This resilient story is about how my mother pressured me to lose my virginity because she thought I was too old to still be a virgin. Losing one’s virginity should be something they decide to do on their own when the time is right. Not something they feel pressured to do by others.

It also took me a long time to realize that my first time having sexual intercourse was considered sexual assault. To this day, I still shoulder some of the blame because I should have known better than to go along with my mom’s crazy plan.

Before we dive into the story, let’s look at how prevalent sexual assault is.

Losing Your Virginity When it Isn’t Your Choice

The journey of healing and resilience in the aftermath of sexual assault is a profound testament to the human spirit’s enduring strength. Despite the harrowing statistics that indicate the prevalence of this trauma, survivors’ stories are not just about the assault; they are about the incredible journey of recovery, empowerment, and transformation.

The National Sexual Violence Resource Center reports that one in five women in the United States experienced completed or attempted rape during their lifetime. While this statistic does not directly address virginity loss, it underscores the significant number of women affected by sexual violence​.

The lack of specific data on virginity loss because of sexual assault may be because of several factors, including the private nature of such experiences, variations in how virginity is defined and understood culturally (i.e. form of penetration, vaginal and anal sex, etc.), and challenges in reporting and data collection related to sexual violence.

Yet, these numbers only scratch the surface of the issue, as many cases go unreported. This article aims to shed light on the resilience and courage of survivors, offering hope and solidarity to those who are navigating this hard path.

My Mom Orchestrated The Loss of My Virginity As One of Her First Acts of Parenting After Being Reunited

It felt like my mother always found me lacking — starting from the day she abandoned me at five. Now, years later, when we were reunited, she seemed flabbergasted that I was nearly 18 years old and still a virgin.

She blamed this “dilemma” on my grandma’s stifling style of child-rearing. However, I couldn’t help but feel like she really thought the problem was me. I was too safe and boring.

I had spent years wondering why she was incapable of keeping promises. She never seemed to love me enough to stay, and now the reasons seemed clear. I stood there not even 18 years old — with a college degree, great grades, and not so much as a detention on my record, and it was not enough.

My successes didn’t inspire awe in the woman who lived life on the precipices of danger. She acted like it was completely normal to abandon your child for a life of crime and then come in at the 11th hour and encourage her to have sex for the first time.

The little girl, buried under my perfect shell, screamed that she had always been right. It was my fault that mommy left all those years ago. I had to make sure she loved me. Losing my virginity seemed like a small price to pay.

My bookish, controlled self knew this was a terrible idea. I told her about my few moments of badassery rebellion, hoping they might impress her.

I had skipped my college English class (that I took at age 15) to play pool with my high school crush (also 15 and in college). She gawked at me like I was an alien, so I made sure she knew this boy drove a Mustang (the epitome of badassery rebellion).

You can watch my in-person interview about this on our YouTube Channel.

None of This Impressed Her

That did not wow her, so I told her about when I had written him a love letter about how I wanted to kiss him. (I decided against kissing him at the last moment and then read him my letter instead.)

She laughed, and I felt like the damage I had spent years trying to hide from the world lit up like a flashing neon sign. This made me more nervous, so I started babbling about the fact that I had a boyfriend a year later, even though I wasn’t supposed to.

We made out a lot, so surely that counted for something. The look of disappointment she gave me was worse than the ones I had gotten from other high school students and hurt so much more.

“Don’t worry, it will all be fine. You’re going to have fun.”

And then she laid out her plan:

“I know the bartender at The Wild West, and I will tell him you just graduated from college.”

Technically, this was a true statement.

“And then, I’ll say you just moved back here and lost your license in the packing, but you’re my daughter, and you are 21!”

Most People With Any Sense Would Think This Would Never Work

This plan sounded ridiculous to me, but I went along with it because it shouldn’t have worked.

I mean, there are rules and laws about this kind of thing. I was, and still am, a firm believer in the “right way” to do something. Her plan sounded like some teenage folly that would get us kicked out and sent home. I was a total stranger to these kinds of teenage antics, and it intrigued a small part of me.

So, I humored her while she styled my hair and did my makeup. I wore the outfit she whipped up from her closet. She told me to throw my glasses in my purse and only put them on if I needed them.

It was like a scene from some Twilight Zone version of The Princess Diaries, yet it felt so good to do “mom and daughter things,” that I didn’t spend too much time worrying about what was happening.

Before I processed how crazy this was, we were at the bar.

She waltzes in like she is the owner of the establishment and strikes up a conversation with her bartender buddy. I keep thinking: I’m standing in a bar at 17, wearing clothes my grandma would have never let me out of the house wearing, about to break the law.

My heart is racing and my mind is trying to process all the stimuli of a busy dance club. My inner nerd is shouting that the lights are too bright, the music too loud, and the people too close. Yet, part of my DNA that had lain dormant for years was too busy reveling in the adrenaline rushing through my veins.

The bartender asked me when my birthday was, and with an ease that shocked me, I lied:

July 2, 1980

He whips up these two fruity drinks from thin air and sets them down in front of us. It exhilarated my newfound inner adrenaline junkie.

Holy shit! It worked! This is the coolest thing ever!

Meanwhile, the logical part of my brain doesn’t understand any of this. Is it really this easy to get served alcohol in a bar as a minor? Not just under 21, but an actual minor. I felt lied to about why I should follow the rules; it was so easy to break them, and there were no consequences.

The Vast Majority of Women Do Not Engage in Real Talk About Losing Their Virginity

Looking back on this situation with the eyes of a grown woman and not an impossibly naïve child, I realize I had completely underestimated my mother. My mother was gorgeous and charismatic, a destructive combination considering she was also intelligent and compelling.

It wouldn’t take more than a few drinks to get me plastered that night. I had a few more than the few it took to get to that point. Then, for good measure, I had just a few more.

During the first few rounds of drinks, a man came over and sat with us. I think his name was Vance. Or Lance, or maybe Vinnie? I believe he initially came over to speak with my mom (they were much closer in age than he and I were). However, my mom was not as drunk as I was, and she remembered the goal of the evening.

Somehow, the conversation turned to the purpose of our visit to the bar that night. He and I ended up chatting, and from what little I recall, it was a pleasant conversation.

After about an hour, my mom suggested it was time he and I leave the bar.

That inner adrenaline junkie was all in. That part of me wanted to get out of this bar with a stranger and forget all about being me.

Being the real me was painful and pathetic and unlovable… leavable. This new me from the bar was fun, daring, and everything that my mother wanted me to be. I headed back to his house without batting an eye rather than asking myself things like:

• How am I going to get home?
• Does he have any birth control?
• What was his sexual history?
• Does he have any sexually transmitted infections?

Or pointing out things like:

• If something happens to me, Mom won’t know where to look.
• Alcohol affects the ability to communicate clearly.
• He has been drinking and shouldn’t be driving.

It has been over 20 years since that night, and I still am not sure how I feel about it. He thought he was leaving the bar with a 21-year-old woman who wanted to have sex. Not a 17-year-old who was wasted, angry, rebellious, and feeling free for the first time.

A girl who so desperately wanted to feel like she belonged with her mother but had already begun to doubt her decision to stay here.

I remember that I enjoyed most of the evening at his house. He was in his 30s and knew much more about this than I did — much more than the few boys I had made out with, for sure.

I experienced a sense of freedom that was foreign and heady. I just wanted to be liberated, released from the shackles of my childhood, independent of the overbearing parental figure, disengaged from the fact that my mother was an idiot, and freed from the walls I had spent years building.

Everything about me in this moment indicated I was the wild child I was pretending to be.

My First Sexual Experience Included Me Saying ‘No’

But then I clearly remember saying “no” at literally the very last opportunity. I remember being shushed gently and told something very similar to:

“Don’t worry; it will all be fine. It is totally normal to be a little anxious. But you’re going to have fun.”

I know this man thought I was 21 and likely believed that what I was feeling was just some anxiety about my first experience with penetrative sex. It was not his fault I lied about my age or got too drunk to think straight.

So, I always gave him a pass in my mind. He seemed like a nice guy, and he was concerned with my sexual pleasure. He also used a condom to prevent pregnancy and practice disease control.

However, I was too drunk to consent. And I said no. I have told both my children, who are 20 and 15 (a girl and a boy), that when your partner says no, you stop. You do not try to make them feel pressured or try to change their mind. When you or your partner say no, absolutely nothing should happen other than the other person involved stopping.

When it was all over, I remember falling asleep with tears in my eyes. Those tears were more because I had read hundreds of romance novels and envisioned how I wanted my first time to be. I wanted to lose my virginity to the right person. Someone I was in an actual relationship with. Someone I loved.

My mother didn’t listen when I explained that to her.

He took me home in the morning, and we never saw one another again. My mother was in a panic when I got back. I guess some remnant of maternal instinct kicked in, and she realized she didn’t know where I was or how to help me if I needed it.

I Learned Some Valuable Life Lessons from The Night I Lost My Virginity

My virginity status was not something to be ashamed of. It shouldn’t have mattered that my sexual activities were almost nonexistent. By the way, according to the CDC, the average age for first-time sex, referring to penetrative intercourse, is 17.3 years for women.

She should have been proud of me for many things that had nothing to do with my sexual experience. My mother should have offered some kind of sex education, explained what happens when you lose your virginity, and taught me that my body is mine.

I learned to appreciate feeling wild and free sometimes. However, I also learned not to put myself in a situation I can’t escape. I hope I have taught that one to my daughter. She knows I am here for her questions about sexual intercourse, birth control, and being sexually active.

Now, there is no right or wrong way to lose your virginity. Unless your choice is taken away from you, this includes violent sexual assault or something more subtle, like what happened to me. If you want a one-night stand, have one; just be smart. If you want a relationship, then wait until the time is right.

The most freeing lesson of all took me a few more years to grasp. Her leaving me as a child had never been my fault. There was a reason that my mother left, and I wouldn’t be who I am had she stayed.

Every Woman’s Virginity Story Is Personal

Our stories of losing virginity are not the same.

Maybe it was everything you wanted it to be, but you realized you had a medical condition that made sex feel uncomfortable. Or perhaps you are a survivor of sexual assault from a danger. Maybe you were on a date and were drugged. Or maybe, it was a wonderful moment between you and someone special, and you felt the normal physical discomfort associated with vaginal sex for the first time.

It is important to know that the path to recovery for survivors of sexual assault is as diverse as the individuals themselves.

The resilience demonstrated by survivors is nothing short of remarkable, a beacon of hope in the face of adversity. It’s crucial to remember that resilience is not about ‘getting over’ the trauma but about finding a way to live with it and grow from the experience.

My virginity story was not the special and memorable moment I hoped it would be. However, I grew up to have a wonderful marriage with a healthy sex life. I also feel like I learned a lot from this experience that helped me be a better parent and navigate tough conversations with my children.

If you ever had a similar experience with non-consensual sex, I would love to hear from you. Please reach out in the comment section.

Also, one thing I have found that helped me on my healing journey and has continued to help is being creative. Take a look at some of the mindful, healing, adult coloring pages I have created!