Eros as Medicine

There are moments when the body remembers

what the mind tried to forget. Not just the pain but the closing that came after.

The way the breath held itself.

The way softness became dangerous.

The way you learned to leave yourself

because it was safer than staying.

When someone touched you without reverence,

when choice was stolen, when your ‘no’ wasn’t enough. Your body did what it had to do. It protected you. It froze, it hardened, and it disappeared.

This, too, was love. The most primal kind.

The kind that says: I will keep you alive.

But over time, something else begins to stir.

A longing. Not just to survive but to live. To feel the warmth of your own skin.To want again. To receive without flinching. To come home.

And that return, it comes through breath. Through presence. Through slowness.

It begins with tiny moments of safety.

The warmth of the sun on your face.

The softness of fabric against your thighs.

The gentle ache of a longing that no longer wants to be silenced.

You don’t need to be healed to feel.

You don’t need to be perfect to want.

You don’t need to understand it all before you begin.

There is a quiet wisdom in your body.

A knowing that never left. It speaks in sensations, in stillness, in the subtle yes that rises when you’re finally met with care.

You can take your time. You can go slow.

You can listen for the places in you that are ready, and the ones that are not. Both are sacred.

It’s a story of deep, aching, courageous return.

To yourself. To your erotic truth.

To the wild and holy knowing

that you were never too much, never too broken,

and never, not for a moment, unworthy of love.