Tag: relationships

  • One

    I want to write about my new loves.

    For now I’ll call them One and Two.

    There have been more potential possibilities, but these are the only ones I’ve let into my heart thus far.

    I’ll start at the beginning…

    This post is for One.

    He was my first date.

    So sweet and tender, I felt safe with One even just through our messages beforehand.

    So loving and yet so limited with that love, I’ve learned his boundaries come from wounds.

    When One touches me- it is gentle, sensual, gentlemanly…

    Until we get back to his place, and then there is more urgency. More desire. More assertiveness.

    When One talks to me in person, he does so with deep curiosity and care and genuine interest for learning more about me.

    Our conversations take us to rich places where each of our stories are shared in great detail.

    One has fire in his belly, a calling to make a difference in this world through activism and organizing, lifting up the marginalized, and living with true integrity and honor.

    In between our meetings, One and I don’t talk.

    It’s just easier that way I’ve found.

    He has a lot of wounding around boundaries and (I think) a lot of anxiety that I’m going to fall in love with him.

    Early on, every message I’d send seemed to nudge right up to the edge of his comfort zone, and it led to me feeling like I was always tiptoeing around.

    So I suggested we only message when we were ready to see one another, and he was amenable.

    I can tell he misses me sometimes, and wishes it felt easier to connect in between our times together.

    We decided early on we’d have a monthly date, yet I’ve noticed I’ll often hear from him after only two or three weeks.

    I hope that the more he learns he can trust me with his limits, the less he’ll feel the need to hold them so firmly.

    One was my first new intimate adventure in almost two decades.

    When I told him that afterwards, I could tell it made him nervous.

    See, he actually cares really deeply about how others feel.

    He doesn’t want to create a situation where someone needs more from him than he can offer, and their heart gets hurt.

    I’m also fairly certain there’s a part of him that’s afraid he’ll fall in love too, and he’s not ready for that.

    I recently just finally articulated that he didn’t need to keep panicking that I’d fall in love with him.

    That I felt like he was a good friend, one that I also loved being intimate with.

    That he could calm down already, for goodness sake!

    I think it embarrassed him a bit for me to name it.

    But also, he’s not wrong to worry.

    I wouldn’t tell him this, but I do love him.

    How could I not?

    My heart was made for this kind of connecting.

    This intimacy.

    This sharing of ourselves with each other.

    And love doesn’t scare me the way it does for so many people.

    Love doesn’t require commitment, more demand, more rules.

    Not for me.

    I wish it could be as freely received by others as I offer it, because it would be so liberating to be able to express it openly.

    But it’s too scary for One.

    So I keep it to myself.

    I share my affection through my intention as I listen to him speak about his life.

    With my touch as we share our bodies with one another.

    With my kiss as we say farewell, until the next time.

    One feels like home, and also like fire.

    One activates the lover and the fighter in me, weaving the two energies into a beautiful spark that brings light and warmth into my life.

    One makes me want to stand up more, pay more attention, remember my privilege and the responsibility that comes with it.

    On our first date, I could tell One fell hard for me.

    And then it scared him.

    He held my hand that first night, and let his excitement about me peek through his walls.

    He hasn’t reached for my hand since…

    He’s more careful now, reserved and restrained.

    And I meet him there, I don’t mind.

    But am always hoping some evening I’ll feel his hand find mine and embrace it.

    I’m always waiting, with patience and grace, for him to decide he’s ready to let me in.

    Yet truly, I’ll understand if he never arrives there.

    One- I love you, and I’m so glad I found you first.

    Thank you for being the beginning of my new adventure.

    You were the perfect starting place, and I hope our journey together continues.

  • Discernment

    I wonder if I can really do this.

    Navigate all these new pieces all at once.

    Can I really hold tenderness and vulnerability within casualness and boundaries?

    Can I be a friend… with benefits?

    Can I hold my husband’s sweet sensitive heart and still keep growing in this way?

    I’m really not sure yet.

    Whether I truly have capacity for all of this growth happening inside me.

    One of my connections shared a book with me, and I’ve been reading it.

    The Ethical Slut.

    When it arrived in the mail I opened it to the middle.

    It was the first page of a chapter titled Abundance.

    It talked about starvation economies, and how we’ve been taught to believe that love is finite.

    As though there’s only so much to go around and we need to hold onto it with a white knuckled grip.

    That there is a scarcity mindset wrapped up in the monogamous framework we’re all cultured in.

    I didn’t read the whole chapter, but far enough to realize how deeply embedded these concepts are in me.

    The notion that my heart is limited in how it can hold love, and I have to share it as though it will run out at some point.

    I’m slowly untangling these beliefs inside myself, but they’re woven rather tightly into how I’ve always seen love and relationships and my own identity.

    I’m still really discerning whether I can feel safe and comfortable having physical intimacy with someone without deep, devoted emotional intimacy.

    Even if it’s not dependent on a monogamous covenant, I still find myself preferring to know and care for someone’s heart in a deep way and feel that reciprocated.

    I wonder if I can securely hold that depth in myself, even when it’s not met by a connection I’m sharing my body with.

    I wonder if I even want to.

    So far I’ve only crossed that threshold once with someone new, but as I continue to connect with others I find myself conflicted in my heart’s capacity and true desires.

    Such a part of this journey for me comes from my huge heart and yearning to share my abundance of love with more people.

    I’m just not sure yet if physical love alone is enough for me, when it means I have to withhold or restrain my emotions in tandem.

    I’ve always felt I needed both.

    Now I’m opening to curiosity, and maybe am needing to try it all out just to see.

    How will I really know my truth if I don’t inquire and experience all the different languages it can speak?

    How will I learn where I am if not through examining and discovering where I am not?

    Yet I know I need to tread carefully and slowly on this path.

    I know it might mean hurt feelings and missteps and trepidation.

    I know this heart of mine is tender in its nature, and as its guardian I need to explore without abandoning its protection.

    I know this is a calling of reverence and grace and above all…

    I must lead with love, for others yes, but first and foremost myself.

  • 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.

  • Wings

    Wings

    Sometimes I still can’t believe it.

    This new place I find myself in.

    This new version of me I’m learning to inhabit.

    The expansion inside me is happening at such a rapid pace, I frequently feel like I no longer recognize the person I’m becoming.

    My heart just keeps swelling in size, growing to hold more love, more life, more me.

    It doesn’t feel like a choice I’ve made.

    It doesn’t feel like a path I’ve decided to walk.

    It doesn’t feel like it’s in my control to stop it, even if I wanted to.

    And there have been plenty of moments I’ve wanted to press the brakes.

    Yet, still.

    I keep expanding.

    It’s simply happening in me, whether I accept it or not.

    So I’ve chosen to walk alongside it, rather than struggle to repress it.

    Even as the older, more entrenched parts of me fret with fear and anxiety.

    Even as others around me find it hard to relate and understand, their own beliefs and fears surfacing as they struggle to support my growth.

    I wake each day, and find myself ready again.

    Ready to deepen on this journey unfolding within me.

    Ready to find beauty where others see despair.

    Ready to keep moving forward, shaking off stagnancy and slumber.

    Ready to continue this practice of becoming fully awake in myself, and the world.

    I sometimes miss the simplicity I felt before, when life felt less complicated and there were fewer moving pieces to hold.

    Yet I know, I can’t go back.

    It’s simply not how transformation works.

    Even in my moments of overwhelm and bewilderment, I know I can’t trade my new wings for my old cocoon.

    And I wouldn’t want to.

    It’s scary at times and the learning curve is steep, but oh- the glory of these new surroundings!

    The exquisite, thrilling adventure of finally…

    Learning to fly.