The Ache Beneath the Ache
Why We Can’t Stop: Masturbation, the Nervous System, & the Body of Christ
There’s a loneliness hidden in plain sight —
a silent pulse beneath the lives of so many who long to do right by God, by their relationships, and by their own hearts.
It doesn’t always show up as scandal or loud sin.
More often, it slips in quietly:
secret habits, silent shame, and a deep, aching dissonance between what we want and what we keep doing.
This letter is about that ache —
the one that wraps around our sexuality, our nervous systems, and our body’s longing for safety in a world that so often tells us to numb what we can’t bear to feel.
And too often, the Church — in its desire to protect what is true and good — lacks the practical, gentle wisdom to help us tend these hidden places well.
What I have found, both in my own seeking and in walking alongside many others, is that this ache — the surface ache — almost always carries a deeper one.
A longing to be in harmony with our own souls.
A longing to belong to God, to one another, and to our own bodies again.
A longing that is sacred, mystical — but also visceral and communal.
Compulsive patterns — especially sexual ones — carry this truth in the flesh:
every cycle of acting out echoes through the nervous system and the soul, whispering the same question:
Is there another way?
My invitation here is not just to understand your struggle, but to turn toward it with a gentler, wiser attention.
To take the time — and it does take time — to unravel the deep threads beneath these habits.
To learn to stay close to the parts of you that have been carrying this burden in the dark.
May we begin again — not with shame, not with force —
but with an attunement to how the ache itself might be where God’s whisper is waiting to meet you.
Why Focus on Compulsive Masturbation
When we talk about sexual struggles, we tend to speak about porn, affairs, or the “big failures.”
But compulsive masturbation?
It’s rarely named for what it is.
Yet for so many — men and women alike — it’s the hidden companion to stress, loneliness, anxiety, and an unspoken grief that sits in the body for years.
It can feel too small to confess — and yet too powerful to break alone.
So here, I want to name it directly.
I want to sit with its nuance — how it can become wired into your brain, your body, your habits, your sense of self.
And how so many approaches, well-meaning as they are, fall short when they miss the soul’s deeper cry for safety and real connection.
Maybe you already know this ache isn’t separate from other struggles.
Maybe your masturbation is tangled with pornography, fantasy, or other ways you try to soothe yourself.
If so, read this letter as an invitation for your whole sexual story.
And if this doesn’t quite match your experience?
Maybe you see yourself in another pattern: mindless scrolling, shopping you regret, gambling, binging — all ways to soothe the same nervous system that feels too wired, too empty, or too alone.
Neurologically, these are all “process addictions” — they light up the brain’s reward pathways just like a drug might.
They offer a quick shift from overwhelm, shame, or numbness into something that feels bearable for a moment.
The Cost of the Quick Fix
Before we talk about how to heal, let’s be honest about the cost.
Why might you want to turn toward this struggle again — maybe for the hundredth time — but this time in a new way?
When we use masturbation — or any compulsive pattern — as a quick fix,
we repress our emotions instead of tending to them.
We disconnect from real relationships.
And our spiritual senses dull.
The ache beneath the ache stays untouched.
As St. John Paul II taught, our bodies are more than things to manage — they’re sacred signs of the whole person, made for communion, not consumption.
When you turn your body into a tool for self-soothing alone, you lose a piece of yourself — and a piece of your capacity to give yourself fully to others.
Dietrich von Hildebrand said it clearly:
when we treat our sexuality only as an itch to scratch, we lose the capacity for reverence — for seeing our own bodies and souls as holy ground.
Carl Jung put it even more starkly:
"Neurosis is always a substitute for legitimate suffering."
So, if the quick fix keeps us stuck —
and shame alone can’t heal what needs tenderness —
then what exactly are we up against?
Let’s look at the world we’re trying to heal in.
The Landscape We’re In
Before we go further in, let’s name the context we’re swimming in — the culture and the Church, both of which can cloud rather than clarify this struggle for Catholics.
In our secular Western culture, masturbation is often praised as self-care, empowerment, or just “normal.” Many mainstream doctors and therapists still recommend it to reduce anxiety or “enhance intimacy.”
Other cultures might hold stricter taboos around it — but often layer on secrecy and shame without offering real tools for healing.
And then, for those of us who follow Jesus in the Catholic Church, the responses are just as muddled.
Sexual compulsive behaviors are often met by members of the Church with either the prudish suppression of Puritan Protestantism or a kind of idealistic avoidance while quoting Theology of the Body.
And while I love John Paul II’s vision for reminding us of the sacredness of the body, it often stops short when it comes to the messy intersection of trauma, addiction, and sexuality — especially with something as hidden as compulsive masturbation.
So the honest question remains:
Practically, how does someone stop when they can’t stop?
The Church’s Two Common Extremes
Pastorally, we tend to fumble between two kinds of answers:
1) White-knuckling through it
Maybe you’ve tried a 90-day challenge, cold showers, a dozen new filters, or counting days like a moral detox calendar.
These strategies can be sincere — and I’ve seen them help some people in limited ways.
But too often, they rely on brute willpower and cunning while ignoring the real terrain beneath the behavior: your nervous system’s need for safety, your body’s unspoken fear, your banished wounds you’ve kept locked away for decades.
I’ve sat with men who completed Exodus 90 only to crash days later, drowning in shame.
Not because they didn’t love Jesus or “want it bad enough,” but because their bodies never felt safe.
They never learned how to listen to the wisdom woven into their bones.
They never touched the parts of themselves that carry their loneliness, grief, or early trauma.
And so the ache underneath — the emptiness, the fear of not belonging — goes unacknowledged.
These approaches can end up feeling like spiritual flagellation of the nervous system, leaving you fragmented, suspicious of your own longing, and hardened toward your own tenderness.
The core issue is that these well-meaning “avoid the near occasion of sin” approaches often reduce the soul’s ache to a “habitual sin to break” — practicing a kind of spiritual bypassing that ignores the deeper neurological, epigenetic, and emotional truth of the compulsion.
2) Shrugging it off
Then there’s the other extreme.
Maybe you’ve heard:
"It’s not that bad.”
"Every guy struggles with this.”
"God understands."
This advice sometimes comes from a good place — a desire to soothe scrupulosity or soften an overactive inner critic.
And, yes, for someone trapped in shame or OCD-like loops, gentle reassurance can help.
But by itself, this shrug can’t carry you into real healing.
It doesn’t even set you on the path — because it ignores your God-given neuroplasticity:
the truth that your brain can adapt, shift, and rewire across your entire lifespan.
For someone sincerely struggling — who longs to live fully in their body and soul again — compassion without direction can feel like a quiet form of abandonment.
I’ve walked with faithful, hungry hearts who internalized this message as:
"Healing isn’t possible. Maybe God doesn’t really care."
So the ache deepens — a spiritual and psychological longing to be met in this struggle not just as a “sinner with bad habits,” or an “addict in recovery,” but as a becoming person: wounded, growing, integrating, still sacred.
If only someone would show the way.
A Map for the Wilderness
Many of us didn’t grow up with language for this.
For years, we’ve wrestled to bridge the richness of Catholic moral teaching and Theology of the Body with what psychology, neuroscience, and real life keep showing us:
that there must be more than “just try harder” or “just be kind to yourself.”
It wasn’t until I came across Polyvagal Theory and Marc Lewis’ developmental model of addiction that the terrain finally began to make sense.
It felt like being handed a map to a wilderness many of us have wandered for years.
These insights show why slowing down — and attuning to our bodies and felt sense — is often the quickest way through.
How Our Bodies Seek Safety
Polyvagal Theory, developed by Dr. Stephen Porges, helps us understand how our nervous system is wired for both connection and protection.
When we feel safe, our bodies naturally stay open to relationship, trust, and intimacy.
But when we feel unsafe — through stress, trauma, shame, or relational wounds — the nervous system shifts into survival mode.
We fight.
We flee.
Or we shut down and go numb.
Compulsive behaviors like masturbation often aren’t driven by lust alone — but by our body’s need to regulate distress.
They offer a quick, reliable way to shift out of anxiety, fear, or overwhelm into a momentary sense of calm.
Addiction as a Learned Survival Strategy
Marc Lewis, a neuroscientist and psychologist, reframes addiction not as a disease but as a learned coping strategy.
Over time, our brains wire themselves to repeat what works to soothe us — even when that strategy no longer serves us.
Especially when there’s complex trauma — childhood neglect, attachment wounds, chronic stress — the brain learns fast:
"This helps me feel okay.”
“This takes the edge off.”
“This gives me relief when real connection feels out of reach."
Masturbation can become one of these autonomic shortcuts.
For many, it began early, sometimes accidentally, when they didn’t have safe emotional attunement with caregivers.
It becomes a private, dependable way to soothe the ache of isolation, anxiety, or overwhelm.
But what works to help us survive in the short term can keep us stuck when it stays in the shadows.
A Better Question
So maybe the real question isn’t: “Why can’t I stop?”
Maybe it’s:
“What is my body trying to feel safe from?”
“What ache is my nervous system trying to soothe?”
When we can see this with compassionate eyes, the shame can begin to loosen its grip.
Healing stops being about punishment — and becomes about presence.
About attunement.
About naming the ache — and staying with it long enough to let real communion, healing, and freedom grow.
This is the path forward: fully Catholic and fully human — integrating the soul’s longing for virtue with the body’s longing for safety and connection.
A Middle Way: Human, Holy, and Whole
What if instead of framing the road to chastity as repression,
we reclaimed it as integration?
Not merely abstaining —
but becoming whole.
Welcoming all parts of ourselves into the light, with compassion and honesty.
Because you don’t have to act on the urge to hear what it’s trying to say.
You don’t have to white-knuckle your way to purity.
You can learn to listen — and stay.
Behind every ache to masturbate is a deeper longing:
To be seen.
To be known.
To be safe.
To be loved.
This middle way invites us into reconnection:
To ourselves — our emotions, our bodies, our unmet needs.
To others — through honest communion, friendship, spiritual guidance, and listening partnerships.
To God — not through fear, but through deep mysticism, shared ritual, and Eucharistic belonging.
Chastity then becomes less about willpower — and more about love incarnate.
Less about denial — and more about attunement.
A return to the spousal meaning of the body, not just in marriage, but in every act of dignity, presence, and authentic self-gift.
What This Does in the Brain
Neuroscience shows that when we meet our urges with curiosity and compassion,
instead of repression or indulgence,
we begin to rewire the pathways that link desire with compulsion.
When we slow down enough to stay with the ache — to feel the emotion underneath — the nervous system learns a new pattern:
"I can be with this. I don’t have to escape it. I’m safe enough now to feel."
That’s why presence is more powerful than willpower.
It’s co-regulation — first with ourselves, then with others, then with God.
This is where healing that once felt impossible can finally take root.
Because what you once carried alone, you can now hold in connection.
You’re not just fighting an urge — you’re responding to a deeper call:
to integrate your body, your story, your longing, your faith.
A Place to Begin
So where do you start when shame feels loud and the ache feels bigger than you?
You begin here — small, honest, and embodied.
A gentle practice to remind your nervous system: You’re not alone anymore.
You can stay.
A Gentle Practice for Liberation
Here’s a simple threefold practice you can begin today. No pressure. Just a gentle invitation:
1. Slow Down and Focus Deeper
Take three minutes. Place your hand on your heart or belly. Breathe. Stay with yourself, even if arousal is there already or arises. Pray, “Jesus, be with me in this ache. Help me to listen to what I truly yearn for.”
2. Nervous System Tending
Let your body move. Stretch. Shake. Hum. Take a walk. Let rhythm and sensation guide you into present and sacred self-regulation that doesn’t involve masturbation.
3. Reach Out to One Other Person
Not everyone. Just one. A trusted therapist, a mentor, a friend, or a listening partner you’ve agreed to share time and space with regularly. Let them witness your ache. Not to fix it—just to see you in it.
You don’t need to white-knuckle your way to holiness.
You don’t need to carry this alone.
You are not broken for desiring intimacy, love, and touch.
You are human—and you are not beyond healing.
Let’s build something gentler and stronger.
Let’s reimagine what healing can look like.
Together.
With you in the ache and the hope,
Kolbe
Catholic Somatic Therapist & Guide
