What It's Like to Be an Incel

I’m someone who identifies as an incel, or “involuntary celibate”: I don’t have sex despite my innate desire to do so. I am a guy in his early thirties who has never had sex, never had a girlfriend, and faces inevitable rejection every time I attempt to connect with a woman. This predicament comes with a lot of negative emotions and even (I’m ashamed to admit) intrusive and aggressive thoughts about what I’m missing out on. I’m finally able to push those thoughts away and will never let them manifest into violence towards others. But it took a while to get here.

Every stage of my life has been marked by utter disregard and rejection from the opposite sex. 

In elementary school, I was never included in the giggly kisses that the other kids enjoyed. I even recall crying at the sight of the girl I loved starting a relationship with another boy (or what passes for a relationship among third-graders).

For much of high school, dating didn’t seem like an option because my school was all boys and I was very fat. I managed to lose a lot of weight just prior to my penultimate year (which is when we start to share classes with our sister school). I got glances and smiles from girls, but I had no confidence to pursue them. I was body dysmorphic and still felt fat and inadequate. My school was also very strict and rife with bullying, so I was in “survival mode” the whole time and therefore was in no mental state for romance.

College was very different: I had overcome body dysmorphia and I knew that I looked good. The college environment was very relaxed and bully-free. I felt unencumbered, like nothing would stop me from becoming the ladies’ man I knew I could be. But it didn’t happen. The girls I expressed interest in rejected me, often cruelly. I recall being at a club dinner in a restaurant and a girl I was crushing on said to me, “I was hoping there’d be cute guys here…no offense.” I’m ashamed to admit that, during my college years, I came dangerously close to Elliot Rodger Territory—being an incel who can’t handle it and wants revenge on others. I resorted to purposefully making girls who weren’t interested in me feel uncomfortable, through intense stares and continuing to direct flirtatious attention towards them. I figured that their feelings of discomfort were fair retribution for my feelings of unworthiness.  

I’m thankful that instead of hurtling too far down that wrongful path, I sought professional help. My GP referred me to a psychiatrist, who diagnosed my mental health issues (autism, OCD, and depression), prescribed me helpful medication, and gave me an outlet to air my woes instead of letting them fester inside me. I was able to correct my course.  

Although I do function well now, I don’t wish to understate the mental anguish that comes with being an incel.

In all honesty, I do understand where the “bad incels” are coming from. In the words of Elliot Rodger, in one of his many self-pitying online posts that preceded his despicable rampage in 2014: “I wish girls were attracted to me. I don't know why they aren't.”  

I don’t fully know, either. In 2024, I’ve been on 10 dates with girls I’ve met from apps. Nine times out of 10, I got ghosted or received a follow-up message saying that they just didn’t feel a click or connection. (And one of the girls called things off because she wanted to focus on queer relationships instead—that’s all good.) And a couple of months ago, I attended a speed dating event in which nobody matched with me. In every one of these encounters, I’ve looked nice, smelled nice, I was polite and friendly, I told funny stories and so on. But it wasn’t enough and I genuinely don’t get it.   

Of course, there’s context for my inceldom. For me, it’s a perfect storm of having evident mental issues, which repel many people away, in conjunction with having erectile dysfunction and a member that’s of below-average size. The latter means that, even though I’ve managed to click with and date some girls, I’m much too insecure to take my pants off with them. The few girls that I manage to attract uniformly lose interest and depart upon my reluctance to go all the way.

So while I do know the reasons, it doesn’t make the pain of rejection any duller.

I’m thankful to have naturally developed safeguards against many of the dangerous aspects of inceldom. I grew up reading all about history and culture, about great thinkers and great achievers. This has given me an informed worldview that has helped prevent me from being warped by any dumb anti-woman ideologies that thrive online and prey on those who are similarly young and lonely, but gullible. 

I’m glad I was raised by loving family members who taught me to love and respect others. Although I have lapsed and treated others in an immature and antisocial way at times, I never had it in me to inflict any tangible harm upon anyone. It also helps that I grew up with a healthy fear of prison (thank you, The Longest Yard). I’m thankful to be someone who has wide-ranging curiosity and a desire to try many different things. This means I have numerous hobbies and projects that I can channel my energy into and distract myself with so I’m not constantly stewing about my lack of sex. 

I believe strongly that a head full of wisdom, a heart full of compassion, and a schedule full of fulfilling activities can stop an incel from becoming dangerous. 

Although I do function well now, I don’t wish to understate the mental anguish that comes with complete sexlessness and constant rejection. To be an incel is to walk through a very crowded and varied minefield; so many different things hurt you to so many different degrees and you step into them almost constantly.   I feel the pangs of despair when I see a woman I’m drawn to who I know would reject me. I feel the sting of frustration when I see couples in an amorous state. Or when I think about confident and attractive men who aren’t only enjoying a sexual partner now but will quickly find a new one should the current one end.

I feel the burn of injustice when I hear about people who have enjoyed steamy workplace romances when I’ve previously been mocked and reprimanded for asking out women I’ve worked with. I feel a gaping emptiness when I see my dating app profiles devoid of any matches or messages. I feel enraged bitterness when I read personal articles that give vivid and ecstatic descriptions of the sex that I’m missing out on. Even when I’m doing the work I enjoy, that in itself opens me up to painful feelings when I come across people who are having sex and achieving much more professional success than I am. 

There are times when I read about sexually successful people and my brain will bark condemnation of “sluts” and “whores” with the fervor of a fanatical preacher. Walking around my city, steeped in misery at the sight of couples and appealing women I’ll never get, my brain may recite an abstract manifesto of destroying sex and all who enjoy it. (The autistic and compulsive mind can run a mile before the rational mind puts its sneakers on.)  But I will forever stop the wall between those thoughts and my actions from breaking. It’s as simple as forcing my brain to think about a different topic that makes me happier. And in the case of sexually active people who are more successful, I think about productive ways in which I can do my work even better than they do. 

Ultimately, one of the most effective antidotes for my inceldom is optimism. The belief that I do have very good things on my horizon and I need to keep going until I reach them. That I shouldn’t do anything to jeopardize my future.  I’ll keep walking through the aforementioned minefield until I reach greener, mine-free pastures. Walk with me, fellow incels.