I used to think that if you were married, it couldn't be rape.
I grew up in a culture that taught me my body belonged to my husband. That once you said "I do," your "no" no longer mattered. The Bible said your body is not your own. The church said to submit. The people around me called it obedience. Duty. Holiness. Marriage.
So I thought that was just the way it worked.
If he wanted it, you said yes. And if you didn't say yes, you just didn't say anything. You laid there. You let it happen. You reminded yourself it wouldn't take long. That it didn't hurt that bad. That this was the bare minimum required to be a good wife.
That silence was consent.
That was the lie I lived under. That was the weight I carried into bed with me, night after night, for years.
And for a long time, I believed it.
There were nights when I wanted to say no. When everything in my body screamed stop. But I didn't. I couldn't. So I just… lay there. Staring at the ceiling. Waiting for it to be over. And that? That wasn't consent. That wasn't love. That wasn't mutual anything. That was rape, dressed up in a wedding ring.
I know that now.
I didn't have a name for it when I was younger. I thought it was just part of the job. I thought everyone felt hollow sometimes. I thought sex was just something you gave, not something you were allowed to want.
There were hundreds of times that blurred the line. But in my mind, only two crossed it so hard, so violently, that I could never forget them.
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The First Time
I was pregnant with my son. We had just eaten lunch, and I didn't feel well, nauseous, heavy, exhausted. But he kept asking. Kept begging. Asking and asking and asking.
I said no. I told him I didn't feel good. That I couldn't.
He didn't like that answer.
So he told me I could use my mouth instead. I agreed, reluctantly, quietly, trying to be a "good wife." A few minutes in, I puked all over him.
And he slapped me. Hard.
He called me disgusting.
The sting of his hand hit harder than the shame. The shame bloomed hotter than the nausea. And in that moment, I thought, I deserved that slap, right?
No.
I didn't.
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The Second Time
This one… this one is harder to talk about.
He always wanted to try anal. "That's what they do in porn," he said. He watched it daily, obsessively. He brought it up constantly. And I always said no. Not because I was being cruel. Not because I was withholding. Because I didn't want to. Because I wasn't comfortable. Because that was a boundary for me.
But that boundary didn't matter to him.
Sometime after my son turned one, he decided it was going to happen. And it did. Despite my crying. Despite my pain. Despite every "no" I had ever said.
He made it happen.
I don't remember the exact date. I just remember how it felt. I remember the betrayal. The agony. The humiliation. And then, because he didn't use any prep or care, it ended in a mess. A bad one. And once again, I was the one blamed for it.
Even now, writing this, I want to lash out. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to go back in time and wrap my arms around that version of me and say, It's okay. It wasn't your fault. You didn't deserve that.
Because I didn't.
No woman does.
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The Realization
It took me years to even realize what had happened. Years before I could say the word rape. Years before I stopped making excuses for him. For the culture. For myself.
It wasn't until therapy that I learned what consent really is.
Not just a "yes."
An enthusiastic yes. The kind of yes that comes with safety, desire, and agency. The kind that means, "I want this, too."
And I hadn't had that in years.
I wasn't giving consent. I was giving silence. And silence is not consent. Silence is fear. Silence is obligation. Silence is survival.
And while we're talking about consent, let me say this for the women on the other side of it, the ones longing for connection.the ones asking for intimacy.the ones being told "no" over and over, until they start to feel like even asking makes them shameful or pathetic.
Nobody talks about that.
Nobody talks about what it does to a woman when the one person she's "allowed" to want suddenly treats her desire like a burden.
We talk about men who push for sex and how wrong that is, and it is. But we don't talk about what happens when a woman initiates and is constantly turned away. When she becomes the one waiting. Hoping. Silencing her needs so she doesn't seem desperate.
It's not the same as abuse. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.
That's not healthy either.
I've since learned desire mismatch isn't rare. It's not a flaw. But it still hurts like hell. Especially when one person is always saying no, without explanation, without intimacy, without effort to connect. It starts to feel like rejection wrapped in silence.
And rejection chips away at more than your sex drive. It chips away at your self-worth.
Wanting sex in your marriage doesn't make you pushy. Wanting to feel wanted doesn't make you broken. Craving closeness from the one person who said "I choose you" isn't a weakness.
This chapter isn't just for the women who were used.It's also for the women who've been ignored.
There was a time later on, when I begged for intimacy, too. When I longed to be seen. When I initiated, hoping it would make him love me again, and got silence in return.
Because consent matters. But so does being wanted.And if you've been walking through your marriage feeling invisible…I see you.You deserve more, too.
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The Reclamation
I include this chapter not just to name the harm but to name the healing.
Because now, when I say yes, it's because I want to. Because I feel safe. Because I feel powerful. Because I want the person I'm with, not out of duty, not out of guilt, but out of joy.
Sex, for me, is no longer something that happens to my body.
It's something I choose.
And even when I don't feel like doing anything extra, yes, shout out to the pillow princesses! It is still something I want. Something I own. Something that belongs to me again.
I have reclaimed my body.
I have reclaimed my voice.
I have reclaimed my sexuality.
And I am not ashamed.
Not of my past.
Not of my survival.
Not of my healing.
Not of my sex life now.
I'm not just lying there anymore.
I am alive.
I am present.
And every yes I give now? It's mine. All mine.