You want to, but you don’t know why you don’t
There’s no argument. No coldness. You’re not angry. You’re just not reaching for anything. You turn off the light. You turn away. It’s not rejection. It’s confusion. Something feels paused. Not shut down. But definitely not awake either.
You say “maybe later.” You mean it.
You mean it in the moment. But later becomes tomorrow. Then the next week. Then never. You’re not avoiding intimacy. You’re just not drawn toward it anymore. And that absence doesn’t hurt—until you realize how long it’s been.
You wonder if you’re broken. Or tired.
You go through the checklist. Stress? Check. Kids? Yes. Work? Always. But there’s something else. A shift you can’t name. It’s not about exhaustion. It’s about the missing spark. And you miss missing it.
You’re still you—but a muted version.
Your mirror doesn’t lie. But it doesn’t explain either. You wear the same perfume. Eat the same breakfast. Your body functions. It just doesn’t respond. The way it once did. The way it used to lean into desire without being asked.
You forget the last time your body said yes.
Not yes to someone. Yes to yourself. To heat. To rhythm. To being in a body. You can recall the mechanics. But not the craving. The reach. The spark behind the idea of it.
Intimacy feels like a demand. Not connection.
Touch feels like a task. Not an invitation. A checklist to be completed. You smile. You try. But your mind wanders. Not to fantasy. But to laundry. Emails. Grocery lists. You miss when touch brought you home to yourself.
Your body chooses survival. Not pleasure.
Cortisol climbs with every to-do. With every sleepless night. With every scroll. Every headline. Your body shifts into protection. It closes the doors that once opened so freely.
Something has changed beneath the thought.
You want to want. But it doesn’t arrive. You fake it. Sometimes well. Sometimes not. It’s not performance. It’s habit. A part of you still tries to keep up. But another part has unplugged.
It helps—briefly. But it doesn’t restore.
You light candles. Put on music. Buy the fancy things. They set the mood. But not the spark. You go through the motions. Hoping something will wake up. But nothing shifts inside. You feel alone next to someone.
Numbers lie. Or rather—they don’t tell the whole story.
You finally get labs done. Hormones look okay. “Within range.” You nod. But your gut disagrees. You feel slow. Flat. Disconnected. You ask about it. They say it’s “stress.” You already knew that.
Trust has to be rebuilt first.
You start with supplements. Ashwagandha. Maca. B vitamins. You drink more water. Sleep more. But your body doesn’t jump back into balance. It hesitates. It watches. You learn that trust in your chemistry has to be rebuilt slowly.
You thought it was age. But age is just part of it.
Yes, you’re older. But not old. You still laugh loud. You still dream. You still love. But something in your system rewrote its rhythm. You didn’t choose it. You just noticed the silence after it happened.
Not rejection. Just pause.
You reassure your partner. They believe you. But there’s distance. It’s not intentional. It’s not coldness. It’s a waiting space. Neither of you knows how to name it. You just live beside it.
You miss your own sense of aliveness.
You don’t miss the act. You miss the anticipation. The charge in your skin. The sudden joy of wanting. You miss looking forward to something your body used to ask for.
What it felt like to feel.
You lie in bed and touch your arm. Not sexually. Just gently. Just to feel again. You want to know if sensation still lives there. It does. But quieter. You keep searching for softness. You move slower now.
It’s a pulse. And hormones shape that pulse.
Desire is not a constant. It’s not lost—it’s layered. Under work. Under worry. Under chemistry. Hormones shape that layer before you ever notice the silence. Before you ever name the change.