My lung collapsed just before I went to college. I thought it'd hinder my sex life, but it didn't.

• I developed a major lung impairment that'll slow me down forever.
• Between my pain and anxiety, sex quickly became a casualty of the disability.
• A loving open relationship has taken the pressure off my shoulders and shown me good sex again.

In 2015, my lung collapsed. Despite surgery, I was left with a permanent impairment. I was 20 and about to start college, so the timing was awful.

Recovering from surgery was long and painful. I couldn't sleep on the injured side for half a year, and I couldn't move faster than a brisk walk. The latter downside would become permanent.

I had to learn the steps of being newly disabled

Becoming disabled at the start of my adult life was deeply troubling. During my long recovery, I wondered which capabilities I'd keep. Would I regain all the sensation in my chest? Would I be able to sweat on that half of my body again? Could I exercise or run? Would my lung ever collapse again? Unfortunately, I suffered the worst outcomes for each of these questions.

I learned to live with this changed body. I became more careful about hot weather so that my body wouldn't be overwhelmed. I cared for the scars and checked for new injuries. I even learned to see minor collapses coming.

But worst of all was the new shame — shame at not being able to carry as much, dance as hard, or exercise. I expected my 20s to be great years for my body, but I lost them to this condition.

Sex was another casualty of my disability

I was looking forward to exploring my sexuality in college, but that dream also slipped away. I was anxious about explaining my scars and impairment to new partners. I felt pressured to justify myself, but I was lucky to meet accommodating lovers.

Once I was past the introduction, I wanted to please my partners. I wanted to revel in the enthusiasm of sex. However, I lacked stamina and could never go as long as I wanted without breaks. In a further frustrating turn, I had to remodel my sexual expectations to accommodate my impairment.

Sex was slow going. I didn't know how rough or long I could go without risking a lung collapse. I was ever fearful of partners making judgments about my care needs. I was afraid they'd leave for someone unimpaired — someone "better," the voice in my head said. This pattern held in casual flings and serious relationships alike.

The pandemic changed things again. I contracted COVID-19 and my lung collapsed. I wheezed and struggled for a month. Doctor visits, X-rays, and specialists all said the same thing: Wait and see. This health event was an abject lesson in listening to my body's needs — a sign that my desires could no longer outpace my capabilities.

Group sex turned out to be the antidote to my fears

Once I felt recovered, my now-girlfriend and I resumed nonmonogamy. Society was returning to normality. We wanted to stretch our muscles.

Our first partner turned out to be a lovely man. Our encounters were marked by a mutual interest in each other's pleasure and comfort. I didn't notice it at the time, but being able to lie back and let someone else see to my girlfriend's needs gave me the breaks I needed so badly. It lifted the pressure I placed on myself.

It also dispelled for me the pornographic stereotype of threesomes being wildly energetic sex fests. Rather, we always had two people focusing on each other while the third gave support. That could be my girlfriend pinning my arms down to make my experience more intense, or me running to get water and snacks while the pair were — preoccupied.

One threesome turned into another, this time a woman from my past. She was a self-described pillow princess, hellbent on letting others take charge. She fit right in. Between us three, there were plenty of competent home cooks. We could always count on cuddling and a lot of tenderness.

There was a sudden absence of my disability-related anxiety. Bringing a third person into our bedroom meant that I could gracefully tap out. Someone else could always take over. If the attention on me ever became too intense, I could just direct it to someone else and breathe. Rather than feeling like a burden or the focal point, I was part of a dynamic.

The next step is being honest about my limits

These happy encounters soothed my shame and anxiety. I've begun to let go of my intense drive to be the best. Moreover, I'm learning that being present and content is more important than being the people pleaser.

My impairment won't improve anytime soon. Being able-bodied is a temporary thing that some people lose sooner than others. That doesn't mean I have to give up sex, or any other joy in life. I just have to be more careful. I just have to remember to breathe.