Several years ago, while working in a local café, I was asked to complete an online safeguarding module.
At the time, I expected it to be a fairly routine task. Something to work through, complete, and move on from. However, as I read through some of the examples around grooming and the ways that children and young people can be manipulated by adults, something unexpected happened.
I started to recognise myself.
It was a deeply unsettling experience because, until that point, I had never really questioned some of the sexual experiences I had normalised as a child and teenager. I had a way of understanding those experiences that, at the time, allowed me to make sense of them: I hadn’t said no, there had not been violence, and I had not physically fought back.
So how could it have been abuse?
Those were the questions I found myself wrestling with. Looking back now, I can see that many of the beliefs I had constructed around those experiences were shaped by not fully understanding grooming and the impact it can have. At the time, though, I genuinely did not see it that way, and I think this is one of the more difficult things for people to understand about abuse; that it is not always immediately recognisable to the person experiencing it.
We often have an image of abuse as something obvious. Something that is clearly violent, frightening, or forced. And while those experiences absolutely do happen, abuse can also exist within relationships where there is trust, affection, attention, or a dynamic that becomes increasingly difficult to understand.
Especially when someone is young.
A child does not have the same understanding, power, or ability to navigate situations that an adult does. But for many survivors, particularly those who experienced abuse in childhood, that reality can be incredibly difficult to accept. It can feel easier to question ourselves than to question what happened.
And that was certainly true for me.
Coming to Terms With What Happened
When I began to question my own experiences, I did what many people do when they are trying to make sense of something confusing: I searched for answers. So I created an anonymous account on Reddit and asked a community of gay men whether what I had experienced “counted” as abuse.
Looking back, that question says a lot.
I was not simply asking for information. I think, in many ways, I was asking for permission to consider a possibility that felt incredibly difficult to hold, and, even then, I was not ready to fully accept the answer.
When I eventually began therapy a year later, I was still caught between knowing and not knowing. There was a lot of bargaining that went on internally. One moment I would think, “Oh my God, it was abuse.” Then another part of me would immediately question it:
“But I consented.”
“But I didn’t say no.”
“But it wasn’t like the examples I have seen.”
It was not a simple process of suddenly discovering the truth and moving forward. My understanding of what happened shifted gradually, and often painfully. My therapist helped me see something I had not been able to see clearly for myself; that what happened to me was abuse.
And, to be honest, that was not necessarily a relief. In some ways, it was the beginning of having to grieve something I had not realised I needed to grieve. It meant looking back at parts of my life through a completely different lens. It meant recognising that some of the things I had struggled with for years were not simply because of who I was, but were connected to what I had experienced. My relationship with alcohol. Self-harm. The shame I carried around parts of myself. The internalised beliefs I had absorbed about being gay and about what that meant about me.
Suddenly, many things began to make sense.
That did not make the process easier. Understanding something does not take away the pain of it. In some ways, it can make things harder because you are no longer able to hide from the reality of what happened.
But there is also something incredibly important about being able to make sense of our experiences.
For years, I had been carrying the effects of trauma without fully understanding where they came from. Once I was able to understand them, I could begin to work with them.
So while the truth was painful, it was also freeing.
The Role of the Therapeutic Relationship
One of the things I am most grateful for about my own therapy was not simply that my therapist helped me understand what had happened.
It was the relationship itself.
I think there is sometimes an assumption that therapy works because the therapist has the right answers, or because they provide some kind of expert knowledge that fixes the problem.
My experience was different.
Ultimately, I think what helped me heal was having a relationship where I could bring my uncertainty, my fear, and even my mistrust, and still be met with compassion. In many ways, trusting someone was one of the most difficult parts of therapy for me. Given my experiences, it made sense that closeness and safety were complicated things. Part of me wanted to trust, but another part of me was waiting for that trust to eventually be broken.
Over time, I was able to explore those fears within the therapeutic relationship. I was able to question whether I was safe and I was able to explore my expectations that I would eventually be hurt or rejected.
And what mattered was that the relationship continued.
My therapist did not disappear when things became uncomfortable. He did not reject me when difficult parts of myself emerged. He stayed present, and that allowed me to experience something different. A relationship where I could bring the parts of myself I felt most ashamed of and not be abandoned.
I think this is one of the most powerful things therapy can offer survivors of abuse. Not just the opportunity to process what happened, but the opportunity to experience a relationship that challenges some of the beliefs trauma can leave behind. The belief that we are too much, that we’re damaged, and that if someone truly knew us, they would leave.
This is something I carry into my own work with clients now. I want the people I support to have the freedom to be human in therapy. To bring the thoughts, feelings, memories, and behaviours they feel most ashamed of without worrying that they will somehow push me away.
Of course, therapy has boundaries, and it is not a relationship without limits (the professional boundaries are actually what makes the relationship feel safe). But within those boundaries, there should be space to explore the messy, complicated parts of being a person.
Healing rarely happens because someone presents a perfect version of themselves.
Why I Work with Male and Non-Binary Survivors
My own experiences are not the reason I am a counsellor. My training, experience, and commitment to supporting people ethically are what allow me to do this work. However, my experiences are part of why this particular area matters so much to me. At the end of the day, I know what it feels like to carry something you do not yet have words for. I know what it feels like to question whether your experiences are valid. And I know how transformative it can be when someone sits with you while you begin to understand something that has felt impossible to face.
This is one of the reasons I feel so strongly about supporting male and non-binary survivors of abuse.
Although abuse can happen to anyone, there are particular challenges that many male survivors face when trying to make sense of their experiences. There are still harmful beliefs that men cannot be victims of abuse, or that men are always expected to be strong, in control, and able to protect themselves.
There are also deeply damaging attitudes around male sexuality. For example, when boys or young men experience sexual abuse, particularly by women, it is sometimes minimised or framed as something positive. The idea that a young man should feel lucky rather than harmed is incredibly damaging because it ignores the reality that abuse is still abuse, regardless of the gender of the person who experienced it or the person who caused harm. Similarly, when men experience abuse from other men, there can be an expectation that they should have fought back or somehow prevented it.
These ideas create shame, and shame makes it much harder to reach out for support.
Part of why I am open about my own experiences is because I want to challenge some of these messages. Sometimes hearing another person say, “I understand this. I have been there too,” can be a powerful reminder that someone is not alone. Not because our experiences are identical, nor because one person’s story can represent everyone’s, but because shame thrives in silence, and connection can create a different possibility.
Moving Forward
Looking back at the person who was anonymously asking online whether his experiences “counted,” I wish I could have told him that they did. I wish he could have understood then what I understand now: that the absence of violence does not mean something was not harmful. That a lack of saying “no” does not mean something was okay. That a child cannot be responsible for understanding or managing a situation created by adults.
But I also understand why he struggled to see it.
Sometimes accepting the truth about something painful is not just about knowing the facts. It is about having enough safety, support, and compassion around you to be able to face those facts.
That is why I do this work.
I want to offer the kind of space that helped me. A space where survivors do not have to prove that what happened to them was serious enough, where they can explore their experiences at their own pace, and where they can begin to understand themselves with more compassion and less shame.
Coming to terms with abuse was one of the hardest things I have ever done, and it was also one of the most life-changing.
The experiences that happened to me are part of my story, but they are not the entirety of who I am.
And I believe the same is possible for others.
Learn More
If you’d like to know more about how exactly I support survivors, you can read about my approach on my Counselling for Male & Non-Binary Survivors page.
And if you feel ready, you can book a free consultation to see if you feel comfortable talking to me.
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