From Shame to Liberation: My Journey as an Adult Baby

What does it mean to hide part of your identity for years? How do you overcome ABDL shame? And when does a secret kink finally transform into confident self-acceptance?

My earliest memories trace back to starting school. In first grade, I fell in love with a girl – even though we boys still found girls "eww" in every way. During recess, we often teased a particular group of girls. We’d play a game of tag: They’d try to catch us and lock us in their "prison," a wooden hut with toys. Anyone captured got smothered in kisses. All the boys feared this; nobody wanted to be kissed by a girl. Yet secretly, I wished to be caught – so my crush would kiss me, leaving me at her mercy. Once, it even happened to me (what misfortune... or luck?).

I believe this submissive feeling toward girls – women today – has always appealed to me, as if etched into my DNA. Even back then, I found frilly dresses, ribbons, tights, and Mary Janes incredibly beautiful and strangely alluring. Secretly, I wanted to wear girls' clothing myself but had no desire to be a girl. Quite the opposite! My fantasy was about having it imposed on me in a game – having no choice. I’d brush these feelings aside or think nothing of them. In my mind, it was just... normal.

In third grade, my grandmother approached me with a popular shoe catalog. She told me to pick new sandals, pointing to two pairs: pink with hearts or navy blue with lightning bolts. All morning, I agonized over choosing the pink ones but ultimately picked the blue – terrified of school bullying. My grandmother seemed to sense I liked girl things. I often wore tights at her place (though never pink), simply loving how they felt, even in plain blue or gray. I also had a pink, kitschy baby blanket I’d always snuggle with on the couch during TV time.

Then came a period when I had to stay at my stepmother’s every two weeks. I was around nine or ten at the time, and my stepsister was two years younger. One evening, I secretly helped myself to her clothes, slipping a dress and some tights into my bag. Locked in my room, I felt euphoric yet shadowed by shame – a thrilling but deeply conflicted experience. This specific shame never surfaced at my grandparents’ house, likely because I lived openly there and no one seemed to care.

About half a year later, I stumbled upon ABDL for the first time. I’d been searching online for stories about boys who enjoyed wearing girls' clothing. Back then, ABDL content was scarce. But then, by chance, I discovered one of the earliest influencers in this space – her name starts with 'R'. Those familiar with the scene will know exactly who I mean. This discovery liberated me! She mirrored everything I’d secretly sensed within myself.

Diapers especially ignited my curiosity. Before falling asleep, I’d often fantasize about delicate dresses, diapers, and tights. In my mind, I’d play "House" with my crush from the parallel class – mother, father, child – where I was always the baby. Slowly, I realized I was different from other children. Yet thanks to the internet, I knew: I wasn’t alone. That realization calmed the thoughts I’d never been able to share or understand before.

By age eleven, I’d discovered my fascination with what others call AB/DL or sissy baby/feminization. Finally, I could name these feelings. Back then, diapers weren’t easily accessible. I’d often stuff towels or old clothes into my underwear to mimic their bulk. Meanwhile, I’d hoarded dresses and tights in my "secret box."

But at thirteen, new interests emerged: friends, and girls suddenly became thrilling. I decided to purge the box – I wouldn’t continue. What if a buddy or even a girlfriend found out? Everyone would label me a freak. What girl my age would want a boy who secretly wore his little sister’s clothes? Done. I tried to leave it all behind, discarding my hidden stash of feminine treasures.

For the next four years, I avoided ABDL topics – except during lonely nights. At fourteen, I realized this wasn’t just roleplay for me; slipping into the baby girl role also held sexual appeal. Of course, I found this mortifying and just wanted to be like other guys. Still, I dated a great girl, had friends, and life seemed on track. Yet the urge to explore my ABDL side never vanished. Scenarios flickered through my mind: What would wearing a real diaper feel like? Are there girls who share—or accept—this kink? Should I confess to my girlfriend? I always dismissed these thoughts; I craved "normalcy."

At seventeen, we cleared out my parents’ friends’ apartment. They’d sold their house, and their kids were long grown. Up in the attic, I rummaged through boxes for treasures—until the inevitable: I opened a large white plastic bin. Inside lay an array of playful girls’ dresses. My throat tightened. The longing surged back, vivid and within reach.

I lifted a white-and-lilac gingham dress with a ruffled hem. Its heavy cotton felt like vintage baby clothes. It’ll fit perfectly… I couldn’t resist. I smuggled it into my backpack.

Though I helped my parents all afternoon, my mind was already home, wrapped in that dreamy fabric. I wore it often at night, twirling before the mirror—I felt adorable. But something was missing: diapers... During my apprenticeship, I’d started earning money. After weeks of hesitation, I ordered my first pack: plain white medical diapers from Amazon. The fear paralyzed me: Will they ship discreetly? Could my parents intercept it? I stalked the mail carrier like a hawk, intercepting the package. There it lay—my first real diapers. Trembling with excitement, I rushed to try one.

That afternoon, I lived in diapers and the little dress. It felt like diving into another universe. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to wet—shame held me back. Instead, I fantasized about doll tea parties and princess birthdays with a girl. When I finally removed the diaper, arousal surged through me... and I found release atop its padded surface.

Afterward, shame hit me like a punch to the gut. I felt perverse—like I’d committed something deeply forbidden. A gnawing guilt took root. This was always the dark echo: release left me hollow with shame, almost repulsed by myself.

It took a year before I purged everything again. Living with this kink felt unbearable. Hidden under my bed were just a few items: two or three diapers, a couple of dresses, socks, and one pair of white soft tights. That night, I bagged them all and dumped them in a clothing donation bin.

I focused on my driver’s license, friends, and girlfriend, swearing to bury ABDL for good. Yet every mention of "diapers," every glimpse of hyper-feminine clothing or tights on a woman, sent me spiraling into my littlespace. Still, I ignored every trigger, mimicking the "normies" around me.

After my apprenticeship, I moved cities at twenty-one for advanced training. My girlfriend and I had split. Lonely and curious, I found myself scouring ABDL forums again, diving deeper than ever.

On Instagram, I met a woman my age fascinated by my kinks—who herself had a diaper attraction. She studied nearby. We messaged constantly and planned to meet. I’d even rebought supplies: tights, pacifiers. She’d been with another Adult Baby before. Our chemistry sparked, and we scheduled my visit.

But beneath the excitement, that familiar shadow loomed: the dread of doing something "perverse."

We never met. Ashamed and insecure, I ghosted her. My mind’s relentless tug-of-war had overwhelmed me again. My solution? Another purge—trash everything, forget it exists.

Three years passed. New friends, new colleagues. ABDL became just a masturbation aid, nothing more. I refused to explore further—then, it seemed easiest. Yet slowly, I made peace with my truth: This kink is part of me. I crave diapers and everything around them. The growing online community showed thousands living openly with this—sexual or non-sexual, in their own vibrant worlds.

At twenty-four, I moved cities. I craved new horizons, and opportunities bloomed. For the first time, no family or close friends lived nearby. My resolve crystallized: I’d live my kink unrestrained—in my own space, by my rules, judgment be damned.

I connected with people from the scene—online and in person. The shadow vanished for good. Comfort replaced shame; this was warmth and liberation: finally becoming who I was meant to be.

I began ordering diverse diapers—now countless ABDL designs existed! I customized pacifiers and built a wardrobe: sweet Lolita dresses, ABDL onesies, even self-sewn Disney princess costumes.

When my little treasures began overflowing, hiding them from visitors became impossible. So I made a decision: I transformed my bedroom into an ABDL sanctuary! Inspired by social media—where countless Adult Babies showcased their personal paradises—my new mission crystallized: My very own Adult Baby princess domain, complete with a custom-built ABDL crib crafted by a specialty carpenter.

Assembly and delivery were an adventure (a tale unto itself!), but I conquered it. Now when guests come? I simply lock the bedroom door: "Total chaos in there!" And you know what? I don’t care if they question it. Why would I? I avoid drop-ins anyway—always hated them.

Since then, I’ve explored countless facets of the ABDL universe. This kink holds so much beauty! But as with everything, self-acceptance comes first—a lesson that took time, and rightly so. Societal understanding has grown through blogs, podcasts, and online communities. Education matters: for ourselves, and for the curious.

My little ABDL world is now unremarkably normal to me. I cherish connections within the scene and beyond. ABDL is just one thread in my tapestry: I thrive in an active vanilla life, punctuated by little weekends. Both worlds nourish me—and today, I savor each with open eyes