A Raw Journey from Silence to Self-Acceptance

I didn't fully grasp what it would mean to have my prostate removed—what it would mean for me as a man, as a sexual being. The medical explanations had been there: the procedure, known as a radical prostatectomy, could impact nerves vital for achieving an erection. Erectile dysfunction (ED) was a possibility, they said. But the weight of those words didn't truly land until after the surgery, when I realized I just couldn't get it up.
What I didn't understand at the time was how deeply this would ripple through my sense of identity—not just the ability to perform sexually, but what that loss meant for my masculinity, my confidence, and my connection to others. I wasn't prepared for how the shame would manifest, twisting the core of who I thought I was. It wasn't just the ED itself; it was the fear that intimacy, in every sense of the word, was gone forever.
I couldn't stop asking myself: Who would want to be with a man who wasn't a man any longer, not in some of the most basic, fundamental ways?
The Grip of Silent Suffering
The shame became suffocating. Brené Brown's work teaches shame thrives in secrecy, silence, and judgment. I found myself trapped in all three. I didn't want to talk about it, and I didn't want anyone to know.
Sadly, my then-wife's reaction compounded those feelings. She saw me as damaged goods, withdrawing entirely from conversations or efforts to work through these new realities. Her rejection mirrored the voice already screaming in my head: You're not enough.
As Brown explains, shame is the belief that we are inherently flawed and unworthy of connection. That belief became deeply embedded in me. Erectile dysfunction wasn't just a physical issue—it eroded my confidence, my sense of masculinity, and my ability to connect emotionally.
I became obsessed with the idea that I was no longer a "real man," and that belief had devastating consequences for my ability to rebuild intimacy. The frustration of not being able to perform sexually led to a decrease in my libido, a vicious cycle where the mental and emotional toll further drained any desire.
It wasn't just my body I thought had betrayed me—it was my identity as a man.
The Power of Shame
At the time, I didn't realize how common my experience was. I thought there was something uniquely, irreparably wrong with me. I had internalized society's message that male worth is tied to sexual performance and physical capability. I felt stripped of both, and in the absence of information, connection, and support, shame flourished.
What made this worse was my inability to imagine what the future could hold. I didn't know there were tools and treatments available—things like vacuum erection devices, penile injections, or therapy to address the psychological toll. I didn't realize that intimacy could take on new forms or that connection wasn't limited to sexual performance. Most of all, I didn't understand that shame is a liar, whispering over and over that I was broken when, in reality, I was whole.
But shame is cunning. It told me to keep quiet, that talking about this would only make things worse, and that my worth was tied to my silence. And so I isolated myself, afraid to open up to friends, family, or even a professional.
Finding the Lesson
It took me years to recognize that my silence was feeding my shame. As Brené Brown says, shame thrives in secrecy but withers in the light of empathy and understanding. What I needed most back then was compassion—from myself and, most importantly, from my wife.
I wish I'd had the courage to name my shame, to let it out into the light and see it for what it was: a thief robbing me of my sense of self-worth.
Looking back, I wish I had allowed myself to grieve the changes in my body without letting them define my worth. I wish I had sought therapy to help navigate the emotional and psychological changes. I wish I'd known that ED after prostate surgery is not just common—it's manageable. There are solutions, from medical treatments to counseling, but the first step is acknowledging the pain and being vulnerable enough to seek help.
The Power of Vulnerability
If there's one lesson I've learned through this journey, it's this: Vulnerability is not weakness. It is strength. Allowing myself to feel the pain, to confront the shame, and eventually to speak my truth was the first step toward reclaiming my identity. I had to redefine what it meant to be a man—not as someone who could perform sexually, but as someone who could connect emotionally, share openly, and find intimacy in new ways.
Shame loses its power when spoken. If you're facing similar challenges, know this: You are not alone. Erectile dysfunction after prostate surgery is common, but it doesn't have to define you. There are paths to healing—medical, psychological, and relational. Talk to your doctor about treatment options. Seek therapy to address the mental and emotional impact. Open up to a trusted partner or loved one, even if it feels terrifying at first.
Above all, give yourself compassion. You are not broken. You are not less of a man. You are human.
If I could go back, I would have had open, honest conversations with my doctor about the risks and expectations before surgery. I would have reached out to support groups or resources where other men were navigating the same struggle. I would have been kinder to myself, understanding that grieving the loss of one version of my masculinity didn't mean I was losing my worth.
As Brené Brown wisely says, "Shame corrodes the very part of us that believes we are capable of change." Speaking shame's name—giving voice to the pain and vulnerability—is the first step toward healing.
For anyone reading this, let's strip shame of its power together. Let's find strength in vulnerability, connection in honesty, and resilience in the journey forward. You are not alone.
And you are enough.
Thom
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