When I created my podcast, Just Out of Curiosity with Shelley Dee, one topic kept resurfacing in conversations with listeners: sex isn’t enjoyable for them. As we head toward Valentine’s Day, I find myself revisiting this theme through a more mindful lens; what’s really going on here? How do we, as women, give ourselves permission to love our bodies and voice our needs?
I struggled with this concept growing up. A lot.
For years, I performed during sex because I didn’t know any better. I faked too many orgasms, mostly out of confusion and the belief that something was wrong with me for not being able to get there. I didn’t know what I needed and, more importantly, I didn’t know how to ask. I cared about giving pleasure while conversations about my own needs were noticeably absent. I focused more on angles, about hiding fat rolls and about doing the “right” things. While sex itself could be enjoyable, I was rarely present, and I often felt unfulfilled afterward.
This is still a conversation I have with women today, which frustrates me. With access to endless information and a cultural push toward self-work, why are so many of us still disconnected from our sexual desires? We should know better but why aren’t we doing better?
Part of the answer, for me, lies in how I grew up. I come from a South Asian, Catholic background, where sex education was nearly nonexistent and shame was pervasive. What I learned about sex came largely from porn, television, and movies. Sex was framed as performative, male-centred, and outcome-driven. Female pleasure especially, was rarely discussed and consent, communication, and arousal were missing from the narrative.
My early sexual experiences were awkward and uncomfortable. I felt like I had no agency, and at times it even felt like my partners didn’t really care about me. With no trustworthy sources to help me understand how to process I resorted to performing. It became a way to protect myself, avoid discomfort, and prevent my partner from feeling disappointed. Beneath that performance was a deeper discomfort with vulnerability, with my body, and with not knowing what I needed to feel aroused.
When sex turns transactional rather than connective, we spend more time in our heads than in our bodies and more time distracted than noticing how we actually feel.
My turning point came with a partner who slowed everything down. “It’s fine” was no longer an acceptable answer. We talked; more than I liked—before and after, about what worked and what didn’t. Someone was genuinely curious about me and that curiosity created safety. I felt seen, and in that space, I learned how to listen and trust my body and truly how to love myself.
It was simple but profound: pleasure requires presence. Presence requires safety. And safety comes from communication without ego or urgency. Everyone experiences pleasure differently, and that difference isn’t the problem, it’s the missing point. Understanding this now has made me think less about what went wrong, and more about what could change.
It’s not just from sex education; it’s about teaching respect, empathy, and curiosity from childhood. It’s about modelling healthy communication and honouring boundaries, not just our own but also others around us. Much of what we learn about intimacy comes from how we observe the relationships around us. When children see care, respect, and equality modelled between parents and loved ones, it quietly shapes how they understand connection and love.
As a parent now, my intention is to have conversations that go beyond shame-based messaging and fear. I want my daughter to understand what helps her feel safe, valued, and connected. I want her to know how to voice her needs, trust her intuition, and respect when others say no. These are the foundations of pleasure—not just sexually, but relationally. I have to remember my role is not to mold her as an extension of myself but to provide a framework for how to move through the world empowered while attuned to others. I can honestly say, I’m still working on this.
When we move from performance to presence, we change more than our sex lives. We change how we show up for ourselves and for others. And that shift has the power to reshape not only our relationships, but what we pass on to the next generation.
