Reclaiming the Erotic Self After Sexual Trauma
Sexual trauma doesn’t just harm the body; it fractures your connection to yourself. It steals not only your sense of safety but also the quiet, tender parts of you that know how to trust—your instincts, your pleasure, your desires. It teaches the body to survive by numbing, shrinking, disappearing. In its wake, you’re left with a haunting question: Can I ever truly belong to myself again?
The answer is yes, but not in the way the world might tell you. Healing isn’t about returning to who you were before trauma; it’s about forging something new. It’s about reclaiming the parts of you that trauma tried to bury—your aliveness, your erotic self, and your right to pleasure.
The erotic self is not merely sexual. It’s the pulse of vitality that courses through you when you’re present with your body. It’s the tingle of sunlight on your skin, the flutter of excitement at the edge of something unknown, the quiet satisfaction of doing something purely for yourself. It’s the part of you that knows desire—not for anyone else’s gaze or approval, but for your own life.
And yet, we live in a world that tells women their pleasure is secondary or shameful. That our bodies are commodities to be used, fixed, or hidden. Trauma doesn’t create these messages; it amplifies them. The act of reclaiming your erotic self, then, is not just a personal victory—it’s a rebellion. It says, I am more than what was done to me. My body is mine.
Reclamation doesn’t happen all at once, nor should it. It begins in the smallest of moments, with acts so subtle they almost go unnoticed: the warmth of a cup of tea in your hands, the way your breath softens when you lie down, the ache of your feet meeting solid ground. These aren’t just sensations; they’re invitations. Your body is asking you to come home—not as a polished version of yourself but as you are, with all your sharp edges and soft places.
The lie of trauma is that your body belongs to what happened to it. But here’s the truth: the erotic self isn’t erased by trauma; it waits, untouched, beneath the wreckage. It doesn’t demand performance or perfection. It doesn’t ask you to prove your worth. It asks you to feel. To notice. To let yourself want something again.
This is not easy work. The world does not make it easy to be a woman in full possession of her body, let alone her desire. But that’s exactly why it matters. Reclaiming your erotic self is a radical act. It dismantles the idea that pleasure is a privilege instead of a right. It challenges the narrative that your body is only valuable if it’s safe, pretty, or untouched. And it insists on your humanity in a world that often tries to strip it away.
Your body is more than a site of harm. It is a home for joy, for pleasure, for the messy, vibrant fullness of being alive. Reclaiming the erotic self isn’t just about feeling good; it’s about reminding yourself that you are allowed to feel at all. And in this reclamation lies the greatest victory: not just surviving, but living as the most unapologetically alive version of yourself.