I Started Masturbating Again, 5 Years After Becoming A Mum

Mum Sex Diaries is a first-person, confession-style series that creates space for mums to share honestly about sex: the longing, the uncertainty, the awkward bits, and the moments that are unexpectedly funny. From pregnancy and postpartum sex to exploring intimacy solo, these stories reflect the realities many of us live but rarely say out loud.

There was a time when I knew exactly what turned me on. I was in my early 20s, post-breakup, and gloriously unbothered by what anyone thought.

I remember one particular night with someone I was casually seeing — the kind of encounter that wasn’t about love or commitment, just pure, unapologetic pleasure. He paid attention in a way that felt profoundly different. He would pause between kisses to ask, “Better here?” and his genuine curiosity made me feel like my body was worth exploring, not just servicing.

It was also the first time I had an orgasm, and I remember lying there thinking: “Oh, so this is what all the fuss is about.”

Fast forward 11 years: life unfolded into wedding vows, chasing work promotions, and surviving motherhood. Somewhere along the way, I genuinely couldn’t tell you the last time I had an orgasm during sex with my husband.

Don’t get me wrong, my husband is attentive and caring. Our sex life isn’t bad — more like reheated coffee: serviceable but flavourless. We even make space for it. Tuesday nights are ours. We avoid late meetings and after-work plans because we both work from home on Wednesdays, and Tuesday feels like the most sensible night to try.

Over time, it became routine. Between work, school runs, chores, and the mental load of adulting, sex turned into another thing to tick off. Functional. Efficient. Over in 15 minutes so we could both get some sleep.

After one adequate Tuesday night session, I lay there staring at the ceiling as my husband drifted off. It wasn’t anger or resentment I felt — just a quiet disconnect from myself. I stood naked in front of the full-length mirror, studying a body that no longer felt familiar. It had changed since I’d had my child, and I was too exhausted to exercise properly or even recognise it as my own.

I thought about my 20s — how I used to love my body, how instinctively I knew what I wanted. Now, in my 30s, where had that woman gone?

It dawned on me that I’d been waiting. Waiting for my husband to unlock this dormant desire, to intuit what I needed without my involvement. On reflection, I saw how unfair this was to us both.

I stopped touching myself years ago. I used to, a bit, before we got married. But as our lives filled up with emails, laundry, and meal prep, my body gradually became something for others. Feeding my five-year-old daughter, being ‘on’ at work, bringing our parents to medical appointments, and being available for my husband.

Buying a vibrator changed everything

One day, I saw an Instagram post on sex toys, and I decided to order my first vibrator because why not? When it arrived, I hid it in my underwear drawer, as if I was smuggling something illegal.

The first time I used it, on a Saturday afternoon when my daughter was at my mum’s and my husband was at lunch with his friends, I felt a bit nervous. Would I remember how to do this? Would anything even happen?

Then, a gentle pulse travelled through my whole body, accompanied by a breathtaking warmth. There she was. The woman who knew what pleasure felt like. She’d been there all along, just waiting for me to pay attention again.

A few weeks later, I told my husband. “So, I bought a vibrator.” He looked surprised, then just shrugged. “Go ahead and have fun!” I asked if he wanted to try a vibrator for himself. He pulled a face. “Nah, not really my thing. But you enjoy it.”

That was it. No drama. No weirdness. He wasn’t threatened or particularly interested. Just supportive in a very practical way.

I tried bringing it into the bedroom once. Thought it could be part of our Tuesday night routine. It was awkward as hell. The whole thing felt forced, like we were performing something we’d seen in a film rather than actually connecting. Afterwards, we both just sort of laughed it off, but I could tell neither of us wanted to try that again.

So, I kept the toy for myself.

But here’s what changed: all that time I spent with it, I was learning. How I liked to be touched. What rhythm worked. Where exactly to focus.

I’d trace the same paths with my fingers that the toy had taught me, getting reacquainted with my own body in a way I hadn’t been since my 20s.

Something else shifted

And then one Tuesday night, instead of lying there waiting for sex to be over, I took his hand and moved it where I wanted it. I showed him the pressure, the spot, the pace. It felt strange and vulnerable at first, but something shifted. There was a different energy in the room. A bit of anticipation during foreplay that hadn’t been there in years. He paid closer attention to my reactions, stopped assuming what I liked, and started noticing what actually worked. I could tell it excited him, too, seeing me enjoy myself. Like, really enjoy myself.

After a few weeks of this, he began to ask questions. What I liked. What I didn’t. What felt good, and what didn’t do much for me anymore. He became more attentive, more curious, less certain — in a good way. And slowly, without me needing to guide him as much, he started to take the lead again. Not perfectly, not magically, but with intention.

Before, I would’ve faked enthusiasm just so we could finish up and go to sleep. I don’t do that anymore.

The thing is, this was never about our sex life being broken or him not being enough. It was about remembering that I’m allowed to have a relationship with my own body that doesn’t involve anyone else. That my pleasure doesn’t always have to be tied to performance, intimacy, or making someone else feel good.

We still have sex on Tuesday nights. It’s still mostly missionary, though sometimes we mix it up. It’s still about 15 minutes, give or take. I don’t really keep track anymore. And I still use the vibrator on my own, whenever the mood hits me — not as a substitute, but as something that belongs just to me. What’s different is how I show up. I know what I want now. And now I can say it or show it without hesitation.

This isn’t some grand feminist gesture. It’s just practical self-care that happens to involve an orgasm.

And honestly? I wish I’d started years ago.

*Name changed to protect privacy

Mongsy is a Singapore-based romance author working on her debut steamy novel.

Got your own story to share? Drop us a note at sww@sph.com.sg.