For as long as I can remember, I felt out of step with the world around me. I didn’t know what it was at first, and I didn’t have the language to explain it. But from a young age, I noticed that there was something different about the way people around me talked about relationships and sexuality. My friends would gush over crushes, talk about kissing, and even joke about their first experiences with sex. But I couldn’t relate. I didn’t have those feelings. In fact, the whole concept of sex felt foreign, like it was something I was supposed to be participating in but just couldn’t understand.
I chalked it up to being shy, or maybe to the fact that I was just a late bloomer. After all, people would say things like, “You’ll grow into it” or “It’ll happen when you’re older.” It wasn’t until much later that I learned the word “asexual,” and even then, it didn’t feel like an immediate fit. The term was new, and it was almost as if I had discovered a secret world I hadn’t even known I needed to be part of.
When I found the term “asexual,” it was as if a massive weight had been lifted off my chest. Suddenly, there was a name for what I’d been feeling, and I wasn’t alone. But that didn’t mean it was easy to accept. I had spent so many years feeling like I didn’t belong, like I wasn’t doing relationships “right,” even though I cared deeply about the people in my life. There was always this pervasive, deep-seated fear: If I couldn’t fit into the box of sexual attraction, how could I ever expect to have the kinds of relationships that mattered? How would I be understood? If intimacy was defined by sex, then where did I fit?
It wasn’t just about having a label. It was about understanding why I didn’t feel the way everyone else seemed to. Growing up, it felt like all interactions between people—friendships, relationships, family dynamics—were underpinned by some unspoken expectation of eventual sexual attraction. The idea that romance, affection, and even simple human connection could eventually lead to or be based on sex was everywhere. It felt like the very foundation of how we were supposed to relate to one another was built on this singular idea: sex.
For a long time, I tried to force myself to “fit in.” I convinced myself that if I just pretended, if I pushed myself into situations that made me uncomfortable, then I could finally be a part of the world everyone else seemed to inhabit. I allowed myself to be in situations that felt wrong or dangerous—like trying to force a physical connection with someone just to prove I was normal, or participating in conversations about sex that made my skin crawl because I didn’t want to be seen as “weird” or “different.” I thought maybe if I faked it long enough, I could convince myself that I felt the same way others did. But all I ended up doing was putting myself in situations that didn’t align with who I really was, compromising my boundaries just to make myself appear “normal.” It wasn’t healthy, and it wasn’t real.
The more I began to understand asexuality, the more I saw just how deeply entrenched our society’s sexualisation of relationships really is. It’s not just something on the surface—it’s woven into the fabric of how we think about who we are and how we connect. From the time we’re little, we’re told stories of love that revolve around romance, passion, and ultimately, sex. We’re taught that intimacy is inherently sexual, that the peak of any close connection between two people must culminate in some form of sexual act. It shapes the way we view friendships, family bonds, and even work relationships, implicitly suggesting that without sex as a backdrop, these connections are incomplete or less meaningful.
I began to realise that the assumption of sex as the basis for all human interactions wasn’t just limiting—it was damaging. I had spent so many years wondering what was wrong with me for not wanting to participate in the same kinds of entanglements as my peers. But in reality, it was society that was wrong for framing all relationships around this narrow, sexualised lens. I wasn’t broken. I just saw the world differently.
The difference between romantic attraction and sexual attraction. These are two distinct experiences, and for a long time, I didn’t realise just how separate they were. Romantic attraction is about the desire to form a deep emotional connection with someone, to build a relationship based on affection, care, and shared experiences. Sexual attraction, on the other hand, involves a desire for physical intimacy, specifically sexual activity. Many people experience both, often intertwined, but they don’t have to go hand in hand. A person can feel romantic attraction without feeling sexually attracted to someone, just as someone can experience sexual attraction without the emotional connection that typically defines romantic relationships. For me, it’s the romantic side of relationships that I feel. I form deep emotional bonds with others, but I don’t feel the desire to pursue sex. My relationships are based on mutual care, respect, and emotional closeness—without the need for sexual intimacy. And that’s not a deficiency or a lack of something—it’s just a different way of experiencing the world.
Then, something beautiful happened—I found a partner who understands me, someone who is also asexual. We met and bonded over the shared understanding of what it means to navigate a world that places so much emphasis on sexual attraction. It’s a relief, really, to be with someone who shares the same perspective on intimacy and connection. With them, I don’t have to explain why I’m not interested in sex. We both enjoy building a life together centred on love, care, and emotional intimacy, and that is more than enough for us.
And as we look toward the future, we’re making plans together. One of the most exciting things for us is the idea of having children. We both understand that family doesn’t require sexual attraction or romantic norms to be meaningful. We’ve talked about options for building a family that feels right for us. It’s a reminder that intimacy, connection, and love are not defined by a singular idea of sex—they are diverse, evolving, and deeply personal. Our plans for the future are built on mutual understanding, respect, and the knowledge that we can create a fulfilling life together, just as we are.
This brings me to why the recent comments from J.K. Rowling hit me so hard. Growing up, I admired her for the world she built in her books —a world where diversity, inclusivity, and love in all its forms were celebrated. But suddenly, after years railing against the trans community, she is now attacking the very concept of asexuality, reducing it to something to be questioned or pathologised. She has questioned whether asexuality is “real” and implied that it might be something people are simply “choosing” as if we’re simply avoiding normal, healthy human experiences.
The problem with this line of thinking is that it perpetuates the idea that asexuality is somehow abnormal, that it’s just an absence of desire, or something that can be fixed. But here’s the truth: asexuality is not a void—it is an identity. Just as someone might identify as gay, straight, or bisexual, an asexual person identifies as someone who does not experience sexual attraction. That’s it. That’s who we are. And like anyone else, we deserve respect for our identity, not to be treated as if we’re missing some essential part of the human experience.
What’s even more frustrating is how Rowling’s comments contribute to the larger societal narrative that defines human connection through the lens of sex. This narrative doesn’t just affect asexual people—it affects everyone. It places an enormous amount of pressure on individuals to fit into the rigid expectations of sexual and romantic relationships. If you don’t fit, you feel alienated. If you do fit, but only because you’re conforming to societal pressures, it’s still a loss. We’re taught that there’s something fundamentally wrong with being alone, or without sex, or not having that romantic partner who defines your sense of identity.
The normalisation of sex as the basis for all human interactions creates a culture where anything outside of that norm is viewed as inferior. It’s an invisible force that shapes our views of self-worth, relationships, and intimacy. And that’s why, when I first discovered that I was asexual, it was such a revelation. It wasn’t about rejection or denial of relationships—it was about understanding that intimacy and connection don’t have to follow the prescribed path that society has laid out.
I’ve come to accept that I don’t need sex to feel close to others. I don’t need it to feel fulfilled. My relationships—whether they are romantic, platonic, or familial—are about respect, mutual care, and emotional intimacy. That’s more than enough. And, more importantly, it’s my enough.
To those of you out there who feel like I once did—who feel out of place, who feel like something is missing but can’t quite put your finger on it—please know this: You are not wrong. You are not broken. You are not less than anyone else. You are simply you, and that’s beautiful.