Lessons Learned from Being Malta’s First Sex Therapist

When I stepped into the world of sex therapy, I wasn’t just opening a clinic—I was opening a conversation that many in Malta didn’t want to have.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I knew people would resist. But I didn’t expect just how much pushback there would be, not just from the public but from institutions, educators, and even within my professional circles.

The journey has been filled with lessons—some rewarding, some painful, all invaluable.

Lessons Learnt

•  Being First Means Facing the Fire Alone

Being the first sex therapist in Malta meant I had no blueprint to follow. There was no established network, no local mentors, no guidance on how to navigate the backlash.

People saw my work as a threat, I was accused of corrupting the youth, of undermining family values, of bringing foreign ideas that didn’t belong in our culture. At the same time, criticism came from the opposite side—those who expected me to be more radical, more extreme, and more willing to burn down the traditional framework rather than help reshape it.

I was never quite what people wanted me to be. And that, I learned, is the price of being first.

You carry the weight of everyone’s expectations. As well as take the hits before people understand what you’re trying to do.

And you do it alone.

•  Sex Education Was a Battle—Not Just for Students, but for Teachers and Parents TooI

I was invited to schools to give talks about sex and relationships. Many times, I wasn’t just teaching students—I was also educating teachers and parents, who often had just as many misconceptions and discomforts as their children.

I had no problem with that. I was happy to have those conversations. But what I didn’t anticipate was how much resistance would come from within the very institutions that invited me.

There were times when I spent hours preparing resources, tailoring my presentations to suit the needs of a particular school, only to have the final decision—made at the highest levels—come down as a rejection.

Sometimes, it was because someone saw my conversation on TV or Facebook and decided I was “not suitable.” Other times, it was because a single parent complained. A teacher who disagreed with me would find a way to undermine my presence.

I once discovered that a priest had hidden in the back of one of my talks, listening in—not to learn, but to find something he could report. He later ran straight to his superior, outraged that I had mentioned masturbation.

At other schools, parents actively protested my presence. Teachers reported me for simply answering students’ questions about pornography—questions that they brought up. I never forced any topic, but I refused to lie when young people asked real, honest questions.

Sex education in Malta wasn’t just about educating students

Sex education in Malta wasn’t just about educating students—it was about fighting through layers of fear, shame, and generational silence.

And it wasn’t always a battle I was allowed to win.

• The Fear of Open Conversation Runs Deep

After appearing on national TV to talk about sex therapy, the floodgates opened. Some people reached out for help. Others sent hate messages. And then some used my public presence as an excuse to block my work.

A school that had already confirmed my talk would suddenly cancel. A parent would complain about something I had said, even if they had never attended one of my talks. A teacher would decide that having me in their classroom was too risky.

What I realized is that Malta wasn’t just afraid of sex education—it was scared of open conversation.

Many people didn’t want young people to think critically about sex and relationships. They wanted them to follow the rules, not ask questions. To obey, not understand.

But avoiding conversations doesn’t make the issues disappear.

Young people were already watching porn. They are already hearing misinformation from their friends. Already struggling with body image, consent, and unrealistic expectations about relationships.

The difference was that when I was in the room, they finally had a safe place to ask.

• People Who Criticized Me in Public Often Reached Out in Private, This was one of the strangest lessons I learned.

Some of the same people who dismissed my work criticized me online or protested my presence in schools were the ones who later reached out in private.

I lost count of how many times someone pulled me aside at an event and whispered, “Listen, I actually have a question about something personal…”

Some parents didn’t want me in their child’s school but later sent me an email asking for help with their marriage. Teachers disapproved of my talks but later admitted they didn’t know how to handle a student coming to them with genuine concerns about sex or relationships.

Resistance isn’t always about rejection

It taught me that resistance isn’t always about rejection. Sometimes, it’s about fear.

The people who fight the hardest against change are often the ones who need it the most.

• Loneliness Was Part of the Job

I expected challenges. I didn’t expect just how isolating the journey would be.

Being Malta’s first sex therapist meant I was constantly walking into rooms where no one else understood my work.

Among other therapists, I was sometimes met with discomfort. Among educators, I was sometimes seen as too controversial. Among the public, I was sometimes reduced to a punchline or a misunderstood headline.

There were times when I felt like giving up. Times when the criticism felt heavier than the impact I was making. Times when I wondered if it was worth the exhaustion of constantly pushing against a wall that didn’t seem to move.

But every time I sat with a client who felt relief after years of shame…
Every time a couple told me they had reconnected after months of distance…
Every time a young person said, “Thank you for answering that. No one else would.”

I knew it was worth it.

•  Change Is Slow—But It Happens

Malta has a long way to go when it comes to open, informed conversations about sex and relationships. But it has come further than many people realize.

When I first started, no one wanted to talk about these things. Now, at least, the conversations are happening. Even when there’s backlash, even when there’s resistance, the fact that the topic is out in the open means that change is inevitable.

The next generation is more informed, more curious, and more willing to challenge outdated ideas. Professionals are becoming more comfortable integrating discussions about sex and intimacy into their work.

Progress is slow. Frustratingly slow.

But it happens.

Would I Do It Again?

If you had asked me in the early days—when I was exhausted, when schools were canceling my talks, when strangers were attacking my character—I might have hesitated.

But now?

Without a doubt.

Being Malta’s first sex therapist was isolating. It was difficult. It made me question myself more than once.

But it was necessary.

And I wouldn’t change a thing.