I Grew Up on Porn

And I’ve seen firsthand what it’s doing to a generation of men

I recently read Julie Bindel’s essay, “The Men that say NO to Porn.” She tells the story of Matt, a 36-year-old doctor who struggled with porn for most of his life. He first encountered it when he was 14, around the time mobile internet was becoming more accessible. It took 15 years before he finally kicked the addiction, and it wasn’t easy. His friends all watched porn regularly, and when he told them he was quitting, they acted like it was weird.

His story reminded me of my own. Until age 14, I had never been exposed to explicit content. Sure — I’d seen romantic scenes in movies, but nothing graphic or unnatural. That all changed in high school, where boys began speaking casually, even proudly, about what they watched online.

One day, a classmate described his own viewing habits like it was no big deal, and for the first time, porn entered my world. That evening, I went home and watched it myself. This marked the beginning of my struggle.

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It was a daily battle, one that tested my will relentlessly. I’d sometimes go days, weeks, and even months without porn, but I’d always end up back at the same place. Whenever it was over, I’d sit there in resignation, thinking about what I’d just watched. The euphoria I felt only a moment before had been replaced by visceral disgust, and I saw porn for what it was: a product designed to erode the will of its consumers, like the opium that once flooded 19^th-century China, all for profit.

The profit motive has undoubtedly driven many breakthroughs that have improved human life. When penicillin was first discovered, it was appropriated by pharmaceutical companies that invested in its large-scale production, ultimately saving millions of lives. However, opium, like porn, was not so virtuous.

Opium was pushed aggressively by empires not because it helped people, but because it was profitable. Porn is similar — it’s a multibillion-dollar industry that feeds on mass consumption and psychological dependence. Neither porn nor opium were made for the user’s good. Both are sold to satisfy corporate greed, no matter the cost to individual lives.

This real cost goes unnoticed. The porn economy is valued at nearly $100 billion, yet it is rarely treated as a public health issue. From a financial standpoint, this makes sense. Based on its annual revenue, porn pales in comparison to other exploitative sectors such as gambling, alcohol, and tobacco.

Estimated global annual revenues by industry (2023): Porn, Gambling, Alcohol, and Tobacco

But you can’t put a price on someone’s soul or on a will quietly broken by a product designed to be irresistible. This intangible cost of porn is imposed not just on men and women but also on children, the most vulnerable members of society.

Studies have shown that internet pornography rewires the brain’s reward system, offering instant dopamine gratification without effort, connection, or growth. In one Cambridge study, researchers observed brain patterns in porn users that closely resembled those of substance addicts.

Online recovery forums are full of testimonies from people who, after quitting porn, suddenly rediscovered the energy to improve their careers, relationships, and physical health. Like a drug addict chasing the next high, the porn user loses the will to grow.

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Like opium, the effects of porn extend beyond the individual. The Opium epidemic in 19^th century China led to a destabilization of Chinese society. Millions of Chinese citizens became addicted to the drug. Addicts engaged in crime and corruption, using illegal means to acquire opium. The drug made workers listless and irritable, lowering economic productivity. And family stability declined as individuals prioritized obtaining and using opium over their familial obligations.

Porn is doing the same to the modern world. Birth rates have declined. The mental illnesses associated with porn have led to a drop in worker productivity. And by promoting degrading caricatures of women, porn has fueled misogyny and undermined one of the key pillars of civil society: the union of the sexes.

Though the consequences of porn are well-known, the corporations that produce it look away. “We’re just giving people what they want,” they say, as if that were an adequate defense. The British Empire supplied the opium addicts of 19^th century China with what they wanted, knowing full well that it would kill them. Today, corporate empires supply the masses with digital opium, knowing that it leads not to a physical death, but a spiritual one.

This is the magnum opus of capitalism. Wealth cannot be extracted from a dead body, but a living body that is spiritually dead can feed a corporation’s coffers indefinitely. The spiritual casualty stays dependent on the product — and the corporation never loses its customer. This is what makes the porn industry so morally bankrupt. Its product is not incidentally harmful — the harm is essential to its profitability.

Looking back, I realize it wasn’t an accident that porn found me so young. It was designed to reach me, to warp my impressionable mind before I could resist its pull. Tens of millions of young people have fallen victim to the same trap since then, and many of them will remain hopelessly addicted for the rest of their lives. Families, careers, and ambitions — all are held hostage by pornography.

The addicted will look back at their life in old age, thinking about what could have been. We have the opportunity to destroy this industry before it does more damage but, first, we must see porn for what it is. It isn’t entertainment or a harmless way to pass the time. It’s a digital weapon designed to destroy the will of its consumers. We don’t need baby steps like age limits or ID verification. We need to dismantle this industry completely.

Resisting porn isn’t just about purity or faith. It’s about defending humanity itself.

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