This Is a very personal and raw (and long) account of how and why I started on my path to an unguarded life. I tried to be as honest as possible, and it feels vulnerable to share this. That is precisely why I do it. I believe it is important that we all share more openly about what is really going on – and I can only start with myself. If you know me, it might make you feel uncomfortable to read this. I encourage you to read it anyway, and then share with me how it made you feel, what you think about it, and anything that comes to your mind. Thank you.
A couple of weeks ago, I spent a beautiful sunny evening with “old” friends on a terrace in Zurich. I had just come back from six months in South America. I talked about my journey, my way of living, and about two ISTA workshops and a Tantra Yoga Teacher Training I had recently attended. And I mentioned that I was going to start a Tantra year-training in the Netherlands soon. My friends had questions – and it essentially came down to one: Why? Why all these workshops and retreats? Why choose a way of living that challenges everything I was used to before? Why the conscious creation of discomfort?
My friends had previously known me as a hard-working, serious student and researcher, focused on success (as defined by those around me and society) and external validation, living in a long-term monogamous relationship, having a generous income, being quite easily put off-balance by the unexpected (and thus avoiding it). They knew me as someone living a life that offered little surprises and a lot of stability and safety. As someone with a plan. And they had seen me starting to do “crazy” stuff, and willingly throw away parts of that stability and safety. But they did not fully understand my motivation – and I realized that I had no easy answer for them. So I took some time to think about the “why”. Here are some of those thoughts.
Looking Back – Is There a “Beginning”?
When looking back, my path makes sense to me. But I know that at every moment of following that path, it felt more like complete coincidence. Like there was no path at all. There never was a plan to follow consciously. But of course, I started somewhere. And I feel that this “beginning” explains it all, in a way.
For years before that “beginning”, I had felt a sense of not being fully alive, a longing for deeper connection with people, a deep melancholy. And I searched for such connection and aliveness, even if it was mostly unconscious. I never considered anything spiritual (though in some desperate moments I contemplated visiting a church, but never did), but I started gardening with others, doing yoga, hiking, climbing. Those activities definitely felt great, but they did not really satisfy that deep longing inside. Really, I had no idea what I longed for. I realized I was not happy in my life. I acknowledged that there were a lot of parts of my life where I did not feel free, a lot of situations in which “irrational” fears dominated my actions, where I felt I had no control of my own behavior. I attended therapy (talking inspired by psychoanalysis, and focused on stress issues at work) and learned a lot about myself, my relationship to my parents, and why I acted the way I did at work. I started to apply some strategies to bypass behaviors that did not serve me, but I could not change the root cause of those behaviors. The longing deep inside stayed. There were these moments of something cracking open. Moments where I felt a little freer, where I confronted something that truly scared me, where someone challenged me to drop a mask. But those moments never lasted. And for sure, I also preferred not to look at my life with too much honesty, to remain in that quite miserable, mediocre, but very safe and comfortable state of just going on with what I was familiar with. I felt trapped in my life. And I did not have any way to express that.
I do not want to imply that I did not grow during all those years of my life before the “beginning” of my path. For sure I grew. And I am grateful for all the experiences that shaped me. But I chose to close my eyes when it got too scary or painful, sometimes consciously and sometimes unconsciously. And there is that one moment in which this changed. That is why I call it a “beginning”.
OK, it is more of a period, really. In August 2016, I temporarily moved from Zurich to Amsterdam for a year of working at the University of Amsterdam. The first few month there were evolving in familiar territory: I essentially did the same things I had done in Zurich before. I was still in a relationship that had already lasted ten years (though my partner remained in Zurich). I still did yoga and climbed and hiked and worked really hard. But I was also thrown back on myself in a way I had not experienced for years – through being alone, finding new friends, the distance from my partner. I found that I can be alone, that I can survive on my own; at the same time, my partner felt deeply abandoned. And the distance between us grew bigger each day. We did not have the kind of connection that would have allowed for honestly sharing what was going on. Instead, I (and I think both of us) did what we had done often: close our eyes and hope that things would somehow change on their own. So for a couple of months, we did not really talk about what was happening. But seeing each other became increasingly painful and irritating. And at some point in the beginning of December, even I could not close my eyes any longer. I asked whether this had any future at all. My partner decided that it did not. I agreed (though I also desperately clung to the idea that somehow we could fix this). We split. I told my friends that I am fine.
I almost believed myself. Until the pain hit me. I had never felt that alone. My deepest source of safety and stability was suddenly gone. I was deeply afraid of everything in life. I was afraid of doing any of the very things I had done alone during the previous few months. I mostly stayed in my office and at home. The few times I went out, I got really drunk, and fell into the kind of pre-Christmas melancholy that made me tell my story to near-strangers at late hours in words that dripped of self-pity and the need for some form of kindness. Whenever I was not drunk, I insisted that things were great and would get better soon. I built a hard shell around myself.
In January, things got worse. I felt completely lost. I felt fear, and I felt helpless. Many days, I simply could not get up until midday (working in Academia meant no one controlled my working hours, so it was easy not to talk about this to anyone). I wanted warmth, I wanted affection, I wanted to be alive. I had no idea what I wanted. The weather was horrible and the idea of trying to date someone or really reaching out to a friend was completely terrifying. It was as if the melancholy and feeling of being trapped in my life that I had felt for many years suddenly had been condensed into something ten times as strong. So strong I could no longer ignore it.
Any decision I took in this period came from deep desperation. From a feeling that if I would not do something, anything, I was going to die. And from instinct. I started to do a lot more yoga; the Svaha Yoga Shala was by far the warmest place I knew in Amsterdam, in every sense of that word (and I am still deeply grateful for them). I went to a conference in Washington D.C. and then took the opportunity and visited the Sivananda Ashram on the Bahamas for a week. Still, the fear persisted. I started to accept that I could not hide from myself. I started to ask myself what I was most afraid of and what I would want in my life. I admitted to myself that I wanted to feel alive; and that I was most afraid of any form of intimate connection, but particularly of having sex with anyone. I took the decision to start confronting those fears and longings – by doing things that terrified me and at the same time made me feel excited. I went to Ecstatic Dance for the first time in my life (a process that took three weeks, with two Sundays spent in bed crying because I could not muster the courage to get on my bike and ride to Club Lite). I went to concerts alone and talked to strangers. I signed up for the New Warrior Training Adventure of the ManKind Project. And I googled Tantra retreats in Europe and signed up for three of them that somehow resonated.
In retrospect, I see these actions, signing up for a few retreats and going to events that scared me, as the beginning of my path. Back then, I had no idea what I was getting into. And I almost did not care anymore. I just knew I had to do something.
Sex: Why so Much Fear?
As I wrote, I was absolutely terrified to have sex with anyone. I realized this when I considered creating a Tinder profile and felt deep fear and resistance. I tried to understand what I was afraid of. Texting with someone, meeting, having a conversation, trying to be charming, all that did not seem so terrible. What scared me was that a date might actually lead to physical intimacy and to sex. The very thing I longed for was what terrified me to death. When imagining such an encounter, I could not stop thinking about failure. Failure seemed inevitable. Failure meant that I would ejaculate within a very short time. And generally act “inadequately”.
Feeling inadequate. Such a powerful fear of mine in general. And in the deep intimacy of sexuality, the idea of not knowing how to act, not performing well, of failing to please someone, of being exposed as inadequate and inexperienced, of being rejected, froze my blood. In sexuality, I could not excel with my mind, wear a mask, be good. I knew I could not. And it seemed impossible to expose myself to that.
I knew how failure felt. When I was fifteen, I had a girlfriend and we decided to have sex. It was to be the first time for me (and I guess for her, but we did not talk about that). I was very sure of myself, in about every aspect of life. I masked a deep uncertainty with arrogance. When we were naked, I put on a condom. I ejaculated immediately, without even getting close to her. I still cringe when I think of this moment: I froze, and something shifted in me. I simply did not speak about it. I did not try again. And I built stories in my head that blamed her for what had happened. I treated her like shit to keep her at a distance, until she broke up with me. Somewhere in me, I knew from then on that I was a failure (and ran after every possibility for hearing from anyone that I was worthy).
For the next four years, I stayed almost completely out of any form of physical intimacy. I made out with girls two or three times, but I stayed far from getting naked and having sex. I spent all my money and energy on weed and smoked tons of it. I listened to and played metal and developed a deep attraction for darkness. These years feel like a fog in my head when trying to remember details. The next time I tried to have sex was when I was nineteen and spent a couple of months in Ghana after finishing High School. I sort of had a Ghanian girlfriend and we ended up being in her room and getting naked and when I was putting on the condom, I lost my erection. I acted with the same pattern. Resentment, secretly blaming her, resenting myself at the same time. Not trying again.
I kept being really scared of women, and finding physical intimacy seemed impossible. But somehow, when I was twenty-one, I got together with what would become my partner for more than ten years. The first time we tried to have sex, I ejaculated the moment I entered her, but there was such a force pulling us together that I kept trying, and sex sort of worked after that. “Sort of” because I feel I never truly let go of that feeling of failure, and except in rare moments, never fully connected to my pleasure. Sex was never just fun or light or beautiful. And it normally did not last very long. Also, I felt the need to perform and please and satisfy my partner, and felt completely inadequate in that. I also was terrified to really communicate what I felt and needed (and I think I would not even have had words for half of what I write now). So with the years, we simply had less and less sex, and the sex we had did not evolve. I knew this, and I always thought I or we should do something about it, but it never was the right moment. And mostly, I closed my eyes (and held a deep frustration somewhere deep inside and still directed my energy at doing everything so people told me I am worthy, I am good, I am something).
Coming out of that relationship with the only person I had ever had sex with, at the age of thirty-one, I had never experienced something like confidence or ease in sexuality. I was convinced that if I tried to sleep with anyone I would ejaculate extremely fast. And that my lack of sexual experience made me completely inadequate for any sexual encounter. That I could never please a woman. I felt that if I tried to have sex, someone would certainly expose all that, and that this would also expose that I am generally nothing and completely worthless. It really felt as if I might die if that happened.
Desperation Is a Powerful Motivator: How I Found Tantra
Yet, I also really wanted to have sex (and, I suspect, even more just intimacy and love). So my motivation was strong enough to google about premature ejaculation (I oppose that wording now, but it sort of helped). First, I was astonished to find out that I was not alone. There was a whole world of suffering men out there. And a lot of people offering advice. Or selling it (it turns out men are very desperate about this while being terrified to talk to someone, and desperate humans who rely only on the virtual realm are a great market). I bought one of the many e-books that promise salvation. And I ordered a “Stamina Training Unit”. Yes, it is what you imagine: a plastic pussy (inside a ridiculous case shaped like a huge flashlight, hence the brand’s name “fleshlight”; probably at the same time the funniest and one of the saddest words I encountered on this path). The e-book contained the same basic tips you find on most websites discussing how to delay ejaculation, and generously offered links to buy the one powder that will re-balance my hormones and really solve this for good; luckily, it seems I was less desperate than some. The fleshlight feels amazing (for a dead thing) and I guess if someone uses it a lot and follows a training schedule, that might help somewhat. I never got that far. I used it a few times, but somehow my capacity for bullshitting myself decreased rapidly in those days. I started to suspect that while getting more used to the physical sensation of “flesh” surrounding my cock might help a little with prolonging intercourse, those deep fears I started to unearth might require a bit more profound digging.
I had come across the word “Tantra” many years before. I do not remember where and how. And I actually knew almost nothing about it. I remember I had read about a practice of slow sex and always wanted to try that but never did. Somehow, that seemed worthwhile my efforts now, and I googled a bit. It is a confusing world out there when you type “Tantra” in google, and it is hard to get a sense of what Tantra is from such a search. But where sexuality was involved, it seemed to somehow be related to deepening intimacy, to really long intercourse, and some websites emphasized not ejaculating. Apparently, there are men who experience orgasms without ejaculating. And apparently, you can learn to do that, too. I was intrigued. And scared as fuck. But as I said, my desperation was a really strong motivator at this point, and I made a list of all workshops and retreats I could find in Europe in the next few months. And signed up to three of them quite randomly. I was aware that this might not be the soundest strategy to find exactly what was right for me, but then I had no idea what exactly I was looking for. And I thought I knew no one I could ask for recommendations.
So on Friday, the 3rd of March 2017, I traveled from Amsterdam to the retreat center Meeuwenveen for my first contact with Tantra: the weekend workshop “Four Pillars of Tantra” by House of Tantra. I stepped off the bus and started to walk on a road through a forest. The few minutes it took me to reach the retreat center felt like hours. I cursed myself. I resented myself for being such a pussy. But I could not help it: I desperately wanted to go back home. I prayed that no one would be there. That I messed up the dates. And at the same time, I knew with every fiber of my body that I needed to do this. I reached the house, I walked through the door, and my life changed forever. I resent the sentimentality of these words, but that is how it feels. It is not that I was free of my fears and patterns and limiting beliefs after a weekend, far from that. But the experiences I made there set free a sense of adventure and curiosity, a sense of feeling alive, that drove me ever since.
For a tantra retreat, it was a gentle start. Without intimate touch, without nakedness, without anyone being particularly sexual in front of or with me. The focus was on embodying different polarities, on our own and in energetic connection with others. I felt things in my body I had never dreamed possible. I felt power running through me. I felt connected to something bigger than myself. I met people who were raw and free and who seemed so very unafraid of life. People who were authentic and vulnerable and honest and confronting and scary and loving and caring. I met men who were wild beasts and at the same time the softest and warmest humans I had ever met. I met women who celebrated their sexuality without shame. I felt inadequate (of course!) due to my complete lack of knowledge and experience (it turned out to be a very experienced group). I tried to hide (people did not let me). I felt accepted despite all that. I even felt honest appreciation of my presence. And the most beautiful woman there (whom I avoided as much as I could because my attraction to her intimidated me) came up to me and invited me to practice the Wheel of Consent with her after the workshop.
This experience cracked me open. I started to feel alive. And less afraid. It opened up a deep curiosity. I wanted more. A lot more. I realized I had learned nothing about how to have great sex, even less about ejaculation. Yet somehow that did not seem so important anymore. Suddenly, there was this whole world of exciting experiences out there waiting for me to explore. So much to learn. So much life to live.
It Is Not Just About Sex
Two weeks after this first Tantra retreat, I participated in a New Warrior Training Adventure (NWTA) organized by ManKind Project Germany. The NWTA is a modern initiation into manhood (and it is not Tantra and not sexual). I had heard about it a couple of years earlier, from a friend who participated. Back then, my reaction to it was the same as to anything slightly spiritual or confronting: rejection based on the notion that I knew myself very well already, and that this certainly was not for me. Now, in the period when I felt like shit every day and created a list of all Tantra retreats in Europe, I somehow also thought that a bit more masculine power might be beneficial to me.
I literally had no idea what to expect (this is a deliberate part of the experience), and I came with low expectations. Having just experienced the intense opening through Tantra, I felt very powerful and unafraid. But the NWTA cracked me open, too – in a very different way. It brought me many things, but three that stick with me: True connection to other men, based on deep vulnerability, love, support, honesty. The power I can access when I do not deny parts of myself I normally keep in the shadow, such as anger, but also sadness. And the experience and understanding of a core wound of mine that expresses itself in a belief: If I am not better (than I currently am), I am not loved. I got the opportunity to really feel that wound, deep in my body. And to face it. To take it out of the shadow and carry it in front of me henceforth. I got to see and understand how this wound affected my life, my actions, my inactions – particularly, how much I bent myself at every opportunity to please, to be good, to fulfill (suspected) expectations of others and thus gain their love. And I learned that when I am truly honest, when I am not wearing a mask, not bending myself, I was still loved and appreciated – even more than before, and in a more honest way, too. And through that, I felt a first spark of that magical ingredient on the way to authenticity: Self-love (embracing everything I am).
So That Is Why
In the weeks after those two experiences, I started to see how everything in my life (and beyond) is related, how what I had experienced as fears and anxieties related to sexuality were an expression of something deeper, something that also affected all other areas of my life. Since then, I never stopped looking. Not just to dive deeper in sexuality and what lies at the heart of my actions, emotions, feelings, anxieties. But deeper into the great mystery of what it means to be human, to be alive.
The path that keeps emerging from that is incredibly beautiful, it is challenging, it is painful, and it keeps surprising me. It has many twists and turns. It has taken me to the most amazing experiences and it has brought me together with wonderful people. Sometimes, I dive deeper in an intentional setting such as a retreat, sometimes I have the biggest realization or release when having a conversation, when sitting in a bus or crossing a street. Some of what I keep exploring is related to sexuality, some of it not. In all of it, what keeps driving me stays the same at the core since the “beginning”: A deep curiosity. And the belief that this life is worth living to the fullest, meaning to feel it all, to keep growing, to drop my guards ever more and dive as deep into existence as I can.
One day, I will write about some more of the experiences I made on this path, some of the insights I have gained, and the certainties I have lost. You will find those words here once they are ripe.
