Love, Lust, Logistics: Why Nobody Has The Energy For Great Sex Anymore

Let’s be honest.

Sex is starting to feel like a to-do list item we keep rescheduling. It’s pencilled in mentally, somewhere between our lymphatic drainage appointments and protein intake goals. It’s not that we’re not interested in pleasure—it’s that we’re burnt out, overstimulated, and collectively running on emotional fumes.

Maybe it’s the pandemic hangover. Maybe it’s the cortisol. Maybe it’s the creeping sense that everything is falling apart, and your nervous system has decided to preserve energy for… survival. But even the people who talk about sex all the time, the ones who own five vibrators and post about somatic therapy, are quietly not having it either.

So what happened?

We can blame the usual suspects: late-stage capitalism, hormonal imbalances, burnout, the rise of wellness routines that now take longer than a dinner date. But it’s also deeper than that.

There’s been a cultural shift. The kind that doesn’t get picked up by Google Trends but shows up in WhatsApp chats between women. We’re rethinking who we share our bodies with, how often, and whether it’s even worth shaving our legs for. The performative part of sex—the idea that we must always be available, desirable, and in the mood—is crumbling. And what’s left behind is confusion.

Sex feels intimate in a way that’s almost too much right now.

When you’re constantly bombarded with bad news, overstimulation, and the emotional weight of being a functioning adult—true intimacy feels like an ask. Not because we’re cold or distant, but because we’re exhausted. And not the sexy “throw me on the bed” kind of tired. The “my brain has 37 tabs open and I forgot to drink water again” kind.

It also doesn’t help that sex has become content. Between swipe culture, product links, sex toy unboxings, and Instagram trends about “coregasm workouts”, we’re overstimulated before we even touch anyone. The act of sex is no longer just physical. It’s aesthetic. It’s strategic. It’s often… unsexy.

Desire now comes with a trigger warning.

For many women, especially, desire is no longer a default mode. It has to be gently coaxed back in. And the pressure to “want it” can be just as heavy as the pressure to perform it.

We’re also navigating a weird cultural paradox: we’re told to prioritise self-pleasure, to embrace our sexual selves, to experiment. But we’re also told to cut out hormonal disruptors, fix our gut health, and sleep eight hours. The same platform that sells you an orgasmic meditation course is also pushing a libido-boosting supplement. Which part are we meant to fix first?

Okay, but is there a way back?

Maybe not to how it was, but to how we want it to be now. A version of sex that’s slower, gentler, and actually enjoyable, not just edible-oil-fueled cardio.

Here’s what’s been working for people I trust (and for me, sometimes):

• Saying no more often, even if that means nothing happens for a while.
  

• Self-pleasure, not just for release, but for reconnection.
  

• Deleting the apps. Or at least muting the ones that drain you.
  

• Understanding that desire is cyclical, like your body.
  

• Remembering that flirtation is free, and so is texting someone “thinking of you.”
  

If you want to feel something again, maybe don’t start with sex.

Start with your skin. With sleep. Ask someone to make you coffee. By closing the laptop on time. With a pair of clean sheets and a podcast that doesn’t talk about murder. Turn yourself on to life again.

Because the truth is, great sex is rarely about technique or toys or tantra. It’s about space. Safety. Energy. And those are the very things we’re trying to rebuild after a decade of collective, low-grade trauma.

So if you’re not having wild, throw-me-against-the-wall sex this month, you’re not alone. You’re probably just tired. And that’s allowed. But also—here’s your reminder that when you’re ready, pleasure can be a protest. It can be a way back into your body. And that counts, too.