Celibacy is having a moment. It even has a branded campaign: a partnership between David’s Protein Bars and social provocateur Julia Fox, who has publicly talked about her own abstaining from sex. In classic Hollywood fashion, the suggestion is that the only thing hotter than sex is forgoing it.
The trend reaches far outside the bounds of Los Angeles too. In 2025, Girlhood author Melissa Febos wrote an acclaimed memoir, Dry Season, about her year without intercourse. Forgoing sex has also become political: With the repeal of Roe v. Wade in 2022 and massive budget cuts under the Trump administration defunding women’s health at the National Institutes of Health, millennials are using abstinence as a lever of control. 4B, the radical feminist movement in South Korea where women go on strike from dating, having sex, and getting married and having kids, took off on TikTok. Vogue’s article declaring that having a boyfriend is “embarrassing” went viral just a few months ago.
AI lovers, dismal dating apps—as a culture, I’m not the only one suggesting we’ve lost the plot on sex. But I definitely can relate, having once chosen celibacy for seven years.
From sex columnist to celibacy.
I used to write a sex column for a living. But it was more than just a day job: It was part of my identity. Complicated, withholding men and what made them tick was my beat, and the more messy my love life, the more clicks my stories got. The attention wasn’t always good, but it gave me hits of dopamine anyway. I was slut-shamed on Dr. Phil and by Bethenny Frankel on live TV for a viral story about being the other woman. Nevertheless, I acted like I was in control of the narrative. The truth was, I was spiraling out. Then, in 2018, I became pregnant.
As a single mom, I navigated the intense intimacy of early motherhood, the isolation of the pandemic, and the comfort of self-sufficiency. Yes, motherhood is physically exhausting, especially at a time when women’s bodies are being robbed of their rights and being treated like public property. In a world that felt entitled to mine, I’d had enough. I thought about when I was a teenager and my sexual self had come of age. I’d spent ridiculous amounts of energy trying to make boys and men find me attractive, which not only cost money and time, but a slice of my pride. Were they putting in similar efforts for me?
Now a mother to a baby girl, it was time to level the scales. I was determined to model healthy attachment styles to men for my daughter, but there wasn’t exactly a line of contenders at my door. Rather than seeing this as a pitfall, for the first time in my life I felt relief. So I gave up trying to make a man the arc of my narrative, or even a plot twist here and there. Instead, I chose celibacy, untethering myself from relationships with men, sexual and otherwise, for the foreseeable future.
That ended up lasting seven years, which is a long time, but once the noise of sexual performance was absent from my life, I didn’t particularly miss it. I did eventually find my way back to sex and dating, and now that I’ve returned to the scene, I’m fascinated by how those seven sex-free years have changed me, what they taught me, and what they now mean to my sexual orientation and identity. Was I asexual—or just tired of men and their shenanigans? Eager to better understand myself, I reached out to sex and relationship experts who, I thought, might be able to provide some clarity.
Here’s the difference.
Though celibacy, abstinence, and asexuality are often (erroneously) used interchangeably, each one holds a different meaning. “Celibacy and abstinence describe a temporary practice of not having sex,” Julie Kliegman, a freelance journalist who is panromantic asexual, tells me. Asexuality, on the other hand, is an identity—a sexual orientation—oft overlooked and misunderstood. While sexuality exists on a fluid spectrum, it’s insensitive (and perhaps inaccurate) to describe a period of celibacy as entering your “asexual era.”
“People who describe themselves as asexual, or ace, experience little to no sexual attraction to other people,” says Jillian Amodio, LMSW, a therapist who treats members of asexual community and advocates for inclusive sex education and mental health awareness. (Amodio is also asexual.) Kliegman says that like any sexual orientation, asexuality is not a choice, and saying so may have harmful repercussions, like conversion therapy.
That said, wondering about markers of asexuality and what asexuality feels like is perfectly valid, especially “because our culture expects people to be sexual,” says Leah Carey, a sex and relationship coach and host of the podcast Good Girls Talk About Sex. The myth that marriage is the ultimate prize of romantic love isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Many millennials like me, who grew up with the “sex sells” ethos of Victoria’s Secret Angels, Brazilian bikini lines, and Girls Gone Wild, share a lot of the ick that’s taken shape in the current sexual recession embraced by Gen Z. But there’s a big difference between hookup fatigue, craving more meaningful relationships, or even relegating yourself to solo sex, and being ace.
There’s also no singular asexual experience, according to sex and intimacy coach Annette Benedetti, host of the podcast Talk Sex With Annette. “Some [aces] have libido, some don’t. Some masturbate and enjoy solo sex, some don’t. Some have sex with partners, some never want to. None of that disqualifies someone from being ace, because asexuality is about attraction, not action.” (Amodio breaks down the multitude of experiences further: She says arousal can be a physiological, or involuntary, response to sexual stimulation, and is therefore not the same thing as attraction.)
Another distinction to note is that between being asexual and aromantic. Carey says that aromantic people can “desire sex without the need for a particular type of commitment or relationship,” while asexual people can “desire romantic relationships without sex or with very limited sex.” And then there is the gray ace, who “falls somewhere between the label of asexual and some other form of sexuality,” Amodio says. The gray ace might have “hyperspecific sexual attraction, or they might have a sexual history that they no longer identify with.”
If this seems like a lot of information to process, it is. Reflecting deeply on such personal topics like identity and attraction is overwhelming, and was to me. But ultimately, it gave me clarity.
Rinsing off the ick.
I started to realize my seven-year hiatus wasn’t an inherent lack of attraction, but a protective no and a luxury of choice that the ace community is rarely granted. This distinction—of choice—was the missing link for me.
For years, my “tiredness” acted like static on the line. I still had capacity for attraction, but my power supply was depleted. The labor of navigating the patriarchal dating scene had drained me so completely that I had no desire for any of it in my life. On the other hand, I was experiencing such an abundance of joy and intimacy in my relationship with my daughter, so I was incredibly happy and fulfilled. There were times when I had solo sex, but I often found that those sessions were timed to when I was ovulating and my sexual arousal would peak. Masturbation felt like a biological race to an orgasm.
Reflecting on what Amodio says, I realize that for a long time, I had confused the performance of romance—the chase and the longing being oh so dramatic—with authentic romantic attraction. During my seven years of celibacy, I wasn’t aromantic: I was simply redirecting that romantic energy towards myself and my child, redefining romance for when I was ready.
Sometimes you have to rule out what you’re not.
In my chosen celibacy I may have been trying on labels, an exploration that is healthy and authentic. Abstaining from sex propelled me into a state where I no longer felt the need to organize my life around the things I’m supposed to want, sexually or otherwise.
Celibacy also helped me recognize that being tired—whether physically or emotionally—shows up in the bedroom. The goal of sex, in my mind, is to have it with a partner in a way that fills me with energy. Beyond “butterflies,” I crave an intimate connection that’s empowering, not depleting. Carey says that this type of sexual connection is possible, though can be rare and requires you to be vocal about your needs. It’s fine to not want to perform and still crave intimacy—“sensual but not sexual activities, like cuddling without the expectation of sex,” Carey says.
Understanding the language of the ace community didn’t give me a new label. My period of celibacy was a choice born out of self-sufficiency, distinct from the innate identity of my asexual peers, but it was profound and transformative all the same. By decentering sex, I didn’t lose my sexuality: I found its boundaries. Whether we are ace, aromantic, or just tired, the goal is the same: to move through the world in a way that doesn’t deplete us, but brings pleasure and peace.
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