I recently came across a journal entry I wrote back in 2021. It was raw, unfiltered, and painfully honest. I won’t share it all, but here are a few lines to give you a glimpse of where I was at the time:
“In the past, all sex was was me being raped, day after day for two years. Sex left me feeling empty. Hollow. Like a shell of who I used to be. Like sex is something that is used to make a woman feel like shit. Worthless. Only there to satisfy a man’s burning desire. That’s all she’s good for. Just thinking about sex makes me feel icky and squirmy inside. I don’t want it. I don’t want to be left feeling hollow.”
Backstory
In 2012, I finally left my abusive boyfriend. I thought I was leaving the pain behind, too. My grand plan was to move on, forget it ever happened, and never talk about it again. Time heals all wounds, right?
Well… not exactly.
In 2013, I met and married Brent, my now-and-forever husband. I fell hard and fast, and we were married within six months of meeting. I was in love. I was safe. I had a good man. So naturally, I assumed our happily ever after had officially begun.
But by 2016, I was wondering what went wrong.
It felt like I had gotten the “Past Baggage Destroying Relationship” package instead of the “Happily Ever After” one. I wanted a refund. I wanted an exchange. But most of all, I just wanted to know why things weren’t working even though we were both good people.
The truth? My plan to push everything down and pretend it hadn’t happened… blew up in my face.
One pivotal moment came at a marriage conference. After a day of sessions focused on reigniting intimacy, the speakers gave some pretty pointed homework: go back to your hotel room and get playful. Touch. Connect. Be intimate.
As Brent and I walked to the car, I broke down in tears.
All of my safety nets were gone—no kids around, a private room, and pressure to “perform.” I turned to my husband and sobbed, “I’m sorry. I just can’t have sex tonight. I just can’t do it.”
What I didn’t fully realize then was that my past relationship with Theo (a pseudonym) had been deeply emotionally and sexually abusive. There was no physical violence, which is partly why it took me so long to recognize it as abuse at all.
With Theo, sex was a tool. A weapon. A way to control, manipulate, and belittle.
I learned early on that if I didn’t initiate sex by bedtime, I would pay for it. Not with bruises, but with silence, coldness, or emotional punishment. He’d turn away from me in bed, ignore me, text other girls, and make sure I knew how much I’d disappointed him. The only way to earn back his attention was to beg for sex—literally.
And I did. Because anything was better than the way it felt when he was mad at me.
The Butt Crack Chip Story
Yes, it’s as awful as it sounds.
One night, he put a potato chip between his bare butt cheeks and told me to get it out with my mouth and eat it. I laughed, thinking it was a joke. When I refused, he got serious—and angry. “If you don’t do it, no sex for a week.”
I told him fine—I wouldn’t do it.
He stormed off, furious. And I immediately panicked.
“You idiot!” I thought. “You should’ve just eaten the chip. It wasn’t a big deal. Now you’ve ruined the night!”
Soon I was crying—not because of the chip, but because of the overwhelming fear and shame. Because I knew he couldn’t be bothered with my emotions, I composed myself before walking into the TV room where we both knew what came next: me kneeling beside the couch, begging, apologizing, telling him how stupid I was. When he finally turned toward me, I knew it meant he was ready for me to initiate sex. Then afterward, thank him. For “forgiving” me.
The disgust you’re feeling right now? That’s appropriate. That’s what I felt too. But at that time in my life, making sure he wasn’t mad at me mattered more than my self-respect.
I say it all the time, and I’ll say it again: Abusive people are emotionally immature toddlers in adult bodies. They don’t know how to manage their own disappointment or feelings, so they demand that everyone around them do it for them. And if you don’t, they are going to punish you for it.
The Turning Point
After the breakdown in the parking lot, I finally admitted that maybe I needed help. Therapy became part of my life in 2017 and continued through 2021. I worked with multiple therapists, tried different modalities, and slowly began to heal. By 2021, I had made a lot of progress—except when it came to sex.
That piece still felt broken.
I still felt like the wife who needed to be “fixed.” I believed that if our sex life were better, our marriage would be perfect. I carried the weight of our intimacy issues like it was mine alone to bear.
But even with all that therapy, things weren’t changing. One therapist even told me I had likely healed as much as I could from the sexual trauma. But inside, I knew I hadn’t.
I still hated sex. I still felt broken. I still believed I was doing something wrong.
But I refused to let go of hope. Deep down, I refused to believe this was the best it could get. I couldn’t accept that this wound was beyond healing.
And I am so grateful I didn’t.
Belonging to Myself
David Schnarch once said, “We want more to belong to ourselves than we want to be sexual.” I am living proof of that.
If shutting down my sexuality was what I needed to feel like I belonged to myself again, then that’s exactly what I did. It wasn’t about Brent. It wasn’t about how good or patient or supportive he was (and he was all of those things). It was about me believing that sex = disconnection from myself. And I wasn’t willing to go back to that.
I also believed things like:
•“If my husband hugs me from behind, he must just want sex.”
•“If he flirts with me, I have to shut it down or else I’ll either feel obligated or have to reject him and hurt his feelings.”
My internal world was shaped by fear, guilt, and false beliefs about what sex meant.
And I was still trying to heal for him.
That doesn’t work.
Healing from obligation will never lead to genuine desire. You can’t guilt yourself into wanting sex. You can’t feel aroused when you’re caretaking someone else’s emotions.
The Shift
Something changed in 2023. And in 2024, it changed in a big way.
I actually began to enjoy sex.
I started initiating. I felt close. I felt connected. I felt desired—and not in a way that made me feel like an object, but in a way that made me feel treasured.
On paper, nothing changed.
But for the first time, I was told that by a coach that I didn’t have to have sex. I could choose not to. I could decide to never have sex again if I wanted. And that realization gave me back something that had been taken from me for years:
Choice.
Sex wasn’t something I owed to anyone. Not even my husband. My sexuality belonged to me.
Shocking. Earth shattering.
Maybe not for everyone, but it truly was for me.
Once I didn’t feel forced, once I felt true agency, I was finally free to choose it. Not because it was the “right thing” or what a “good wife” should do—but because I wanted to want sex with my husband.
I wanted to feel connected. I wanted to experience pleasure. I wanted to express love through physical intimacy. I remembered what it felt like when we were first married, and I wanted that again—not out of obligation, but out of desire.
Now, don’t get me wrong—it’s not like I had some magical awakening and suddenly couldn’t keep my hands off my husband. Brent and I both wish it were that easy.
There was still anxiety. There were still triggers. But I started pushing myself just enough out of my comfort zone—not so much that I shut down, but enough that I grew. And that, my friend, is where transformation happens.
Eventually, it worked. It actually worked. The breakthrough I had been hoping and praying for over eight long years—finally arrived. And I couldn’t be more grateful to the version of Robyn who kept showing up, kept trying, kept struggling forward.
It’s been a wild ride. And I know it will continue to be. But I’m no longer living in fear—because I now have so much confidence in my ability to struggle AND be overwhelmingly happy with my life at the same time.
If that doesn’t feel possible to you right now, I get it. Keep showing up for yourself and you’ll get there too.
It’s worth the fight, I promise ❤️
With Love,
Robyn | My Name is Courage
P.S. If my story resonated—if you’re feeling stuck, broken, or like you’ll never enjoy intimacy again—I want you to know: it is possible to heal. You’re not alone, and you’re not beyond repair.
That’s exactly why I created my women’s retreat happening June 27–28 in Provo, Utah—to guide you through the same deep inner work that finally helped me reclaim my body, my voice, and my sexuality.
At this retreat, we’ll dive into the exact tools and shifts that helped me go from dreading intimacy to actually enjoying it again. This isn’t surface-level fluff. It’s digging into the beliefs and patterns that are keeping you safe. . .and stuck.
The investment for this two-day retreat is $197, and includes all food, materials, and a supportive, intimate setting to continue your healing journey.
Only 4 spots left. If this is calling to you, now’s the time to say yes.
More Details and Registration Here
