I have always felt like I had to return sexual advances, even if I didn’t want to. It’s as if there's this invisible contract I signed without knowing. Like a whisper in my mind that tells me it’s expected of me, that it’s my role, that I owe it. It’s a heavy sense of obligation that settles deep, making it hard to even question it. I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. My experiences are not inherently unique, but they are mine, and the weight of them is something I’ve carried silently for years. This feeling of “having to”—this sense of obligation—is woven from threads of rejection, loneliness, compulsion, and expectation.
It all started with a conversation I had with a sub-friend of mine. We were talking as we always do, and to save time, this is the specific part of our conversation that led me here:
Sub - Friend: " A Dom/sub relationship doesn't have to be sexual. Even the things like spanking, they don't have to lead to sex."
Me: "That would be nice…I feel obligated to do that "
Sub - Friend: " I totally understand. That's something that you have to work through, having limits and being comfortable with those limits. "
Me: " How do I even do that? "
Sub - Friend: " Reading about consent helped me a lot.
You've been in situations in the past where people made you feel like you can't say no, but also, the culture around sex makes women feel like they can't say no after a certain point.
However, you can have sensual interactions with someone without it leading to sex. It also takes willpower though.
Think about the reasons why you feel obligated and whether they are true. What's your fear if you place that limit? "
Those last 2 lines made me pause and think, and honestly shocked by the simplicity of the statement. But it stirred something inside me—a question I hadn't dared to ask myself: Why do I always feel obligated?
That question sent me on a journey of reflection, uncovering layers I hadn’t fully acknowledged before. I may not have identified all the reasons, but I identified the most important ones.
- My fear of rejection
- My fear of loneliness
- A deep-seated compulsion
- Ingrained belief that I just have to.
But before I go any further, I want to acknowledge that the experiences I am going to reference are not inherently unique. Many people have bargaining siblings, dictator-like parents, or have been made to feel as though their worth is tied to their compliance. My story is simply a reflection of my journey, but I know that it echoes in the lives of many.
Fear of Rejection
My fear of rejection stems from my relationship with my sister. See, there’s a 15-year age gap between us, so growing up—and even more so now that I’m older and making decisions independently, without our mother’s influence—our relationship has always felt transactional. Whenever she asked for anything, no matter how big or small, I was expected to do it.
And those rare times I dared to “rebel” and say no, she was quick to remind me that I’d soon be asking her for help, and when I did, she’d hit me with the same “no” I gave her. It was like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey’s head—but the donkey never actually got to taste the carrot. The possibility of that reward was just enough to keep it moving forward. She called it “scratch my back, I scratch yours,” but it was never really that simple. More than just a mutual exchange, it was a thinly veiled threat: Remember this when you want something from me in the future.
This constant dynamic seeped into my romantic relationships, making me feel like I owed something back—even when I didn’t want to. Saying no felt like signaling that I was closing a door, that connection would be lost, or that I’d be denied help or affection down the line. It wasn’t just a refusal—it was a gamble, a test I felt compelled to pass or else risk losing what little I had.
Fear of Loneliness
I know one can argue that if saying no results in the end of a connection, then good riddance, but I simply cannot equate the loss of a connection as a result of my refusal as good riddance. I know that many people would say that anyone who leaves because you said no was never meant to stay, but that perspective doesn’t make it feel any less real. The loss still stings. The isolation still hurts. The silence still echoes. To me, it feels like I’ve failed some sort of unspoken test, like my worth was conditional on my compliance, and I failed to meet the requirement.
This fear of loneliness is deeply tied to rejection. For me, saying no feels like it leads to isolation. It goes back to the silent treatment being a hard limit of mine, because I’m terrified that setting a boundary will result in someone leaving or cutting me off. Think of something similar to your childhood, when you refused to play a specific game with a friend, and they responded with the infamous line, “FINE!... Then I’m not going to be your friend anymore.” That’s exactly what it feels like to me — like I’m being punished for simply not wanting something. Now, that feeling has followed me into adulthood, where saying no might cost me deeper connections and relationships. It’s the looming idea that setting a boundary will cause me to be deemed unworthy of someone’s time or energy.
Because of this, I find myself over-explaining or justifying my refusal, like I need to earn permission to protect my own comfort. It’s exhausting, but it feels necessary to prevent rejection or abandonment, which only feeds the cycle.
Compulsion
My sense of compulsion, especially in intimate situations, is deeply rooted in past experiences of abuse. In those moments, obedience wasn’t just expected—it was demanded, enforced with a ruthless intensity that left no room for question or hesitation. I was conditioned not only physically, but emotionally and mentally, to comply without resistance, to surrender every part of myself without protest. It wasn’t simply about obeying rules; it was about survival. If I didn’t comply, the consequences were severe—not just in the form of increased physical pain, but also in the form of criticism, manipulation, and blame. I was made to feel as if I were the one at fault, as if my resistance was the problem, not the abuse itself.
This created a dangerous and damaging precedent in my mind. It warped my sense of ownership over my own body and autonomy. I began to believe that my body wasn’t fully mine—that my wants, needs, and boundaries were irrelevant, always secondary to someone else’s desires and control. This insidious conditioning made me internalize the idea that my compliance was mandatory, and that resistance was futile and punishable.
Even now, long after those dark times, that feeling lingers in my current interactions. I find myself anticipating what’s coming next, bracing my body and mind to comply before I’ve even had a chance to decide if I want to. It’s a reflex, a hardwired survival mechanism that I can’t simply switch off. My mind races ahead to the end result, skipping over my own feelings and desires because the habit of submission is so ingrained it feels automatic.
Breaking free from that compulsion is no easy feat. It’s not just a bad habit—it’s a survival strategy that kept me alive when I had no other choice. Untangling myself from that conditioning requires patience and understanding, because it means rewiring years of trauma where choice was never really an option.
Feeling Like I 'Have To'
This mindset is rooted in my upbringing, being raised by a single mother who often emphasized obedience. She would say things like, “You are the child, you have to obey me,” making it very clear that my role was to comply without question. That same demand for obedience was reinforced by school, where the message was just as strict: “You have to listen to your teacher.” Even among friends, it wasn’t any easier—if I refused or stood up for myself, I’d hear things like, “You have to like what I like.”
You have to do as you’re told. You have to be respectful. You have to obey. Those words echoed everywhere, creating a belief inside me that I must always follow through, meet expectations, and never disappoint. Now, that shows up in my lack of self-preservation and boundaries—I could even say my lack of self-respect—because I’m always putting myself on the line for someone else’s comfort. I’d rather meet someone’s expectations and, in doing so, shoot myself in the foot. I can lick my wounds later. But saying no, asserting my boundaries, and putting myself first is something I struggle with deeply.
One could even call it cowardice, or to put it nicely, people-pleasing or ass-licking. I’ve always been the one to bridge the gap, to compromise, to make it work—even when it didn’t serve me. Even if it meant sacrificing my own comfort, I did it to avoid conflict and keep the peace. Saying no felt like rebellion, and rebellion felt like failure.
And failure was met with punishment. Not just the punishments from teachers or my mother’s scoldings or corporal punishment, no… it was him. My abuser. The sick, twisted things he did to me, the fear he instilled in me—that’s what really shaped this part of me and kept me locked in that compulsion to obey, to comply, to survive.
Learning to See Myself Again
It’s the first time I’m really having to sit with what self-worth means. When I was just starting to understand who I was, that’s exactly when the abuse began. So the idea I had of myself—my self-worth—got completely twisted, poisoned by all the pain and fear.
After everything, my self-worth was stripped down to almost nothing—just my body. For the longest time, that’s all I felt I was worth: my body, and what people could do with it. Nothing more.
Now I’m 21, no longer being hurt like that, but the scars have stayed. Trying to live in the real world, I see how those broken parts show up in my relationships—how unhealthy patterns keep repeating. And now I’m forced to try and untangle it all, to undo years of damage I never asked for. It’s messy and painful, and sometimes I don’t know if I’m strong enough.
Sometimes I catch myself asking—“Is my no really enough? Can I just say no and have that be the end?” Because of the fear, the guilt, the old voices telling me to comply—they still haunt me. I’m fighting every damn day to silence them, to believe that no means no without needing to explain or beg for forgiveness. It’s exhausting. But I’m here, trying, even when it hurts like hell.
The End Result: Obligation
All these factors culminate in one overwhelming feeling: obligation. When I’m in a sensual or intimate setting, I prepare myself mentally for things to escalate, even if I don’t want it to. I feel like it’s expected, like there’s an invisible script I’m following. And I comply—not necessarily out of desire, but out of conditioning. The idea that sensual touch could exist without it leading to sex is almost foreign to me; my mind jumps to the end result before I even have time to decide if I want it.
I’m finally starting to question that automatic sense of obligation—an obligation that was never truly mine to carry in the first place. Recognizing this weight is the first step towards releasing it. And while it’s not easy to dismantle years of conditioning and fear, it's necessary. Necessary for my growth, necessary for my peace, and most importantly, necessary for my freedom.
I'm learning that I can say no without losing connection, that my worth isn’t tied to what I can give, but simply who I am. It’s a slow process—an unraveling of old beliefs and the careful stitching of new ones. I’m learning to separate genuine desire from conditioned compulsion, to understand that intimacy doesn’t always have to end in sex and that a good connection does not have to lead to sex or anything intimate from the jump, and that I don’t owe my body to anyone as a currency for love or affection.
These realizations are just the beginning. A beginning of setting boundaries without guilt, of recognizing my autonomy without fear of abandonment, and of reclaiming my voice in spaces where it was once stifled. Recognizing it is the first step. I’m beginning to understand that my worth isn’t tied to my compliance, and that intimacy doesn’t always have to mean surrendering my boundaries. It’s a journey, but it’s one I’m ready to take. One that I’m only now starting to question. I’m starting to understand that boundaries don’t make me unworthy of love or connection; they are a declaration of my own worth.
So here's to saying No and being confident in it.
Xoxo
Nirvana