The Healer I'm Becoming: Pleasure as presence, Desire as Devotion.

 

1. The Silence They Taught Me

Growing up, long before shame learned my name, I was taught to fear it. Before I could even name it, there was instinct.

They told me wanting was dangerous—sinful, vulgar, shameful. Not something my gender should understand. Desire, they said, should be modest. Careful. Folded. Invisible. Never asked for.

But I was never meant for silence—I knew that deep inside. So while I kept quiet for a while, my skin remembered too loudly. My want, my need, my hunger—secrets I carried like sin. But inside me, fire kept speaking.

Before silence carved its rules into my being, before it tried to turn me into someone I was not, I had already learned how to listen to want.

Desire isn’t vulgar. It isn’t shameful. It isn’t dangerous. And most importantly—it is not a sin.

Desire is necessity. It is natural. It is human. It is biological. And it is mine.

It’s sacred. It’s survival. It’s invigorating. It’s freeing.

Desire is art. A way to express the soul. It’s not always physical. Sometimes, it’s the wild intimacy between two hearts, two energies colliding in a space beyond language.

And I will not apologize for the art of being fully alive in my own body.

2. The Fire I Found

The day I stopped listening to others’ unreasonable ideas about what I should be ashamed of was the day I stopped apologizing to myself for my desire. That day, I started listening. Learning. Reading. Searching for others who once carried silence like a second skin.

I remember reading about Richard Chamberlain—an icon of a different era, who lived decades hiding who he was, until he finally said, enough. He came out not in rebellion, but as release. His truth didn’t come in youth—it came like a long-held breath, finally exhaled. I never forgot that.

Years later, I saw Demi Lovato tell the world they’d planned to die with their secret. But they didn’t. They chose to live—loudly. That echo felt familiar. It told me I was not alone in this.

So I began to think of myself differently. As something divine. As a daughter of Aphrodite—not a caricature of lust, but the keeper of sacred want. The goddess of unapologetic embodiment, of sensual truth, of beauty without shame. I began to write with her in my blood. To walk like my skin remembered its holiness.

Not just in whispers—but in full, resonant chords.

I found my voice—the one that lived beneath the hush. The one that said: They were wrong. You were not born to hide. What I’d been taught to shrink was actually a well of clarity, creativity, connection.

And so, I stopped shrinking.

It wasn’t rebellion. It was recognition. Of something ancient. Of something mine. Of something true.

 “The body doesn’t lie. It remembers what the world tried to shame.”

That was my epiphany: I wasn’t alone. There are so many of us—men, women, everyone in between—who’ve been told what we should want, how we should feel, who we’re allowed to be. But those rules? They’re not sacred. They’re scars. And I want to help others heal from them.

I want to help you become who you truly are. To embrace your sexuality as the art it is. No shame. No restriction. Just truth.

Because my passion isn’t dirty. It’s devotional. What I feel isn’t shameful. It’s soul-language—raw, bright, insistent. It’s poetic. It’s powerful. It’s mine.

And the more I listened, the more I understood:

There’s nothing wrong with hunger that comes from love. There’s nothing sinful about knowing your body like a prayer. There’s nothing unnatural about craving depth, touch, truth. And there’s everything right about embracing it.

There is nothing more sacred than knowing yourself—your body, your rhythm, your need. Giving yourself the love you deserve, without apology. Not because others don’t matter, but because you do.

Have you ever felt off, unsettled, and couldn’t explain why? Tried everything to fix it, but nothing worked? That’s what happens when you don’t know yourself yet. Your body speaks in riddles until you learn its language.

I know mine now. I know when I need touch, or space, or softness. I know when my ache is physical, emotional, or both. And my partner knows too—because I taught him. Because I taught myself first.

My desires. My sexuality. I owned them before anyone else.

And now? I want to help you do the same.

3. The Science of Sacred Touch

Desire isn’t just art, or dance, or poetry—it’s physiological. The body doesn’t lie. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. When we allow ourselves to feel, to connect, to express, we activate systems designed for healing. And healing is what we all want.

Sexual expression—whether shared or solitary—releases a cascade of neurochemicals: dopamine for joy (the happy hormone), oxytocin for bonding, serotonin for calm (think melatonin), and endorphins for relief (who doesn’t want those?). This isn’t indulgence. Or maybe it is. But it’s also biology. It’s the body’s built-in pharmacy.

Still don’t believe it? Do your research. You’ll find study after study showing that sexual activity reduces cortisol and adrenaline—the stress hormones that flood us in survival mode. In their place, the body releases what so many of us are starved for: connection, calm, clarity. It’s been called a “neural workout”—activating more brain regions than puzzles or meditation. And when it’s done with care, knowledge, and good energy? The effects are extraordinary.

It improves sleep. It boosts immunity. It deepens intimacy. It even supports memory and cognitive function over time.

But maybe most beautifully—it teaches us to listen. To our breath. To our boundaries. To our needs. It’s about connection to ourselves first and foremost. And eventually, to the other part of us—the person or presence that meets us in that sacred space.

This is why I call it sacred. Because it’s not just about pleasure—it’s about presence. Not just about release—but about return. To the body. To the self. To the truth we were told to silence.

4. The Healer I’m Becoming

I write because there’s still too much silence and I have too much to say. I speak because there are still too many walking around unclaimed by their own skin, and I know you're quietly listening (or reading). So hear my voice. I speak to you—all of you. Listen closely.

I want to be the mirror you weren’t given. The fire you were told to fear. The guide who says, You are not broken. You are becoming. I believe in you. In who you truly are.

I’m not here to teach people how to “perform.” I’m here to help them return—to themselves, to their rhythm, to their truth. To become their true selves.

I dream of creating a space where people can shed the shame they were taught to wear. A place where they are comfortable to let loose and not think of what others have said. A space where bodies are not judged, but listened to. Where desire is not hidden, but honored, embraced. Where sexuality is not filtered for comfort, but explored for connection and understanding.

Because I believe in unshaming as a practice. As a path. As a kind of therapy. Because I believe that healing doesn’t always look like stillness—sometimes it moans, moves, glows, weeps. And that, too, is holy.

I want to help people learn to read their bodies like sacred texts. To reclaim their pleasure as their birthright. To stand in their power, not with apology, but with presence. To stand tall and be proud. To own their pleasure. To defend it against those who have, or would, shame them for it.

That’s the healer I’m becoming. Not one who “fixes.” One who reminds you what was never broken.

Written in devotion. In desire. In fire. By a woman no longer whispering. —Notesformysoulmate

This work is protected, not to gatekeep—but to honor the labor, the longing, and the lineage it carries. © 2025 Notesformysoulmate. All rights reserved.