How I Became a Sex Coach

Purity Culture, Broken Beliefs, and a Whole Lot of Sex Ed I Never Got

So... how did you become a sex coach?

It’s one of the questions I get asked the most—usually with a curious smile or a genuinely confused, “Wait... like, how did that even happen?” And honestly, it’s not a one-sentence answer. Because the truth? This path was born from both deep curiosity and deep pain. From light and love... and also the parts none of us like to talk about. Most of the time, I keep it light. People are just being polite, and I don’t always feel like dropping my origin story at a dinner party.

But today, I want to share the real version. The one that made me who I am.

Note:  if you know you are sensitive topics around sexual assault, consider skipping the When Everything Changes section.

A conservative start

I grew up conservative. Think: True Love Waits era, promise ring and all (yes, I still have it). I was raised to believe that sex outside of marriage was wrong, that desire was dangerous, and that men always wanted sex more than women. I internalized all of it.

By 16, I knew my desire was stronger than my peers’. I thought about sex more, wanted it more, and figured marriage would be the safe container to finally let it out.

Then I “slipped” and had sex with my university boyfriend. I thought we were in love. I thought forever meant this didn’t count as sin. (Spoiler: it didn’t last. He left me for a southern belle, and I was devastated.) You’d think that heartbreak might’ve turned me wild.

It didn’t.

I had very few partners before I got married at 22. But I kept running into the same question:

Why do I always seem to want sex more than the men I’m with?

Everything I’d been taught told me that men were the ones with the stronger sex drives. So when I found myself consistently more turned on, more curious, and more frustrated—I didn’t think “Huh, maybe what I was taught was wrong.” True to the training of religious guilt, I thought: What’s wrong with me?

The unraveling begins

I tried to fix myself. I was too much, or not enough, depending on who you asked, and no version of me felt right. And eventually, it contributed to the unraveling of my marriage. (Along with the fact that neither of us knew how to communicate, but that’s a story for another day.)

After my divorce, I started exploring different relationship styles- polyamory, ethical non-monogamy, casual sex with friends. And while I loved the playfulness and freedom of those experiences, I was still bumping up against a major problem:

No one, myself included, really seemed to know what consent meant.

Not in practice. Not when it was murky (which it was, a lot). Not when we both acted like it was fine, but something in my body said it wasn’t.

It wasn’t that the people I was with were bad. It was that we had never been taught. And when no one truly understands consent, no one can truly give it.

And unsafe situations? They leave imprints.

When everything changes

Then it got worse.

During that time, I experienced three major boundary violations. Two were sexual assaults- one from a friend, one from a professional I trusted. The third was rape. And that was the final straw in my pattern of just trying to figure things out on my own. That third and final violation felt like it stopped the world from spinning. Everything that had once lit me up, felt grey and bland. When I think back to that time in my life, those memories feel murky and clouded, as if they were part of some terrible bad dream.

I’m not sharing this for sympathy. I’m sharing it because it’s part of the story.

A pivotal one.

All three men were considered “good guys.” They were respected. Charming. In leadership positions. Outside of these sexual offenses, I had always had quite a lot of respect for these men.

Which shouldn't surprise me, but it did. There is no excuse for their actions.

And yet I truly believe if they had received real education around sex, boundaries, and consent... understanding their own desires and how to navigate them in a healthy way, none of those things would have ever happened to me.

This is the foundational motivation behind the work I do today.

Becoming a holistic sex coach

I knew I needed help. I was unable to function at my normal capacity and became severely depressed. Luckily a friend was able to help me identify the source of my trauma and I was able to find an incredible doctor and a trauma-informed therapist. With their support, I began the process of healing my sexual traumas. It took way longer than I wanted (you truly cannot rush your healing, eh?), but eventually, I reached a place where I felt whole again. Or so I thought.

Because even after all that work, and we worked intensely together, my orgasms were essentially non existent. My libido was low. My body still felt numb and I struggled to ever really feel embodied. I asked my therapist, “Who can I go see to help me heal physically?” She paused. And then she said, “This is actually outside the realm of a therapist but… maybe you could become that person.”

So I did.

I poured myself into learning: tantra, pelvic floor anatomy, trauma healing, energetic bodywork… anything I thought could help me understand and reclaim pleasure. I was a full-time yoga teacher at the time, and I started to sneak bits of what I was learning into my classes- breathwork, embodiment, micro-moments of pleasure.

Then came the pelvic floor workshops. Then came the students who wanted to go deeper. And in 2020, when the world shut down and I found myself grounded in Bali with nothing but time, I pivoted. I stepped fully into sex coaching.

And I've genuinely never looked back.

Reclaiming pleasure, for real

Over five years later… I've supported people in having their first real orgasms. I’ve helped couples reignite their spark. I've walked alongside survivors as they found their way back to their bodies, their voice, their joy. This work isn’t just my job- it’s my healing made visible. I became the sex coach I once needed.And now, I get to help others do the same. Because pleasure isn’t a reward. It’s a right.

PS: If you've ever felt broken, confused, or disconnected from your own pleasure… I see you. I was you. You're not too much, you're not too late, and you're not alone. This isn’t the end of your story. It might just be the beginning.