Join our mailing list to get regular email updates and info on what we're up to!
If you are under 18, please make sure you have your parents’ permission before providing us with any personal details.
Samia, 26, shares her story about how internet chat rooms impacted her wellbeing, and why it’s important that we all learn how to safely navigate the online world.
Picture this: it’s a Friday night in 2014. I’d finished school for the week, my parents and sister had gone to bed, and I had the evening to myself.
“Don’t stay up too late watching TV!” mum shouted, heading up the stairs.
“I won’t, don’t worry” I replied.
Once she was safely out of earshot, I put on STARZ TV to watch Jess Glynne’s ‘Rather Be’ music video, listening at a volume loud enough that just a faint murmur would be heard upstairs. I opened my laptop and typed in ‘Omegle’. Lots of people at school had been talking about it and I’d even used it at a sleepover last year. I knew the basics but had been waiting for the opportunity to explore it on my own.
The bright white webpage with blue and orange buttons illuminated my screen, asking me what I’d like to do.
Would you like to remain anonymous?
Would you like to use video or just text chat?
Which categories would you like to input, so we can match you with someone to speak to with similar interests?
As a teen, approaching young adult, who felt extremely unattractive but had a burning curiosity about sex and kink, I considered the options carefully.
I selected ‘anonymous’, ‘text chat’ and ‘dominant’ ‘submissive’ ‘D/s’ ‘sexy’ and ‘new’ as categories of interest.
The website found me a stranger to speak to.
‘ASL?’ the stranger typed. We’d shared the ‘new’ and ‘sexy’ categories as mutual interests.
‘What does that mean?’ I asked back.
They left the chat, and I was allocated a new stranger to speak to.
‘ASL?’ they asked. This stranger’s mutual interest was ‘submissive’.
Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, I quickly googled ASL on my phone. The first result said American Sign Language. I wondered if the stranger was asking me if I could use this, but kept scrolling until I found the Urban Dictionary definition:
Age, sex, location.
I assumed that this is what I’d been asked about twice in a row.
I returned to the chat, but the stranger had left. I was allocated a new stranger to speak to.
We shared interests of ‘D/s’ and ‘submissive’. Wanting to seem knowledgeable, I asked first this time:
‘ASL?’
They replied ‘28, M, Ontario, wbu?’
‘17, F, London’ I answered, stretching the truth a little.
‘My age ok for u?’ he asked.
I paused to consider. It was a big gap. But I’d encountered gaps before, my first kiss at 14 was with someone who was 18. My first boyfriend was older than me. I was often approached by adult men who asked for my number or Snapchat.
‘Sure’ I replied.
‘R u submissive’ he asked.
‘Im a dom’ he sent as a separate message.
‘im a sub’ I replied.
After a few more back and forth messages, we swapped Snapchat IDs and began chatting there. This pattern repeated for about three years. At first, it felt low risk. I exchanged messages with strangers, often much older than me, but most of these strangers were abroad and so I justified the actions, telling myself I’d never meet them, and I was careful about details I did reveal. And most importantly, it made me feel wanted. We’d talk about BDSM, I’d get drawn into sexting, and I thought I was learning more about myself. But, looking back, I understand now that I was being fetishised.
My worth was tied to my ability to please others. And every time I engaged in these chats, I felt more like a tool for someone else’s desires than an actual person.
I didn’t share that this was a habit of mine with anyone, until my second year of uni. I was in a relationship at that point and but was still engaging with internet strangers occasionally. I had been feeling guilty and on a weeknight evening with just me and my housemate in, I shared my habit with him. He approached me with kindness and understanding, having engaged in similar behaviours in the past himself.
I felt some relief in this response and was glad to not have been judged. This was the start of me sharing these experiences with friends and receiving love and support I hadn’t anticipated. A friend lent me a book called ‘Body Positive Power’ and I began reading and learning more about the body positive movement. About the nuances between race and size and perceptions of beauty.
Simultaneously, this was the time that the first series of Euphoria came out and the character of Kat Hernandez shook me. Watching her develop an online persona and becoming an underage sex worker following the exploration of her own insecurities was overwhelming. I could draw parallels between us, and it felt like my world had opened and I was seeing myself reflected.
Why was no one aware of what Kat was doing?
How was she feeling?
Why were there not more safeguards in place online to stop girls like Kat, like me, from engaging with harmful behaviours?
I had to do some deep reflection, learning and unlearning in the subsequent years. Most of which was facilitated, by the internet, and the glorious connections you can develop there.
Reviewing my social media was a strong start. Removing apps that I associated with my previous traumas was the first step. Changing the type of accounts I followed was the next. Finding more queer, body positive or body neutral pages to follow helped me to slowly shift my mindset and take care of myself. It felt so good to see people with bodies like mine talk about themselves with kindness, dress amazingly and be happy.
It became clear to me that the internet could be an incredible resource for young people to find community and see people who were like them. Whilst there is no doubt that there are pros and cons of the influencer era we are now in, influencers and content creators were some of the first people who showed me joy. Sharing personal stories or mundane vlogs gave me the perception shift I’d craved and I’m confident I wouldn’t have got that from mainstream media.
Looking back, the internet played a huge role in shaping how I saw myself and how others saw me. It gave me both a sense of belonging and a deep sense of isolation. Omegle and other online chatrooms were some of the first of their kind when I was growing up and so I do not blame the adults in my life for not understanding the capabilities these platforms had.
However, it now feels clear to me that if we’re going to use the internet as a tool for connection and learning, we need to approach it with intention and care.
If you’re a parent, educator, or someone who influences young people’s online behaviour, then please have open, honest conversations about internet safety, self-worth, and consent. And if you’re a young person reading this, remember you deserve to feel valued for who you are, not just what others want from you.
100% free & confidential