St. Brene Brown

As a sex therapist, I hear one sentence more often than almost any other:

“I thought it was just me.”

I hear it from the woman who has never had an orgasm and believes her body is broken.
From the man who loses his erection and feels like he has failed the test of masculinity.
From the couple who have not had sex in months and assume everyone else is swinging from the chandeliers.
From the person who loves their partner but does not want sex as often as they “should.”
From the survivor who freezes during touch and wonders why their body will not simply cooperate.
From the client who wants something sexually, but is terrified that wanting it means something is wrong with them.

That is why Brené Brown’s I Thought It Was Just Me (but it isn’t): Making the Journey from “What Will People Think?” to “I Am Enough” is so relevant to sex therapy, even though it is not a book about sex. Brown’s book examines shame, perfectionism, vulnerability, and the cultural messages that teach people to hide the parts of themselves they fear will be judged. We spend enormous energy managing how others see us, and many of us hide behind perfection to avoid shame, criticism, and blame.

In the therapy room, that hiding has a body. It shows up as avoidance, silence, resentment, performance, pain, and as “I’m fine” when someone is not fine at all.

Often, it shows up in bed. Most people think sexual shame is about what they do or do not do sexually. Sexual shame is not simply, “I feel embarrassed about sex.” It is the felt sense that something about my body, desire, arousal, history, orientation, fantasies, performance, needs, limits, or pleasure makes me defective. That distinction matters.

Sexual shame is especially powerful because sexuality is so closely tied to identity, attachment, body image, morality, gender, desirability, trauma, religion, belonging, and power. When shame enters sexuality, it rarely stays contained. It spreads.

A person may begin with one painful thought: “I don’t like my body.” Then it becomes: “My partner probably doesn’t want me.” Then: “I should avoid being seen naked.” Then: “I should get sex over with quickly.” Then: “I am not a real woman,” or “I am not a real man,” or “I am too much,” or “I am not enough.” By the time someone arrives in sex therapy, the original concern may be buried under years of protective strategies.

That is the heart of why I Thought It Was Just Me matters in sex therapy. Brown’s book helps name the force that keeps so many people isolated in silence. It reminds us that shame thrives when people believe they are alone, and it weakens when met with empathy, language, and connection. Sexual healing often begins with the same realization.

It was not just me. I was not the only one. My body was not broken beyond repair. My desire was not evidence against me. My fear made sense. My silence had a history. My needs deserved language. From there, something new becomes possible. Not perfect sex, constant desire, or effortless confidence, but sex that is more honest, more embodied, more mutual, and less governed by fear.

In my office, that is usually where the real work begins.