Maybe this is for you. Maybe it’s for me, a mere breadcrumb trail to remind myself how I got here.

 

Either way, maybe you see me inside yourself.

 

Maybe my story is the same as yours—a life of self-sacrifice that led to self-abandonment, that led to the ultimate betrayal: the betrayal of self. Over-giving, under-receiving. That’s been my narrative. I poured out everything, leaving my cup empty, convinced that love could be sustained through sheer effort. But in the end, I was stripped bare.

 

After the final unravelling of my marriage, I stood in the wreckage and asked myself: How did I get here? Despite my relentless attempts to hold onto love, it was further away.

 

In the depths of my hurt, I made a decision—not to run, not to numb, not to bypass. But to dive in. To understand.

 

So I did the work. God, I did the work.

 

I unearthed the roots of my wounds. I traced the patterns, the echoes of my past, the unconscious agreements I made with pain. I dissected my reflections, studied my suffering like scripture, and emerged illuminated—brilliant in self-awareness, wise beyond what I thought was possible.

 

Now, I was determined to rewrite my love story with myself and then with others.

 

But here’s the part they don’t tell you: intellectual and emotional clarity alone is not enough. I had found self-love, but I had lost desire. I had become fluent in the language of my mind but paralysed in my body.

 

I longed to step into my fullest expression, but the vulnerability it required felt terrifying. The idea of exposing my body, my sensuality—of surrendering to the physical—left me frozen. I wanted to feel again, to awaken, but the modern landscape of dating felt like a war zone. The horror stories of friends and acquaintances echoed in my mind. I was afraid. Afraid of re-traumatisation. Afraid of undoing all my healing by placing myself in the hands of someone who couldn’t consciously hold me. I needed safety. A container of support. A chance to fall apart if I needed to, knowing I would still be held in a positive regard. A place where the pressure was off to provide for another, someone who could provide for me in this very instance.

 

Like a whisper from the universe, Her Confidant appeared on my feed.

 

A simple post. An offering. Pleasure, kindness and care, at my own pace. I bravely took the call to action.

 

I won’t tantalise you with situational details—some things are best left to be felt rather than explained. 

 

But to the woman who sees herself in my story, I will tell you this:

 

The experience with my companion led me back to my feminine.

 

No longer was I a woman who had to hold herself back from desire. I had spent years mastering the art of emotional self-sufficiency, of becoming whole on my own. But I had forgotten the sacred act of receiving. And there, in a space of kindness, care, and respect, I remembered and needed.

 

Safety wrapped itself around me, soaked in my vulnerability, and I was seen. Desired. Awakened. The missing piece of my journey.

 

I had feared that stepping back into the physical world of intimacy could break me. Instead, it set me free. I saw my own beauty, my own power, reflected back at me. I claimed what had always been mine: my birthright to experience physical pleasure on my terms.

 

The result far exceeded the encounter itself. It was a homecoming. Joyous, pleasure driven.

 

To the gentleman who deliciously held space for me—with care, patience, and a genuine interest in me—I could never put a price on what you gave.

 

And to Anna, for seeing the unspoken need, for creating a sanctuary where I could reclaim my erotic, embodied self—I owe you a lifetime of gratitude.

 

To the woman reading this, feeling the ache of recognition and pleasure in her bones—maybe this is for you. Maybe it’s time.

 

Take it.