I discovered the magic of running water pretty early in life. I remember laying spread eagle under the tub faucet as it filled up after realizing how good it felt down there. From there I graduated to the pool filter’s return jet of an above ground pool. I discovered the steady, powerful stream probably around age 8 and would pin myself to the side of the pool for very long stretches of time facing out as my siblings and friends swam around.

And I would do it in a sneaky way, often pretending that I was in that spot for another reason. Because somehow I felt that I was doing something wrong or at least doing something I couldn’t talk about. But of course, I couldn’t have been fooling anyone. It had to have been wildly obvious to any adult witness exactly what was going on. And yet, my mother spent the entire day in her lawn chairs sipping iced coffees just feet away and never said a thing. I assume she believed ignoring the behavior was the appropriate choice.

But it wasn’t until middle school when I felt real shame associated with the act. And I remember the exact moment it started. I was in sixth grade and we’d recently moved into a new house. Best of all, it came with a 1980s-style extra-deep, jet-enhanced tub. Naturally, it wasn’t long before I took her for a little spin. I filled the water to the brim, cranked the jets, and contorted my extra-tall frame like a Cirque du Soleil performer to perfectly position myself for maximum water-stream impact. And right before the grand finale, so to speak, my mother walked in.

I looked up, we locked eyes, and I saw her face absolutely fill with horror. She immediately retreated, head down, closing the door behind her. I was instantly filled with embarrassment and shame. I hopped out of the tub, dried off, and left the bathroom in tears, passing her room on my way out. I know she heard me crying, but she did not say anything.

She never said anything.

And because she said nothing, I invented a story in my mind about what she would have said, or what she wanted to say. I told myself that she was ashamed of me. I told myself that she thought I was gross, embarrassing, and weird. That she was mad at me and disapproved of what I was doing. And that story I told myself deeply shaped my feelings about my own arousal and self-pleasure instincts and urges for many, many years.

So today, as I approach the puberty years with my kids, I vow to do things very differently. I will talk openly about the very normal and natural urges that come with a human body. And I will have conversations with them about safe and appropriate ways to satisfy and explore those urges.

I will answer all of their questions and do my best to educate them in ways that make them feel comfortable and understood. Because although those conversations may be uncomfortable and awkward for both of us, it is immensely important that they feel seen, understood, and accepted during the wild rollercoaster of puberty.

And if I ever unintentionally walk-in and interrupt a private moment of theirs, I will do my very best to minimize the discomfort before later addressing the normality of the scene. Oh, and I will encourage them to lock the door. I mean, that was my bad.