Four years ago, I lost my penis in a freak motorcycle accident. I was 29. Some days, it feels like another lifetime. Other days, it feels like it just happened.
I know what you’re probably thinking — how do you even go on after something like that? I wondered the same thing. The first year, honestly, was hell. No one prepares you for this. Not doctors, not the internet, not your own mind. I spent a lot of time with my therapist. I spent even more time staring at the ceiling, thinking I’d never really be a man again.
Here’s the first thing you don’t realize until it’s gone: so much of what we men think of as “manhood” is tied up in what’s between our legs. It’s a silent deal society makes with you — you have a dick, you’re a man, end of story. Lose that, and suddenly you feel like you’ve lost not just a body part, but an entire identity. It’s embarrassing to admit, but for a long time I couldn’t look at my wife without feeling ashamed. I wondered if she’d still want me, or if I should just leave to spare her.
The grief is not just about sex (though that’s a huge part). It’s about losing a part of yourself that feels fundamental, primal. It messes with your head in ways you don’t see coming. I still get sad sometimes, or angry at the randomness of it all. But with time — and a lot of dark humor — I started to find a way through. Joking about it, especially with my brother, was surprisingly healing.
Let’s get real: I still want sex. My libido didn’t just vanish with my penis. In fact, the desire was still there, especially in the early days — which made things even more frustrating. At first, I tried to suppress it, because, well, what’s the point? Over time, though, I realized that sexuality is way more complicated than a single organ.
There’s still sensation down there, a little stub that swells when I’m aroused. Prostate stimulation became a big part of my life — not something I was into before, but now it’s the main way I reach orgasm. Is it the same? No. But it’s something, and that matters. My wife has been incredible about all of it — supportive, loving, willing to experiment with toys, strap-ons, whatever we needed to keep our connection alive. There was a period where I thought I’d never be able to satisfy her again, and yes, we both miss what we used to have. But our sex life is still good, just… different. In some ways, it’s more creative and less pressured.
And for those wondering: yes, I sit down to pee now. My wife jokes that I finally know what it’s like to have the seat always down. Honestly, there are worse things.
There are logistical challenges. At first, infections were an issue, and hospitals became my second home. After I healed, things got easier. I could have a phalloplasty, but after everything I went through, I’m just not ready to go under the knife again. As for money, the settlement from the accident allowed me to stop working full time and invest in rental properties. Would I give it all up to get my part back? In a heartbeat. But you learn to enjoy the positives you have left.
The lowest point was feeling like my life was over. It wasn’t. It changed, sometimes in ways that still hurt, but it kept going. Humor helped. So did being open — talking about it, even the ugly parts. Hiding just makes it worse.
And I wish I’d known how many people, men and women, go through similar losses — mastectomies, hysterectomies, accidents, illnesses. You are not alone.
If I could say one thing to people going through any kind of major loss: surround yourself with people who actually care about your happiness. I would not be here without my wife. She never made me feel less than. We cried together, laughed at the absurdity, and she’s the main reason I kept going when I didn’t want to. She misses some things, sure. But our relationship is more than sex, more than anatomy.
We had to learn new ways to be intimate, to communicate, to find joy. I’ve learned that being a “man” isn’t about body parts. It’s about how you treat the people you love. It’s about showing up, even on your worst days. I had to let go of a lot of toxic ideas about masculinity to survive this.
So, what’s it like to live without a penis? It’s hard. It’s weird. Sometimes it’s funny. It’s also survivable. My marriage is alive. I still laugh, love, and, yes, even have sex. The biggest thing I lost wasn’t my body part, but the illusion that being a man depended on it.
If you’re reading this because you’re scared, or just curious, or trying to support someone — know that life doesn’t end with loss. It just gets more complicated. And sometimes, that’s okay.