My friends casually swap adult toy recommendations in our group chat like they're sharing cookie recipes, and I’m sitting here drowning in Catholic guilt every time I touch myself under my parents' roof. Is something fundamentally wrong with me?

Deep breath: Your head is completely intact, and no, you aren't broken. What you’re suffering from is severe cultural whiplash. You’ve grown up in a home where solo sex is treated like a biohazard, while your friends treat it like morning coffee. When you’ve spent years marinating in the idea that your own body is a crime scene, hearing people cheerfully debate silicone suction feels like watching aliens land in the chat. That guilt isn’t your intuition talking; it’s just the ghost of your parents’ rulebook haunting your mattress. You don’t need to suddenly lead a parade about masturbation, but you can start rewiring the script. The next time the shame creeps in after an orgasm, take a breath and tell yourself: 'My body belongs to me, not to this house.' Your sexuality is private property, and you don’t need your parents' zoning permit to enjoy it. Lock your door, ditch the guilt trip, and give yourself some grace.