The Park: An analogy for returning to sex after trauma
For those who have experienced sexual trauma—or any experience that has left you feeling unsafe, unsure, or disconnected from your body during sex—the idea of being physically intimate again can feel overwhelming, complicated, or even unthinkable.
Sometimes, when we find ourselves struggling to re-enter this space, it can be difficult to translate what we’re going through to others—or even make sense of it ourselves.
So, let’s use an analogy: imagine that having sex is like going to the park.
A park, in and of itself, isn’t inherently good or bad—it’s simply a place people go. For some, it holds fond memories. It’s somewhere they’ve felt safe, connected, and joyful. They go when they want to, and feel no obligation to stay.
For others, the park may feel a bit elusive or built up. It’s a place they’ve heard about, but aren’t quite sure what to make of. There may be pressure or expectation to feel a certain way there, and their own experience may feel different, or even “wrong” by comparison.
And then there are those who have been to the park when something bad has happened. Maybe they once enjoyed it, or maybe it was their first time—but at some point, they were there and didn’t feel safe.
Now, the same walking path they once loved, or the place they imagined sharing something meaningful, can bring up all sorts of difficult feelings.
Often, people feel pressure to return to the park—to enjoy it, or to want it—and may feel guilty for holding others back from spending time there.
It can be hard to stand with someone you trust, looking at a place that seems beautiful, and still feel like it isn’t safe to enter. It can also be hard to be that safe person—holding your partner’s hand and not fully understanding what they see that you can’t.
So here’s where we can start.
We can acknowledge that everyone’s relationship to sex is different, and get curious about each person’s experience before moving forward. We can allow many things to be true at once—honoring that you might want closeness and also feel unsafe, that something can feel good one moment and shift the next.
And when you’re navigating this with a partner, communication becomes part of what creates safety.
If sex doesn’t feel safe for you, it can be hard to know how to talk about it—especially with someone you care about. You may worry about hurting their feelings, disappointing them, or not having the right words.
But communication here doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to be honest enough to let someone in.
That might sound like:
“I want to be close to you, but my body doesn’t always feel safe in these moments.”
“This isn’t about you doing something wrong—there are parts of my experience I’m still trying to understand.”
“I might need to go slowly, or check in more often, even if things seem okay at first.”
You don’t need a full explanation. Naming what you do know—your experience in the moment—can be enough.
If you’re the partner of someone whose relationship to sex has been shaped by difficult experiences, it can be hard in a different way. You might feel confused, rejected, or unsure of what’s needed from you.
In those moments, it can help to remember: this isn’t something to fix—it’s something to honor and respect, to simply be a listening ear and a companion to.
Support can look like:
listening without trying to solve
checking in rather than assuming
respecting boundaries, even when they shift
staying present without taking distance personally
And if you notice that shame arises, when you—or your partner—need to stop or take a break: try to stick with yourself. Slow down and remember that the acts of harm done are the shameful part. Carrying the trauma, and being affected by its weight, has nothing to do with you.
Sex, after all, is a place we go—it’s not a measure of who you are, or how your partner sees you.
It’s a landscape shaped by experience, meaning, and memory. And you deserve to return to it, to reclaim it, and move through it in a way that feels safe, connected, and true to you.