I hadn’t had sex with my partner for months and was ready to leave. Then I asked the questions all middle-aged women dread… and everything changed

‘But you’re a sex therapist!’ my friend Betty shrieked.

Having known me for almost 20 years, she was stunned to learn that my partner and I had had sex only once that entire year. To be honest, so was I. 

It had got so bad, I was ready to leave him in order to reconnect with myself and desire. 

I loved sex – the study of it, the sounds, the smell, the feel, and, of course, the pleasure.

But, over time, I’d somehow lost my connection to physical intimacy. It happened because of everything and nothing. There was no one thing to point at because there were many seemingly small or insignificant reasons.

I wondered if I was starting perimenopause? 

Brooke Shields, Halle Berry, and Naomi Watts have all spoken openly about how menopause has impacted their sex lives. 

Maybe it was because I’d gained some weight? Maybe I was bored? 

It was as if sex were an old friend and we’d fallen out of contact, only to barely recognize each other anymore. I missed it, thought of it fondly, wondered what it would feel like to be connected again, but hadn’t prioritized it.

The last time my partner and I were intimate was already six months previously. Before that, it had been ten months. 

It’s not like we hadn’t discussed our once-hot-now-languishing sex life. It was a conversation we had regularly, and while there was no one to blame, there didn’t seem to be an answer or solution and both of us were left unsatisfied – emotionally and physically.

In the days and weeks that followed my conversation with Betty, I started talking with more friends about it. My friend group is not shy and we talk about sex with ease, but it hadn’t been a regular conversation for a long time.

A few were unhappily married, and one was gearing up for divorce. Another was on a fertility journey to become a single mom by choice. A few of my other friends had stopped dating to focus on work or because they were tired of the dating apps and taking a break.

Most of us, in an unconscious pact of solidarity, were in a sexless funk.

We were part of a much bigger picture that makes up a worldwide sex recession.

There’s never been a younger generation less interested in sex than this one.

But it’s not just younger people who are avoiding sex.

More than 30 per cent of couples who’ve been together more than two years are in sexless relationships – having sex six or less times a year.

Having no sex is the new sex.

But that wasn’t good enough for me. I decided I was going to search for a way through that emptiness and reconnect with my sexuality.

What was going on with me? What was going on in my relationship? It turned out, a lot.

What’s with me? 

Being a sex therapist is actually a second career for me. My original degree is in marketing, and I initially worked in insurance and employee benefits. 

But, as a longtime fan of true crime shows, forensic psychology fascinated me. And so the early part of my therapy career was spent working in prisons with high-risk sex offenders, before going into private practice, specializing in sex addiction and sexual trauma, along with other relationship issues.

I know that sex is complicated; that desire is fluid and dynamic, and that it fluctuates over time. 

Body image, previous trauma, anxiety, depression, medical factors, major life events, or stress can all have an impact.

Conflicts, impasses in communication, emotional distance, or questions about trust can also temporarily reduce a partner’s desire. If you’re fighting with your partner about things big or small and there is insufficient repair, that can lead to slumps. 

I say this not to assign blame. But looking inward can empower you to find some control as you move forward, asking deep questions such as: Who am I? Am I burned out? Am I numb? Am I angry or bitter?

These issues were my responsibility to address, at least initially. We can’t control our partners. What we can do is look at our part.

So, as much as I loved my partner, I’d stopped seeing him as a sexual being. Our relationship had gotten to a point where he was like a friend, roommate, or family member, not a lover.

That was on both of us. Living and working together from home had us blending into the wallpaper – we stopped really seeing each other. Romance and sexuality had been replaced with logistics, Netflix binges, and conversations about whether the dog had pooped. Or whether we had pooped. Not sexy.

What’s with our relationship? 

Every relationship has ups and downs, and even healthy partners go through growing pains and chapters that feel off, but having unresolved or recurring ruptures (conflicts that create distance between you) can make it difficult to stay emotionally or sexually connected. 

So much of what kept my sex life stuck was an uncertainty about how much of what was shifting was ‘my’ stuff, and how much was ‘our’ stuff. 

We both had personal baggage we brought to our dynamic, and we were both separately navigating uncharted territory in our growth. But even though our individual work was our own to sift though, it inevitably had an impact on our relationship. 

We understood our dynamic differently and felt different levels of urgency about addressing it, which further complicated our waning desire. 

I deeply resented the feeling that his efforts to work on our relationship were taking too long.

So a loss of libido is not always a sign of relationship woes, but relationship woes can and often do get in the way of libido. 

Ask yourself (and each other) questions like: Am I safe? Do I have to say yes? Do I feel desired or objectified? Are we compatible? Am I partner or parent? Are we even attracted to each other?

Relationships evolve over time and periodically benefit from reevaluation. After a few months of feeling no interest in sex with my partner and feeling no desire or attempts to initiate from him either, I asked him: ‘Are you even attracted to me anymore?’

When we first connected, we both eagerly initiated sex. We reveled in how great our sex life was together – the most synergistic sexual pairing we’d each experienced. 

But when the lockdown started, we were suddenly living together, and he started initiating sex less and less. 

After I dropped my bombshell question, my partner immediately assured me he was attracted to me, but that he didn’t feel sexy. We’d become a little too comfortable ordering in dinner and watching TV after work. 

Without our usual routines at the gym, both of our bodies changed. The change in lifestyle, energy, and the experience of living in bodies that felt different really affected how we both felt in our own skin. 

What we did about it 

Everything changed when I stopped making sex such a big deal and instead really listened to my body.

I decided to stop trying and to start reevaluating my priorities. What was my body saying yes to, in lieu of sex? A few things came to mind immediately. Sleep was at the top of my list.

Perimenopause had wrecked my ability to sleep through the night, and my energy levels were depleted. I was exhausted, and my body had nothing to give. Arousal was nonessential, so I had no energy for sex.

I listened to my body and slept more, planning days on the couch and days when no one could contact me.

After eventually being prescribed hormone replacement, I was sleeping better, though I still had no desire for partnered sex.

But solo sex was available, and I gave myself permission to take the time to reacquaint myself with old fantasies.

My love for my partner never changed, but I felt called to tend to myself more. 

We agreed to be together when it suited us and to take space when we needed it in order to focus on our own goals and growth. We accepted that perhaps these few years were just not going to be our most sexual years.

Paradoxically, the decision to surrender to the powerlessness we felt in the face of our frustrations gave us more control. Stepping back into our foundation of friendship gave us space to redefine our romantic and sexual relationship.

It also gave me space to address other priorities, like getting back into the habit of exercising. I made a commitment to myself to prioritize the projects I was passionate about and to return to practicing daily movement.

Prioritizing the non-sexual things in my life that felt meaningful reduced my stress and opened the room to be in relationship with my body and pleasure.

Listening to my body gave me a path back to myself: back to my feelings – all of them, even the messy ones – and back to movement, which felt like freedom and, eventually, pleasure.

During this time, we talked a lot about our relationship, about what was working and what wasn’t. We began to collaborate more effectively, focusing less on what we ‘should’ do and more on simply how to be together.

Taking this emotional space away from the problem of our sex life allowed us to enjoy each other’s company differently. 

Eventually, we revisited the topic of sex, but this time without an agenda or a plan. Instead, we explored our fantasies out loud without fretting if one or both of us had no interest in entertaining them in the moment.

Little by little, our resistance to being sexual together gave way to intimate touch and innuendo. This shift came from a place of want – not obligation or expectation. It had taken work and time, but finally, we both started to feel authentic desire again.

Excerpted from What Happened to My Sex Life?: A Sex Therapist’s Guide to Reclaiming Lost Desire, Connection, and Pleasure by Dr Kate Balestrieri is published by The Experiment. Dr Balestrieri is founder of Modern Intimacy