Transitioning back to intimacy after childbirth can be daunting. The six-week postpartum break is often filled with uncertainty about your body and what to expect. While your partner may have seen you in various states of undress since the arrival of your little one—perhaps even with a not-so-flattering breastfeeding pillow in tow—things have changed, and so have you. Would intimacy feel the same? Would it function the same way?
As I approached that first encounter post-baby, those same anxieties loomed over me. The short answer? “Not likely.” Sex felt different, and so did I.
The one constant? I was still pretending to have orgasms.
Growing up in a household where sex was shrouded in negativity and shame left me ill-prepared for the realities of intimacy. My only exposure to anything resembling sex education was a poorly received Playboy channel that crackled on our television. I watched, assuming sex was supposed to be simple, loud, and quick. When I stumbled upon masturbation, I gave it a half-hearted attempt, convinced something was amiss and not trying again for years.
As I navigated my first romantic relationship in high school, I was disillusioned to find that nothing felt right. During our initial encounters, I faked my first orgasm, completely unaware of what one felt like and wrongly assuming I was incapable of reaching one due to the length of time it took. It wasn’t until I devoted a long, frustrated night to self-exploration that I finally understood what worked for me.
Yet, this breakthrough didn’t change my sex life. I remained profoundly uncomfortable discussing my needs. The very thought of voicing my preferences made me want to escape. I feared being seen as different, high-maintenance, or difficult, even though I knew my partner would be supportive. Women are often taught to be agreeable, and I was no exception.
In my early twenties, I met my husband. Although he was attentive and thorough in the bedroom, I still wasn’t ready to embrace openness. The first time I faked it with him, he seemed doubtful, but I insisted I had climaxed. I would feign an orgasm after what felt like an appropriate duration of intimacy. If he continued, I would pretend again and again until he finished. He even remarked on how effortlessly I reached satisfaction. I smiled and nodded, but deep down, I was perpetuating a cycle of dishonesty.
Instead of seizing the opportunity for mutual pleasure, I clung to my old habits, fearing I would hurt his feelings or appear too demanding. Even though I had moved past my early misconceptions about sex, the lingering effects of those distorted portrayals—crafted for men—stayed with me.
We often acknowledge the wage gap and other areas where women are denied what they deserve or feel uncomfortable asking for their needs—be it a higher salary, help with household duties, or even an orgasm. The unease in seeking more than what we are given is not just unfortunate; it’s a systemic issue.
The trouble with starting a relationship on a lie is that it grows and becomes increasingly difficult to address over time. As you settle deeper into a partnership—filled with mortgages, marriages, and children—the chance to acknowledge the deception diminishes. I found myself so entrenched in this relationship that discussing my past dishonesty felt impossible.
However, after the birth of my second child, I saw an opening.
That first encounter after childbirth? I didn’t approach it with dread this time. Instead, I felt hope. It’s hard to convey the thrill of being able to experience intimacy with someone I had loved for nearly a decade and the prospect of being genuine about my needs. I knew things would feel different for both of us, and I allowed myself to communicate what worked and what didn’t.
That night, I experienced my first truly honest sexual encounter. I didn’t force sounds, rush through the moment, or pretend. Instead, I communicated openly, and together, we navigated what felt good and what didn’t.
I didn’t reach an orgasm right away, but we gradually discovered what worked for me. After half a lifetime of intimacy, I finally began to enjoy it.
Let me tell you: the joy of receiving what you truly desire in the bedroom far exceeds the awkwardness of expressing those needs. I often find myself wanting to stop women on the street to ask if they’re communicating their desires to their partners. While I don’t actually do this, I’m sending out a wave of sex-positive energy, hoping it encourages women everywhere to seek pleasure.
Don’t follow in my footsteps. Be honest, speak up, and tell your partner what you want and need in the bedroom. For those navigating pregnancy or considering at-home insemination, there are valuable resources available, including this guide and this informative article on in vitro fertilization.
In summary, embracing honesty in your intimate life is crucial for satisfaction. Don’t shy away from expressing your needs; it can transform your experiences.