I’m noticing a connection.

On Saturday when I saw M., we tried sitting down to talk. Almost immediately, I felt uncomfortable. There really isn’t a comfortable way to sit in that room. He even admitted that. Usually he takes the chair and I sit on the weird folded futon. It’s not comfortable. And there have been so many times when we’ve sat to talk and I’ve been physically uncomfortable.

What I’m realizing is that when the dynamic starts with that level of physical discomfort — and I ignore it, don’t acknowledge it, and try to have a meaningful conversation on top of it — it’s incredibly distracting. It’s hard for me to be present. And it sets up a very familiar pattern: ignoring my body.

It’s so counterintuitive. I’m trying to be intimate and connected while simultaneously overriding my physical experience. I’ve spent so much of my life being uncomfortable and pretending to be comfortable. I think that’s one of the main reasons I dissociate. It’s too much to be uncomfortable, pretend I’m not uncomfortable, and also perform presence and engagement. It’s a crazy setup.

So I named it. I said I was uncomfortable and that I wanted to be more comfortable.

I didn’t have a solution at first. Then I thought maybe we could sit on the rug. I noticed him grabbing the big round cushion, and I think he was getting it for himself, but I said, “Oh, thank you, I want to sit on that.” I took the more comfortable seat. He didn’t look that comfortable. And I just let that be what it was.

I prioritized allowing my body to be comfortable.

That feels like a big deal.

I took the time I needed to say what I wanted to say. I liked our proximity. I liked touching him. At some point he asked if we could go on the bed and I said yes. There was even a small moment on the bed where my bra was kind of hurting me and I wasn’t totally comfortable, but I really liked his closeness and attentiveness. I noticed how much I liked staying in physical contact with him, even if it was just a hand. Feeling his body felt reassuring, grounding, and regulating.

When he said something I didn’t hear — something about wanting to give me some Eros — I asked him to repeat it and explain what he meant. Sometimes when I don’t hear something, I just let it go because I feel like it would be annoying or disruptive to ask again. But then part of me never really lets it go. I wonder what was said. This time I just asked.

Because I allowed myself to be more comfortable, something shifted.

Before the session, there had been a part of me in this giving-up mode. Giving up on being held the way I want to be held, on the ability to feel myself melt into someone else. I was even on the verge of giving up on the idea that I like sex. Maybe I don’t like it. Maybe I’m not good at it. Maybe my life is more even and stable without it.

I think a lot of the barriers have been this pattern of being uncomfortable in my body and not saying anything. And underneath that is shame. If I wasn’t so big, I wouldn’t be uncomfortable. If my body were the way it’s “supposed” to be, I wouldn’t feel so heavy. I wouldn’t take up so much space. I wouldn’t need special arrangements to feel at ease.

There’s this belief that because I have a large, fat body — short and wide — I’m not allowed to be comfortable. That the world isn’t built for me. That I don’t deserve comfort because my body doesn’t fit.

There is so much pain in that line of thinking.

During the session, after being honest and vulnerable, I felt deep relief. He received what I said. He reassured me that there isn’t something I could say that would make him cut me out or abandon me.

There was still a part of me that wanted to fight that. A part that wanted to find proof he didn’t care.

I held my boundary about not wanting sex. Even though I could feel his desire. Even though he reminded me that it didn’t matter that I had my period, that I could take out the cup and we could still have sex. I could feel him trying to enter even with the cup in. I asked him to stop.

Then he wanted to go down on me.

All the usual thoughts came. Will I taste bad? Is the hair is down there okay? I didn’t prepare. Could he smell the blood? When was the last time someone gave me an orgasm from oral sex? It’s been a long time.

Somehow, I stayed present, I surrendered. I had an orgasm. A real one. It was really good.

Afterward he went to the bathroom, maybe to brush his teeth or wash his mouth out. Part of me thought, It must have been so gross he had to do that. But another part of me knows he’s allowed to do what he needs to do to be comfortable in his body too.

When he came back and we were cuddling, something shifted again.

I felt this melting. This merging. I felt surrendered and relaxed and held. It was blissful. I could barely talk. It felt like being in the womb — warm, connected, not alone. I barely remember what that would feel like, but that’s the image that came.

And as it was happening, I was aware: This is real. It’s really happening. And also, it won’t last. It’s going to hurt when it ends. But it’s happening now.

I always long for that feeling. And I know how rare it is. I wanted to just enjoy it. I knew our time was nearing the end. But it felt special. Hard to leave. Hard to let go of.

What feels different now is that I don’t feel like I missed it.

In the past, I’ve had intimate moments where I could tell something beautiful was happening, but I was distracted — criticizing my body, worrying, wishing something was different. Then afterward I’d want to go back and redo it, because I felt like I hadn’t fully been there.

This time, I was there.

I don’t feel like I could have been more present. I was fully in it.

I felt held.
I felt connected.
I felt surrendered.
I felt warm.
I felt his body there.
I felt not alone.

No one can argue with the fact that the connection happened. We were both there. It was hard to leave that space.

As the days pass, the warmth slowly moves further away. But somehow it feels a little easier this time. I don’t feel the same collapse or craving to rewind it.

It feels like progress.

For me, Sacred Body Love is about not abandoning myself in the small moments — choosing the cushion, naming discomfort, asking him to repeat himself, stopping penetration when I don’t want it, letting pleasure happen without disappearing into shame. It’s about believing my body deserves comfort, even in a world that doesn’t build for it. It’s about staying present long enough to actually feel being held — and trusting that even when the warmth fades, I didn’t disappear from myself.