About Me

Growing up, I often found myself at odds with social rituals that others treated as harmless fun. A prime example is the party game “Never Have I Ever.” In this icebreaker, a person declares something they have never done, and all those who have done it must acknowledge it (e.g. by lowering a finger or taking a drink). Superficially, it’s a playful contest of past experiences. Yet I experienced it as something else entirely: an exercise in social conformity and performance. For someone like me, an aromantic asexual (aro-ace) who has few “wild” experiences to boast (not the case for all aro-aces, but still) the game quickly became a minefield of othering. It seemed almost designed to single out anyone deviant from the sexual norm, placing them on display. Under the pressure of that circle of peers, each prompt of “Never have I ever…” felt less like a quirky confession and more like a spotlight on my differences. I remember cringing as the usual prompts devolved into stereotypes or trivial traits (people scrambling to think of anything they hadn’t done, no matter how inane), and feeling intensely alienated. Instead of bonding through shared secrets, I felt cornered, expected either to perform along with the group or to be marked by my abstentions.

My reaction in those moments came from a deep need to protect my autonomy. When it felt like someone was pushing me, a stubborn no rose up inside. If peers turned up the pressure, urging me to play along, raise a hand, or take a drink, every part of me resisted. I don't drink, and I would rather stay completely silent at these types of games, and often did.

The same pattern showed up in other party games. Truth or dare never felt like a light chance to cut loose; it felt like a set of unwanted choices. I almost always chose truth, since the alternative meant handing my agency to someone else's dare, which I found intolerable. Even outside sexual contexts, I bristle at being told what to do for the sake of group amusement. At a recent baby shower, I didn’t play their themed Pictionary, drawing a baby-themed prompt on command, because of the lack of personal interest. I know that may sound like being a stick in the mud, but experience has taught me that without authentic buy-in, even a trivial task can leave me uneasy. In short, I have a nearly visceral need for autonomy in what I do, especially when activities carry social expectations around intimacy or self revelation.

What began as a simple dislike of Never Have I Ever in my teens now appears, in hindsight, as an early clue to a core aspect of my identity. The same forces that made that game so distressing (peer pressure around sexual norms, the demand to perform or conform) also underlie my lifelong friction with traditional romantic relationships. It is shockingly similar to why I don’t “do well” in relationships either. Both arenas (party games and dating rituals) seemed rife with unspoken rules and scripted behaviors that I never consented to yet was somehow expected to follow. For example, in relationships, I’ve struggled with the arbitrary “rules” that distinguish a romantic relationship from a close friendship. If those rules were left unexplained (“it’s just what couples do”), it troubled me. Beyond that, if the rules were explained, it ickified the whole dynamic. Being told that now I had to hold hands, or use certain terms of endearment, or check in constantly, simply because we’d crossed an invisible threshold into “dating…” It felt utterly absurd. I often reacted by deliberately not doing those things, almost in defiance, even when no harm was meant by my partner. The result turned toxic, as one might expect. But I understand now, I was grappling, clumsily, with what I now recognize as an intense aversion to prescriptive relationship norms. If I perceive that someone wants something from me in a relationship “just because” it’s the done thing, I instinctively balk. It starts to feel performative (since, as an aro-ace, those actions don’t come naturally), and soon it feels “against my consent,” as even a small gesture or even my own perceived idea of what they want can become draining under those conditions. My consent, I’ve learned, isn’t just about big-ticket physical intimacy; it’s implicated in every expectation, every label, every time I’m told “you’re supposed to…” without having freely chosen it.