There are moments in life that don’t seem significant at first — moments you don’t question, don’t stop, don’t fully understand… until later, when everything begins to shift.
For me, it started about two months before I traveled to South Korea (September, 2013).
I was with a guy for the first time. And even though something inside me felt uncomfortable, I couldn’t say the words “I don’t want this” or “can we stop.” I froze. I stayed quiet. I let it continue. At the time, I didn’t fully process what had happened. I told myself it was nothing. Maybe I was overthinking. That it was just part of growing up, part of life.
But my mind had already begun to interpret it differently.
Later, with the help of my psychologist, I understood something that changed everything: my brain had processed that experience as a form of assault.
And from that moment on, something inside me shifted.
The change wasn’t immediate in a dramatic way — it was subtle at first. Quiet. Almost invisible.
But then I started noticing it.
I became hyper-aware around men. Not just in physical proximity, but even in simple interactions. Conversations felt different. My body felt tense. My mind was constantly scanning, alert, as if something wasn’t safe — even when nothing was happening. It wasn’t rational. And that’s what made it even more confusing.
I developed a specific fear — one that felt difficult to explain. It was directed toward men’s bodies, toward something that had once been completely normal to me. Suddenly, something I used to perceive naturally became a source of discomfort, rejection, and anxiety.
If my eyes accidentally wandered, I would immediately feel guilt. Sometimes, even disgust. Not toward others, but within myself.
From the outside, it could have been misunderstood. Someone might think I was looking with desire. But internally, it was the opposite.
It was fear.
It was shame.
It was my mind trying to protect me, even if it didn’t know how.
What I didn’t know at the time was that I had entered a state of hypervigilance. My body was constantly alert, as if danger could appear at any moment. Even in normal, everyday situations, I felt like I had to be careful, aware, guarded.
Being around men became exhausting.
Not because of anything they were actively doing, but because of what my mind was telling me could happen. That’s the thing about mental health — sometimes the threat isn’t outside. It’s internal. It’s the way your brain rewires an experience and turns it into a constant state of defense.
At that point, I didn’t have a name for what I was experiencing. I didn’t know about trauma responses, or phobias, or anxiety. I just knew that something inside me didn’t feel the same anymore. What seemed like a single moment — something small, something almost dismissible — had quietly become the beginning of something much deeper. Something that would follow me across countries, relationships, and versions of myself.
And I didn’t know it yet… but this was only the beginning.
marimo 