In the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, I kept a journal and wrote within its pages a secret I have held close to my heart. Now I write it again, this time with a computer and keyboard instead of papers and pens, and share it out loud.
I am asexual. Three words alone, yet they have never felt so right.
Over the years, asexuality has given me a lifeline to grasp while redefining everything I knew about love, sex, and connection. Awareness of the asexuality is still growing, but if you linger, you will find there is lots to learn.
Asexuality encompasses a wide variety of diverse experiences, but it is defined most simply as a lack of sexual attraction towards other people. There is little to no desire to have sex with another person though one may still choose to participate in it. Like any sexuality, it is about who you are (or are not) attracted to and is inherent to a person. It is not about any action or activity you choose with someone else rather it is who you are.
Lacking attraction does not mean being lesser. Our world is undeniably obsessed with romance, which creates an expectation that everyone desires it. If you think about the books you have read or movies you have watched, romantic love is often at the center or featured in some form. Society often suggests that romantic love is meant to make you whole because you must otherwise be empty without it. We love the idea of finding ‘the one,’ but too often soulmates are thought to complete you rather than compliment you, and are only thought of as romantic connections.
The expectation of finding a romantic love creates barriers to understanding asexuality and aromanticism, while constant reminders in society and the media can also be distressing for asexual individuals. Both a Trevor Project survey on asexual youth and a study by Yule et al., found that asexual individuals experienced higher levels of mental health issues in comparison to non-asexual folks.
This assumption that everyone should experience sexual attraction and romantic love made discovering who I was in high school difficult. In comparison to my peers, who were becoming increasingly interested in sex, I thought I was falling behind. When I learned about asexuality, I struggled with the term and believed that eventually, I would feel like everyone else. Still, asexuality remained hidden within me and the more stories I read of asexual people, the more I saw myself reflected in them. After a year of reflection, I wrote down my secret and with those words, I finally allowed myself to embrace a part of me that was always true — I am asexual.
There was no joyous celebration for this realization of my sexuality. Instead, my quiet truth gave me a newfound strength and freedom. How I wanted to live my life was now up to me. There was no romantic milestone or requirement I had to meet because I had never actually been behind. Connections come in many different forms. I have learned that friendship is not secondary to romantic love, but rather another way of loving that is equally as important and deep. Ultimately, relationships are multifaceted and fluid.
If sex or romantic love does not appeal to you, if it makes you want to run for the hills, or if you would rather stay single, that is okay. There is no right state of romanticism or sexuality and there are countless ways for an individual to find fulfilment. How we choose to define ourselves and relationships is only bound by what we want them to be. Each and every individual deserves dignity and freedom to explore their sexualities.
No matter what relationship you have or do not have, whether you are single, partnered or somewhere in between, remember you are loved.
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If you would like to learn more about asexuality, consider checking out AVEN or the Trevor Project for invaluable information.
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Caroline Tuccinardi is a student writer in Humber College’s Bachelor of Professional and Creative Writing program. Passionate about human rights, Caroline loves to read, draw and spend time with her family and friends.