on Sundays; I told Him how my body whispered feelings I couldn’t always control. And I watched as He carried those burdens like He once carried the cross. Not with shame, not with anger, but with compassion and understanding.
Celibacy did not just give me peace; it became a lifeline between sanity and insanity, a source of hope that, despite all the hands that had once left scars on my body, I was worth more than what I could give.
