is consent mandatory?

What I Didn't Understand About Consent Until My 30s

I thought I understood consent in my twenties.

I knew what “no” meant.

At least, I thought I did.

What I didn't understand was everything that could exist before a no.

That is an uncomfortable sentence to write.

It is even more uncomfortable to admit that there were moments in my twenties when I crossed boundaries that, looking back now, I understand differently.

I don't write that because I want forgiveness.

I don't write it because I want someone to tell me I was young and therefore it didn't matter.

And I certainly don't write it to make myself feel better.

I write it because growing older has given me something I didn't always possess when I was younger.

Perspective.

And with perspective comes a rather unpleasant responsibility: sometimes you have to look backwards and admit that the person you were did things the person you are now would not accept.

I was young.

I was inexperienced.

I didn't understand everything.

Those things may explain some of my behaviour.

They do not excuse it.

The Blurry Line

For much of my twenties, I understood consent in remarkably simple terms.

Yes meant yes.

No meant no.

That was about the extent of it.

It seemed straightforward.

If someone said no, you stopped.

If someone said yes, you continued.

Simple.

Except people aren't simple.

Neither are circumstances.

There is hesitation.

There is awkwardness.

There is intoxication.

There is uncertainty.

There is someone changing their mind.

There is someone agreeing to one thing and not another.

There is someone going along with something because they don't know how to say they don't want it.

There is someone who is technically saying nothing at all.

And there is the most uncomfortable possibility of all:

sometimes the person standing opposite you doesn't actually want what is happening, and you fail to notice.

Or perhaps you notice something feels different and choose not to ask.

That is where the line becomes blurry.

Not because consent itself is blurry.

Consent should be clear.

The blurriness often comes from our willingness, or unwillingness, to recognise what is happening in front of us.

Ah, how easily doth youth mistake silence for permission, and hesitation for invitation. We are taught to fear the word “no”, yet seldom taught to listen for the quieter language that may precede it.

Put simply:

I should have paid more attention.

What I Got Wrong

I have had to confront some uncomfortable truths about myself.

There were moments when I was too focused on whether someone wanted me rather than whether they wanted what was happening.

There were moments when I understood enthusiasm as something that could simply continue.

There were moments when I should have asked.

There were moments when I should have stopped.

There were moments when I allowed my own desire to occupy too much of the room.

And that last one is perhaps the hardest to admit.

Desire can be selfish.

It doesn't necessarily make you a selfish person.

But if you aren't careful, wanting something can make you pay less attention to whether somebody else wants it too.

That is a dangerous place to be.

I understand that now.

I didn't always understand it then.

I also understand something else.

Consent isn't merely the absence of the word no.

Someone not resisting is not the same as someone actively wanting something.

Someone being quiet is not necessarily agreement.

Someone having consented to something earlier does not mean they have consented to everything that follows.

And someone changing their mind does not turn their previous yes into a contract they are obligated to honour.

Consent can change.

People can change their minds.

The moment can change.

And when it does, you stop.

There should be nothing complicated about that.

The Problem With “They Didn't Say No”

I think this is one of the things I understand most differently now.

“They didn't say no” is an incredibly low standard.

Why was that ever enough?

Why would anyone want to be with somebody who was merely tolerating what was happening?

I don't want that anymore.

I don't want reluctant affection.

I don't want compliance disguised as desire.

I don't want somebody beside me because they were too uncomfortable to say no.

I want someone who wants to be there.

Not someone who simply hasn't objected.

There is a profound difference.

And perhaps that is what I failed to understand when I was younger.

Consent isn't a technicality.

It isn't a box you tick before getting on with the interesting part.

It is part of intimacy itself.

Asking Doesn't Ruin Anything

I used to think asking could make things awkward.

Perhaps you've been there.

The moment feels right.

The chemistry is there.

Everything is moving naturally.

And then you think:

Should I ask?

Now I think the opposite.

Asking can be one of the most intimate things you do.

Do you want this?

Is this okay?

Do you want me to stop?

Would you rather not?

These aren't interruptions to intimacy.

They are demonstrations of respect.

And if asking someone whether they want something destroys the atmosphere, perhaps the atmosphere wasn't worth preserving.

There is nothing romantic about uncertainty when the stakes involve another person's boundaries.

There is nothing seductive about persuasion when someone is hesitant.

And there is nothing admirable about getting what you want because someone didn't feel comfortable enough to stop you.

For what greater intimacy can there be than to know that the hand reaching for yours doth so freely, without fear, without pressure, and without the need to be persuaded?

That is the kind of intimacy I understand now.

Thirty Has Changed the Way I Look Back

Turning thirty has made me think about the person I was.

I wrote about regret recently.

This is part of that.

Not necessarily because every mistake deserves to become a public confession, but because some lessons only become visible when you are willing to turn around and examine the road behind you.

The temptation is to say:

I was young.

Everyone makes mistakes.

I didn't know better.

And perhaps all of those things are partly true.

But there is a difference between explanation and absolution.

I can understand why I behaved a certain way without pretending the behaviour was therefore acceptable.

That distinction matters to me.

Because if I use my age as an excuse, I learn nothing.

If I say, “That's just what people did in their twenties,” then I don't have to confront anything.

I don't have to grow.

I don't have to change.

I can simply file the past away under Youthful Mistakes and never open the drawer again.

I don't want to do that.

I want to understand.

The People I May Have Hurt

This is where I have to be careful.

There are other people in these memories.

Their stories belong to them.

Their experiences are not mine to rewrite.

So I won't name anyone.

I won't describe private moments in a way that could identify them.

And I won't pretend I know exactly how another person felt simply because I remember the same event differently.

What I can say is that I have thought about whether there were people I made uncomfortable, pressured, confused, or hurt.

And if there were, I am sorry.

Not because I want the sentence to make the past disappear.

It can't.

Words cannot travel backwards through time.

They cannot undo a moment.

They cannot give someone a different memory.

But acknowledging what you did wrong is still better than pretending you didn't do it.

Accountability doesn't require a dramatic performance.

Sometimes it is simply the quiet willingness to say:

I got that wrong.

I should have done better.

I will do better now.

What I Would Tell My Twenty-Year-Old Self

I would tell him to slow down.

I would tell him that wanting somebody doesn't mean they want you.

I would tell him that attraction is not permission.

I would tell him that silence isn't an invitation.

I would tell him not to negotiate with hesitation.

I would tell him that somebody changing their mind is not an insult.

I would tell him that rejection isn't humiliation.

I would tell him that another person's boundaries are not obstacles standing between him and what he wants.

They are boundaries.

Respect them.

If someone is uncertain, ask.

If someone is uncomfortable, stop.

If someone changes their mind, stop.

If you're not sure whether they want something, ask.

And if you find yourself thinking, “They haven't said no,” that's probably the moment when you most need to stop and make sure you actually have a yes.

Most importantly, I'd tell him this:

You don't need to persuade somebody to want you.

You want them to want you freely.

Anything less should not be enough.

What Consent Means to Me Now

Consent, to me, is no longer simply about hearing the word yes.

It is about paying attention.

It is about communication.

It is about freedom.

It is about respecting another person's ability to change their mind.

It is about understanding that intimacy isn't something one person takes from another.

It is something two people create together.

And perhaps that sounds obvious.

It should be.

But sometimes the most obvious lessons are the ones we learn embarrassingly late.

Consent is not a hurdle to clear.

It is not a legal technicality.

It is not something you establish once and then forget.

It is an ongoing conversation.

And the more I understand that, the more obvious it becomes.

The person beside you is not a character in your story.

They are writing their own.

Their body is theirs.

Their choices are theirs.

Their boundaries are theirs.

Their yes belongs to them.

Their no belongs to them.

Their uncertainty belongs to them too.

And your responsibility is not to overcome any of those things.

It is to respect them.

I Can't Go Back

This is the uncomfortable part of growing older.

You become responsible not only for who you are, but for what you were.

I cannot go back to my twenties.

I cannot walk into those rooms again.

I cannot replay conversations with the knowledge I have now.

I cannot change what happened.

And I don't think pretending otherwise is useful.

But I can refuse to carry the same ignorance forward.

I can question myself.

I can listen more carefully.

I can recognise hesitation.

I can ask.

I can stop.

I can teach myself to understand something I should have understood sooner.

Perhaps that is what growing up actually means.

Not becoming a person without mistakes.

Becoming a person who is willing to look honestly at them.

Thirty hasn't made me wise.

Far from it.

But it has given me enough distance to look at some parts of my twenties and say:

I wouldn't do that now.

And I think that sentence matters.

Because if you reach thirty and believe you have nothing to reconsider, perhaps you haven't looked closely enough.

The Line Was Never Really Blurry

I've spent this entire essay calling consent a blurry line.

But perhaps that's not quite right.

The line itself was never blurry.

My understanding of it was.

There is a difference.

The older I become, the more clearly I see that.

Consent should not require detective work.

It should not depend on reading someone's mind.

It should not require somebody to fight you off before you understand they don't want something.

It should be freely given.

And if you aren't sure, you ask.

If the answer isn't an unmistakable yes, you slow down.

Sometimes you stop.

That isn't weakness.

That isn't insecurity.

That is respect.

And perhaps that is the lesson my twenties took too long to teach me.

The person I was doesn't have to be the person I remain.

For youth may be forgiven its ignorance, but manhood demandeth that we examine what youth hath taught us. We cannot rewrite yesterday, yet we may refuse to repeat its errors tomorrow.

I am thirty now.

I know more than I did.

I still have an enormous amount to learn.

But I understand this much:

I don't want to be remembered as someone who simply avoided hearing the word no.

I want to be someone who listened for the yes.

And made sure it was freely given.