Tag: growth

  • Ready

    I wonder how it will go.

    My first time with someone else in almost two decades.

    My first time showing my naked body to another person, besides my husband, in 18 years.

    My body has been through so much in that time.

    It’s grown a human.

    It’s given birth.

    It’s offered five years of breastfeeding.

    It’s grown so much.

    Fuller. Wider. Stronger.

    It has cellulite where it once was smooth.

    It has curves where it once was slender.

    What will he think when he sees it?

    I’ve been so well loved and desired for so many years.

    I haven’t had to wonder how someone new might view this earthly container I inhabit.

    I think I’m ready.

    To share myself in this way.

    I think my husband is ready.

    But there are little fears still.

    What if it’s hard?

    What if taking this step, crossing this line, is so vulnerable I cry?

    Will this new connection be able to hold me in that?

    Will I be able to hold myself through that?

    And what if…

    It’s amazing.

    What if it’s not hard?

    What if it’s easy and natural and just flows through me?

    Is that ok too?

    Part of me can’t wait.

    To feel him up against me.

    His skin, his hands, his arms wrapped around me.

    This part feels excitement and giddiness and adrenaline.

    It just wants to lean in, to experience it all to the fullest.

    To dive into the deep end and trust I can swim to the surface.

    And part of me feels afraid, tender, anxious.

    This part wants to hold onto my monogamous identity with a white knuckled grip.

    I’ve always been so proud that I haven’t been with many people.

    That I never really dated.

    That I’d only ever loved two people.

    Like it made me a good girl.

    Made me sweet, innocent, pure.

    It’s always been so ingrained in me that these are the ideal qualities for a woman.

    That to have full agency of my sexuality and embody it fully would mean I was less somehow.

    Less lovable.

    Less honorable.

    Less sacred.

    If I shared my body with more people, then it would be less special and holy.

    That in this way, less is more.

    There’s grief around it for me.

    This deeply embedded belief system that is slowly untangling itself within me.

    Slowly, I’m awakening to the truth that my body and how I share it is mine and mine alone.

    It doesn’t belong to purity culture.

    It doesn’t belong to other people’s opinions.

    It doesn’t even belong to my husband.

    That my sexuality is sacred because of the reverence with which I hold it.

    That the choices I make are part of a beautiful tapestry, woven with different hearts and bodies yet still sanctified by my unique thread of love.

    Love for others but at its core, love for my self.

    I think I’m ready.

    Tonight.

    To weave that thread with another again.

    To merge my body with his for a moment in time.

    To share myself again in this way, and see who I am in that space now.

    To meet this new part of me for the first time, in this new realm.

    I’m nervous.

    I’m excited.

    I’m ready.

  • Home

    Did that really just happen?

    Did I go on a date with someone other than my husband?

    Did I really kiss him?

    Did I really like it?

    Yes.

    It did happen.

    And I did like it.

    The way he smelled.

    The way he sounded.

    The way he kept asking me how I was.

    If I felt safe.

    The way his eyes sparkled when he smiled.

    The way our conversation just flowed.

    No long pauses.

    No awkward moments.

    The way we talked about the hardest part of my life and also the plot of the book he’s reading.

    The way it felt like I’d known him for so much longer than a month.

    The way he seemed familiar to me, like an old friend.

    The way he tasted.

    The way his hands felt in mine.

    So soft.

    So strong.

    So gentle.

    I liked it all.

    How sacred it felt.

    This leap into the unknown we were both taking.

    Taking a chance on our hearts, sharing them with someone new.

    Unlocking a new piece of ourselves in this energetic container we were creating.

    It felt so sweet, so easy to fall into.

    Terrifying and liberating all at once.

    Like everything I’ve been so afraid would hurt me was actually meant to heal me.

    The only hard thing was driving home.

    Knowing I’d have to share it with my husband.

    Knowing it would hurt both of us to have that conversation.

    Yet when I came in to tell him I was back, tears of joy welled in my eyes.

    All I could think was how grateful I was to come back to him.

    How lucky I am that he was there waiting for me.

    How the only reason this part of me has felt safe enough to emerge, to become alive in me.

    Is because of the safety of his love.

    The way he has held my heart with reverence all these years, and healed the wounds I thought I’d carry forever.

    I fell into his arms, and told him these things.

    As he wiped my tears and shed his own, I knew I was home.

    With him.

    With myself.

  • Breathe

    Brand new.

    All of this.

    Tomorrow I have a first date.

    I’ve never done this, any of it.

    Dated.

    Met someone online.

    Before last summer, I’d only loved two people.

    Had only slept with a few others.

    I never realized it before, but I think I was proud of that.

    Only now, as I’m faced with letting go of that piece of my identity, has it registered for me.

    This sense that I was innocent or pure, the way I’ve been cultured to be the ideal for women.

    I’ve always felt like my sexuality could only be sacred if I kept it small and private, held in a monogamous container.

    As this new part of me grows inside, I’m having to question that belief.

    I was taught that this side of me was only safe if I held it close, and could bring me pain if I let it truly become alive.

    What if this was all wrong?

    What if pain can find me no matter what, and keeping my sexuality in a cage has been just as harmful?

    What if love doesn’t have to mean ownership, and the process of cultivating deep trust in that love is what actually brings true security.

    It’s hard.

    To let go of who I’ve always been, what I’ve always believed.

    But also, I feel lighter.

    Braver.

    Safer.

    Freer.

    More whole.

    More me.

    Like this part of me has been waiting a lifetime to be born.

    Just aching for me to be ready to allow it to breathe.

  • Witness

    I see you, young one.

    You, the newest part of me.

    Just born.

    Just stretching your limbs and breathing air into your lungs for the first time.

    I hear you, just finding your voice and marveling at the very sound of it.

    I know the rest of me is nervous, afraid even.

    I know the rest of me wants to keep you small and safe, to manage and control you.

    But I’m here, ready to witness who you are becoming in this world.

    I’m here, ready to let you grow and expand and thrive in all the ways you are needing.

    I’m here, ready to nurture your budding curiosity and desire for freedom.

    I’m here, ready to offer you spaciousness to be the wild and feral being that you are.

    I’m here, willing and able to hold room for you to make your own mistakes and find your own way.

    I’m not going to lock you up behind closed doors.

    I’m not going to keep you separate and caged from the rest of me.

    I promise, I will help you integrate and manifest fully within me.

    I see, really see, all the blessings and abundance you are bringing to all parts of my life.

    I understand that letting you breathe and become alive means all of me benefits and flourishes more.

    You are evolving, awakening from the darkness of slumber and mystery.

    You are unfolding right before my eyes, so beautiful and sparkling new.

    You are emerging, ready to be held and loved and tended to.

    I promise, I will do my best to walk with you and witness you on this journey we’re on together.

    I promise, I won’t turn away.

  • Alone

    Sometimes this process can feel so fragmented.

    This new part of me is growing so fast, and the rest of me just wants to slow down a bit.

    I want to allow my heart to grow and expand the way it’s needing to, yet at times it can feel like too much to hold all at once.

    So many pieces to carry, so many elements to juggle.

    I just want to press pause for a moment.

    To take a breath, and rest for a little while.

    But it doesn’t seem to work like that.

    New connections keep forming, even as old ones fall away.

    There is joy and desire and excitement in all that continues to surface in me.

    And also grief, loss, and reflection around the places and people I’m leaving behind.

    It gets so lonely sometimes, holding it all.

    I try to share about it with my friends, but most of them just can’t handle it.

    I know they’re trying.

    Trying to support me.

    Trying to love me.

    Trying to accept these changes in who I am becoming.

    Yet they can’t understand or relate, and it seems to trigger their own fears around relationships and monogamy.

    It feels out of their realm of capacity, and I don’t want to overwhelm or burden them with a subject that is simply too much for them to carry.

    Even my husband, my very best friend.

    I used to be able to share everything on my mind so freely and unfiltered.

    I would just process my thoughts out loud as they were forming, never needing to edit or tiptoe or proceed with caution.

    Now I need to be sensitive and mindful in how I share with him.

    It’s tender and triggering for him, understandably.

    Sharing about feelings for other people, it has to be handled with care and gentleness.

    I have to censor the thoughts I share now, sometimes dancing around my truth to create a soft landing as it enters his ears.

    I miss how it used to be, like an ache for which I cannot find relief.

    I miss him knowing every feeling and thought I’m having, our communication constant and open.

    It’s isolating, this new world I’ve entered.

    It’s a path not widely accepted or understood in this world.

    Even with this blog, I need to stay anonymous for now.

    There’s people in my life I don’t want to share this journey with.

    Family and friends that I just don’t feel safe knowing what I’m feeling and experiencing.

    I find myself feeling so depleted from the energy it takes to hold it all alone.

    I’m trying my best.

    To stay devoted and present to my current community, while also cultivating new connections that allow room for this new part of me to breathe and thrive.

    It’s such a balancing act.

    I feel like I’m straddling two very different worlds.

    Two distinctly detached versions of myself.

    Two parallel yet separate lives.

    Fragments of these opposing elements scattered all around me, longing to be re-membered and re-integrated.

    It takes so much intention to not spiral into shame and self doubt.

    To steer away from judging myself the way I fear I’m being judged by others.

    To focus on the beauty and growth and evolution happening in me, rather than the cultural narratives embedded in my psyche.

    I hope one day I can feel whole again.

    I hope one day I can feel held again.

    I hope one day I can feel seen and heard and witnessed truthfully, by the ones who love me most.