*based on conversations I’ve witnessed between clients and in my own life.
my insecurities make me selfish………..
i turn off the lights before sex so that you don’t see the parts of my body that disgust even me.
I thought maybe you wanted the lights off because I’ve gained weight this year and my abs aren’t defined.
i don’t give you head because I don’t think I’m good at it and I don’t want to disappoint you.
I thought you didn’t like my dick because it’s too small.
i don’t let you go down on me because I think my pussy is gross and you can’t possibly want to lick it.
I thought you just don’t like the way I lick you.
when I orgasm I put my face against a pillow because I don’t want you to see how weird I look.
It hurts me that in our most intimate moments you won’t look at me.
my favourite sex position is doggy style but I never want to do it because you might see the cellulite on my ass.
I thought you didn’t want to do it because my belly is too big.
i fake orgasms because I’m embarrassed by how long it takes me to actually have one.
I thought you faked because I’m no good at pleasuring you.
when you gave me the gift for my birthday and I complained about it being too expensive instead of thanking you, it was because I didn’t think I deserved something so special.
I thought “I’ve screwed up again.”
i stopped initiating sex because of that time when I lost my erection and I felt like I’d failed you.
I thought you stopped initiating because I’m no longer attractive to you.
i don’t talk to you at work because I think you’re way smarter than me and I don’t want to look stupid.
I thought you didn’t want to know me.
i didn’t ask you out on a date because I couldn’t face the rejection if you said no.
I thought you just didn’t like me.
i’ve never invited you into my home because I’m embarrassed of it.
I thought you don’t care about me.
i didn’t tell you that you look nice the other day — even though I thought you did — because I was scared you’d say it back to be polite and I know that I didn’t look nice.
I would have loved hearing you say that.
i never ask you to do anything with me, or say yes when you ask me, because I think I’m boring and no fun to be around -unlike you who’s so interesting!
I thought you must think I’m no fun to be around.
i wanted to bring you a meal when your mom died but I was scared I’d say the wrong thing so I avoided you.
I felt unsupported and unloved.
my insecurities make me selfish………….
I came upon these 3 questions in a book I was reading on a flight to Montreal last weekend. Without thinking of my answers I quickly scribbled them down in my book. Afterwards when I read them over, I felt very emotional, and have come back to reread them many times. At the end of the day – or of my life – this is what matters to me. <3
When I’m 80 years old, how will I answer these questions? How will you? Before you read my answers, I encourage you to answer the questions for yourself.
What was my life about? What did I care about? What do I want others to know that I did with my life?
What was my life about? My life was about love and connection — both inwards and outwards. With myself, my children, intimate partners, friends, circle sisters, clients and strangers. It was about everything that I could feel and know without seeing. Connection with myself for connection with the people around me. Connecting my inner layers with your inner layers. Seeking to under stand you as if you are me. Our circles converging.
What did I care about? I cared about connections with others. Expressing my love through touch, words and actions. Getting to know the people I love enough that I can love them in a way that feels loving to them. Understanding, knowing and accepting myself so that I could understand, know and accept others.
What do I want others to know that I did with my life? I want others to know that I did hard, painful work to know myself enough that I had something to offer me – and you – in my love. That it came from the deepest, innermost parts of me. To love in this way I had to be vulnerable and brave and honest with myself enough to know ME. This knowing became my lifes’ work. The more I was able to see me…. the more I was able to see you. To do this wasn’t easy, but it was worth it. To know me. To know you. To feel me. To feel you. And to love us.
Last year at this time I was recovering from surgery to remove an inch long cancerous tumor that was growing on the right half of my thyroid. I was still in shock and very much feeling shame about what I must have done, or not done, to get it.
I’d be lying if I said that I don’t still carry some of that shame, or that it isn’t incredibly difficult for me to tell anyone that I’ve had cancer and have to see the look on their face in response. That by saying it out loud or having to put it on forms at the dentist’s office, I feel like a walking reminder of our mortality that no one wants to be reminded of. That I don’t dread having to share the story with a new lover or partner and wonder if they’ll still love me. That I don’t question what awful thing I did to deserve this, or wonder if I’m a complete fraud for talking about self love when I’m obviously failing at it or this wouldn’t have happened to me.
All of these stories are a part of the current layers of shame that I’m ever so gently peeling off these days, and yet what woke me at 4:30am this morning wasn’t shame, but rather gratitude.
Having cancer is THE best thing that has ever happened to me. I know it sounds cheesy but it’s like I’ve been shown the value of my life and now I get to really LIVE it.
I can live enthusiastically and wholeheartedly in all things that I do.
I can choose to care about what matters to me and not give a shit about what doesn’t.
I can walk naked in slow motion across a nude beach with a bunch of other naked people (at least 10 years older than me) laughing hysterically at the way our bodies jiggle when laughing hysterically.
I can expand my work to include men who also struggle with physical and sexual shame.
I can be the me that I am when I’m having sex alone – with a partner. Growling, laughing, crying, breathing like I’m giving birth.
I can go to Mexico on a week long date.
I can take my kids to visit Raffi.
I can facilitate Bodysex retreats in other places.
I can have the most difficult conversations of my life and come out feeling like I climbed Mt. Everest.
I can take most of the summer off so that my children get to experience living enthusiastically with me in the least expensive ways possible.
I can choose to be grateful for each day that I wake up knowing that I have the ability to chose my desires over my fears.
I can, I can, I can.
And I do. <3
A beautiful poem written by a Bodysex woman about her monthly cycle <3
Time to shed
to make room
for the new
A wanted guest
only to pass through
Give it a few
days to be
Tears are inevitable
will be cleaned out
and left empty
There will be
to have someone stay
at least for
But not quite yet
A red tide
But with its
will also mark
a new beginning
Time to refresh
the power to
never brushing my hair,
biking without a helmet,
sun on my pussy,
sand in my ass crack.
accepting my self as I am,
preferring my bare skin to clothing,
letting my stretch marks show,
my abundant lips dangle.
experiencing my sexuality through my;
open body, open mouth, open eyes and open ears,
and realizing that these experiences can happen all day everyday,
with or without my genitals.
listening to my body and
trusting that by simply breathing, I can handle everything I feel.
choosing feeling over avoidance — even when it’s painful.
Having sex with the lights on,
fantasizing without shame,
saying “I’ve got one (or two or three) more in me” even if my lover is done —
and not apologizing for it.
being vulnerable with people that I love,
knowing that in my vulnerability I create an opportunity for deeper intimacy —
whether they meet me in it or not.
being brave enough to ask for what I want
and not taking it personally when I don’t get it.
knowing what my core values are,
choosing to live a life that is in alignment with these core values,
and recognizing the freedom that this alignment gives me.
**photo credit goes to Stiina
I met you 9 years ago….. after a long and stressful flight home from Ethiopia, with my newly adopted daughter.
Exhausted and scared of the long transition ahead, I was surprised and relieved to see you in the kitchen greeting our arrival.
Although it was love at first sight, I couldn’t know then how deep that love would grow, or how much we would go through together in the years to come.
You were there for me while I helped my daughter adjust — through her tears and tears of my own. You were there as we bonded – her learning that she could trust me as a mama, and me learning to not take her initial rejection personally. You were there while I watched lovingly as she slept peacefully beside me — hoping we’d make it through. And… You were there when I knew we had.
You were there as my family grew and we welcomed another daughter into our home. This one from my own tummy. You were there for the late nights I sat up with her — feeling a mix of both awe and fear at what I’d gotten myself into again.
You were there while I cuddled with countless children on my worn out couch, reading book after book after book….
You were there as I took time for myself during those busy days running a daycare. The children learning that when you came out, mama was going to sit for a little bit. Because of that, they seemed to hold you with reverence and importance too, and often liked a taste of what you had to offer.
You were there as I felt the uncomfortable stirrings of change and dissatisfaction in my body. Providing endless cups of tea as I poured myself over books trying to find the answer to what it was I was looking for. You were there when I discovered that the answer was in me.
You were there as I painfully untied the threads of my marriage. Unsteady and scared, you grounded me through the consistent warmth you offered my hands, and my body.
You were there as I picked myself up off the floor, and created a new path for me and my children.
You were there for not only me, but for the other women that I welcomed and supported into my home. Sharing stories, tears, laughter and pleasure – they too came to know you as a constant.
Like me, you’ve changed a bit over the years. A broken piece here and there, marks that won’t wash off — stained from endless memories. I’ve learned to adapt to your age, happily holding you in a different and more gentle way. It seems awkward to those who don’t know you as well, but I don’t mind. I especially love how your flavour has developed over time. It’s so good that I’m hesitant to go elsewhere. The way you’ve aged has only made you more interesting and beautiful to me, reminding me to look at my own aging that way.
Last week however, an important part of you broke and, through my tears, I knew that your end was near. For a few days I handled you even more gently, seeking comfort in the warmth you still provided and discussing with my children ways to fix you. But I knew that it was time to let you go.
So yesterday I bought a beautiful new tea pot. Hand made with love by a local potter. It’s shiny, the handle is in tact and there are no stains. Her tea doesn’t taste like your tea, her edges are too smooth and I keep forgetting that I don’t need to hold her as gently as I held you. I know that I’ll grow to love her, but for now, you’re still holding the space in my heart.
It’s not goodbye. I will still see you everyday on my shelf, amongst other treasures that I love, reminding me of all the things I hold dear: family, commitment, perseverance, warmth and unconditional love. Thank you for our beautiful love affair.
**** Special thanks to Mary-Anne Parker for gifting me this tea pot 9 years ago. <3