TW: The mention of Abuse
There’s something strangely powerful about learning—how it can give you the language to name experiences you once moved through in silence. It’s one thing to live a moment; it’s another to look back with new understanding and realize what you didn’t know you needed at the time.
Lately, as I’ve been deepening my BDSM learning, I’ve found myself returning to old scenes, conversations, and situations with fresh eyes, especially around the topics of negotiation and trauma-informed communication. Out of all the memories that surfaced, one stood out the most. A scene I once brushed off. One that I thought I had understood.
But now, with what I’ve been learning about consent, power dynamics, and emotional safety, I see the cracks in it—the kind that careful, intentional negotiation could’ve filled.This blog isn’t just a reflection. It’s a reckoning. A chance to sit with that moment again, not as the version of myself who lived through it, but as the version of myself who finally understood what she needed.
And I want to start off by saying this isn’t about blaming him or me. This is about awareness. It is not to bash the Dom in any way whatsoever. I do not blame him for how the scene played itself out, this is all a reflection and seeing how things could have been done better, if anything, this can be seen as constructive criticism, for him and me. But mainly for me, because I am doing this to see what I could have done better/differently. It's about honouring my growth and recognizing where I fell short.
It was our first time meeting in person, after months in a long-distance dynamic. We finished at our first spot and went to the second location. It was a park, we were meant to go for a walk around the park, talk, and feel each other out. But the weather had its own plans, and it unexpectedly started raining. So, we ended up staying in the car. The light raindrops outside paired with some playful flirting mixed with pent-up tension and desire led to a firm hand around my throat, tongue in my mouth, and a hand under my pretty white dress, squeezed between my thighs.
He pulled away from the kiss to tell me to open my legs—I didn’t move. He asked again. And again. And I still didn’t. Not out of defiance. Not because I didn’t want to. But because my body betrayed me. I froze, and so he pulled back. The moment slipped away. We spoke. We moved to the backseat, spoke some more and eventually, the scene unfolded—but the silence from earlier lingered like smoke that wouldn’t clear.
Later, in our debrief, he told me I was a freeze-type sub. He explained the freeze, fight, and flight framework. That he couldn’t read me. That my silence unsettled him. He said he’d never engaged with a sub who froze, and at that moment, he didn’t know how to read me. He couldn’t tell if I was okay, afraid, turned off, uncertain. To him, it seemed I couldn’t meet his intensity. That I pulled away from that moment.
And your girl? Oh boy! I was fighting tooth and nail. I was practically fuming, trying to convince him that wasn’t me. I felt angry, rejected even. I just wanted him to see me—really see me. But in the end, I gave up, shrugged my shoulders, and believed him. I remember thinking later on that night, I wish I’d told him—“I get awkward when I’m nervous. I joke. I act quirky ten times more than I usually am. I am just trying to distract myself from the nervousness inside. That’s just me. It doesn’t mean I can’t take what you dish out.” I felt like a misunderstood kid labelled “troublesome,” begging for someone to believe, “I can be good.” Anyway… I digress.
At the time, I gave reasons for why I froze. And they weren’t lies—they were part of the truth:
It was my nerves, because it was our first meeting, and my expectations were set way lower than reality played out.
It was the setting, because I didn’t like that our first time was going to be in a parking lot, not somewhere soft or safe or sacred.
It was the awareness, because I noticed the security guard who would walk past every now and then, and my brain couldn’t settle. Which, again they were true but not entirely. Those weren’t the whole truth. Not even close.
The real reason, however, was the echo of old trauma—because I’ve been in a car before, in a moment I didn’t choose. And my body remembered that. So, while my mind was spinning, tangled between trauma and wanting, my body did what it knew to do when overwhelmed—it froze.
Not to rebel. Not to reject. But it couldn’t reconcile all the noise inside.
That freeze was an old friend of mine. A reflex. It’s how I used to survive my abuser. Back then, when something sudden happened—when I was touched without warning or permission, or his abuse came by surprise because I thought it would be one of those days that I would be spared, but I wasn’t—my body would go limp, stiff, still. It was the only way to make it through what I didn’t consent to. So now, even in a scene where I did want the person, and the man before my eyes was a man I felt safe with, where there was trust, that same survival instinct came back the moment the energy shifted. It wasn’t what he did—it was how fast it happened. There was no build-up, no transition. Just sudden intensity. I felt caught off guard, and my body remembered the past before my mind could ground itself in the present. So even though I said I was okay, my body was not, and it showed. So yes, I did freeze, but for something more complex than I thought.
Looking back now, I know what happened. I was triggered. Not the kind of trigger that makes you spiral into panic. But the subtle kind—the kind that quietly hijacks your body while your mind tries to pretend everything’s fine. That car scene mirrored the way my abuser used to ambush me. The suddenness. The instructions I didn’t want to follow. The way my abuser expected my obedience, and the shame I carried when I didn’t give in.
So when he told me to open my legs, it wasn’t just a dominant giving a command—it was my trauma whispering, “You do know how this ends, right?”. My body froze because it remembered something I hadn’t yet acknowledged. And instead of telling him that—telling myself that—I covered it up with sarcasm and quirky awkwardness. Defence mechanisms dressed up like personality traits.
But here is a kicker: part of me didn’t open my legs because part of me wanted to be made to. Because the part of me that yearns to be dominated didn’t want to give over control so easily. It wanted to be taken. Claimed. Not gently coaxed but commanded beyond resistance. It’s twisted, I know. But that’s the truth of it. That’s why the moment is so complex
It wasn’t just trauma. It was desire. Wrapped around fear. Survival instincts tangled up with longing. Barbed wire made of both “yes” and “not like this.” That is why I couldn’t just sum it up by one label. It’s not just about being a “freeze” sub. It is about the gap between what I think I want and how I actually respond. And all the contributing factors—desire, past pain, arousal, fear, shame—they all played a part in how I reacted. It’s not just about past pain. It is about what happens when a moment triggers a response rooted in abuse—but coloured now with desire, with control, with consensual intensity.
Week two of my BDSM syllabus hit me hard. Consent. Boundaries. Negotiation. But more importantly, trauma-informed negotiation. It made me realize how much we skipped, or rather skimmed over, it. I did mention my history with abuse but we never “sat down” and dissected the trauma that shapes my responses. We never talked about what makes me shut down. What signs to look out for. What can quiet really mean? I didn’t tell him enough. He didn’t ask enough. We both assumed too much.
And maybe that’s the most dangerous thing in power exchange: assumptions. Assuming silence means “I’m okay.” Assuming nervousness isn’t trauma. Assuming that if something was wrong, I’d speak up.
If I had the tools I have now, I would’ve spoken up. Not just in the moment, but before it. I would’ve told him, “Sometimes, I freeze. Not because I don’t want it, but because there’s a part of me that remembers being made to submit. And that memory makes it hard to know what’s real and what’s safe.” I would’ve given him a roadmap. And maybe he would’ve followed it or not. But at least, I would’ve spoken my truth.
And that’s what week two of my BDSM studies reminded me: trauma needs to be thoroughly discussed. Not brushed past. Not hinted at. Discussed. In depth. Openly. With tears, if necessary. Because while my then Dom wasn’t responsible for my freeze response, our lack of deeper conversation was a shared failure. We touched the surface of my past, but didn’t dive it. And you can’t build safe play on shallow waters.
So now, I offer this to you.
Doms: What do you do when a sub freezes? Can you tell the difference between nerves and trauma? Do you ask?
Subs: When you feel awkward, withdrawn, or quiet… what’s underneath that? Is it shyness? Or something deeper?
If you’ve never had these conversations with your partners, maybe give it a try. Because BDSM isn’t just about power. It’s about safety in that power. It’s about truth-telling and tenderness and knowing how to navigate the shadows as much as the light.
And if you’re like me—still learning, still unlearning, and untangling your survival from your submission—just know this:
You’re not broken. You’re becoming.
xoxo
Nirvana