I was asked the other day whether my sex drive is the same since having a child, and it prompted an interesting conversation about what sex, arousal, and desire look and feel like since becoming a mother. This topic has been particularly interesting to me because in some ways, not much has changed, and in many ways, everything has changed. It has forced me to step back and redefine what arousal and desire mean to me, and also to unlearn how they were expressed and taught to me growing up. Looking back and something I’ve written about previously, so much of this conversation was centered around the male perspective of sexual desire.
I remember looking forward to new issues of Cosmopolitan Magazine to take a sex quiz or learn how to please better. When I reflect on those messages about having a healthy sex life, the focus was often on doing and wanting certain things over others. Being a sexual woman seemed to follow guidelines, much like beauty regimens or diet culture. A healthy sex life appeared to be about metrics, benchmarks, and performance goals. If it did not unfold the way it was supposed to, we questioned ourselves.
As the focus shifts toward performance, we can forget ourselves in the process. Forget about our bodies. Women’s bodies. Our hormones and brains influence desire in ways that are dynamic and deeply contextual. Yet we are often taught that sex is healthiest when it is spontaneous, easy, frequent, orgasm focused and follows certain patterns.
Add children and the long list of domestic responsibilities now, and sex can easily fall to the bottom of the priority list. Yet mothers are still expected to meet their partner’s needs and maintain a thriving sex life. A healthy sex life in this season looks different, and it requires both partners to renegotiate expectations. This is where I began to notice something more clearly. For many women, sex has been defined through a male lens of pleasure, pacing, and priority. The standard of “healthy” has often been shaped around male appetite, leaving many women trying to fit themselves into a framework that was never designed for them.
In my own sexual past, the focus was largely on how to give pleasure. I did not feel comfortable, and more importantly, I felt excluded from the experience in a way I could not yet articulate. Sex was painful at first, and I thought that was normal. I had been told discomfort was expected. Knowing what I know now, that message is deeply concerning. Pain is not a rite of passage. Arousal, safety, and lubrication matter.
I remember a partner once asking if everything was okay because he sensed I was not fully present. He was right. I was largely unsatisfied, though I could not quite understand why. I listened to Sex with Sue Johansen and took in advice from magazines and television. I followed the instructions. I did the things I thought I was supposed to do. But the outcome did not match the promise. In many ways, I was malnourished. I was too focused on the optics of a healthy sex life.
Over time, I began to understand that sexual health is not static. My body is not the same as anyone else’s. It is not even the same from week to week. What arouses me shifts with my cycle, my stress levels, my mood, and my sense of safety. I needed to become reacquainted with myself. I needed space to communicate without shame. I needed to move through past trauma and insecurities in order to fully access desire. Shifting towards presence meant listening, being responsive, respecting boundaries and mutuality. Fulfillment grew not from doing more but from feeling more connected. That is what I start to think of when it means to being healthy. It needs to be viewed holistically.
In the end I needed more than a magazine article, a Sunday night call in show, or a supplement. Having a healthy sex life is not about what it looks like, but what it feels like. It’s not about counts or following a script, it feels like safety. curiosity, equality and the freedom to evolve. It feels like trust in your own body.
That is what nourishment looks like.
