Consent starts at birth

Let’s get one thing straight: when we talk about consent, everyone acts like we’re automatically talking about sex. Like it’s all about whether someone said “yes” before the clothes came off. And while that is important, that’s honestly the high school version of the consent conversation.

If consent were a school, sex would be the upperclassman elective. But most people skipped kindergarten.

Because real consent? It starts way earlier.

My five-year-old says “no, I don’t like that” all the time. And unless it’s about brushing teeth or something involving basic hygiene or safety, we honor it. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it’s uncomfortable. She doesn’t have to give hugs or kisses to grandma if she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t owe anyone affection for being nice, for giving gifts, or for sharing DNA. Her body belongs to her. That’s the baseline.

Consent isn’t just about sex. It’s about space, voice, touch, time, and energy.

It’s about how we interact, not just what we do.

Here’s what early, everyday consent sounds like:

• “Can I give you a hug, or would you rather a fist bump?”

• “Do you want help, or just someone to listen?”

• “Is now a good time to talk, or do you need space?”

• “Can I show you something, or are you full right now?”

And here’s the wild part: adults suck at this. We’re trained to override our discomfort to keep other people comfortable. Especially if we were raised in environments that praised politeness over boundaries.

Let me give you a real-life example.

I once let a couple of missionaries into my apartment, former Mormon here, hi—and we got into a conversation. It was going fine, until they started pushing church attendance. I said no. I didn’t want to go. Explained that churches now give me anxiety and have even made me physically sick. And still—still—he tried to suggest more “gentle” ways to participate. Online, hybrid, whatever.

Buddy. I said no.

I didn’t need to explain. I didn’t need to bleed out my trauma like a receipt for my boundaries.

No is a complete fucking sentence. Period.

And this comes up in my art world, too. I host shows. I create work around bodies and sexuality. And people often touch me, tap my shoulder, rub my back, go in for unsolicited hugs. They don’t mean harm. But I’m still uncomfortable. And I don’t always feel safe saying “please don’t touch me” in the middle of a sale or while someone’s praising my work.

So I stay quiet. But that silence? It’s not consent. It’s exhaustion. It’s the weight of being polite in a world that doesn’t understand boundaries unless they come with flashing lights.

That’s the root of this whole problem: We only talk about consent when genitals are involved.
But if we’re not teaching people how to recognize, respect, and ask for consent in day-to-day interactions, how the hell do we expect them to get it right in the bedroom?

Consent is about learning to listen. To pause. To ask. To take a no without negotiation.
It’s a way of being.

No is a complete fucking sentence.
And we all need to start acting like we passed kindergarten.

Even if it’s about church.
Even if it’s about hugs.
Even if it’s about literally anything else.