It’s 2016. I’m 14, sitting in the farthest corner seat of the Health class I used to dread. The minute I hear the door slightly creak, paired with the unbelievably loud noise Ms. Padilla’s heels used to make in the hallway, I’d sink right into teen angst and I’d be incurable. Health class to me felt like the school equivalent of your parents insisting on rinsing yourself off in the shower before jumping into the pool; I knew why we had to do it, I just didn’t think it was necessary.

She walks into the room, writes on the chalkboard. Blah, blah, blah… Health stuff. Hygiene. Exercising is important. Blah, Blah, blah. Micronutrients, macronutrients… 

I was insatiable. I was fully convinced that she could’ve gone onto demonstrating a 2-hour circus act right infront of me and it wouldn’t have interested me in the slightest. 

Then, all of a sudden, she goes, “No one is allowed to touch your private parts, ever.” 

I sit up from the slight slouch I’d maintained up until that point. My ears perk up. As internally stubborn (and bored) as I’d been throughout half of that class, I’ve gotten undeniably intrigued.

“Whatever is in between your legs, only you can touch it.” She adds. 

“Not your classmate,” Yup, knew that. 
“Not your friend,” Of course.
“Not your titos, titas,” Okay…
“Not your dad,” Wait, what?
“Not your mom,” Not even my mom? 

Funnily enough, I didn’t believe her. Not that I didn’t listen, I just found the sentiment all too absurd and difficult to wrap my head around. I remember thinking, okay, aunts and uncles, I get that. My dad’s a boy, so sure, I get that. But surely, my mom can, right? That’s my mom…  

“Only if they ask. And only if you say yes.” Ms. Padilla continues to say. I thought, why would my parents have to ask? That seems a little ridiculous.

I’d forgotten most of what she had discussed that day, let alone how we even got to that point. But somehow, those few sentences stayed with me. It wasn’t because they frightened me. It was because they challenged something I had quietly accepted my entire life: That adults simply knew best. That they didn’t need to ask. That being older, being family, or being my parent automatically gave them permission. No one had ever told me otherwise.  

Growing up, affection was always expected. You hugged relatives when they arrived. You kissed grandparents goodbye. You smiled politely when an older family friend pinched your cheeks or commented on how much you’d grown. None of that ever felt malicious, nor do I doubt any of it was meant to be malicious, but saying no never felt like an option. So hearing, for the first time, that my body belonged to me felt strangely revolutionary. 

Not because I had experienced life-altering abuse, or because I suddenly became afraid of the people around me, but because I’d never considered that consent could exist in ordinary, everyday moments. 

Every now and then, I’ll think to myself: What if I’d learned it when I was seven? Eight? Nine, at least? Or if it had come from my own home? My own parents? 

Would I have felt more comfortable speaking up when something made me feel uneasy? Would I have realized sooner that discomfort is reason enough to set a boundary? Would I have understood that saying “no” isn’t disrespectful, that it’s simply exercising ownership over my own body? I’ll never know. 

What I do know is this: There’s a plethora of less-than-stellar experiences I’ve had in my life that might have looked different had I just known earlier that being clear and adamant about my boundaries is not a weakness. 

Children shouldn’t have to wait until high school health class to hear those words. They deserve to grow up knowing, from the very beginning, that their body is theirs. That they can have boundaries with kindness. That they can change their mind. That the adults who love them will ask, listen, and respect their answer. Body autonomy isn’t a lesson reserved for adolescence. It’s a foundation that can begin with something as simple as asking.