When I first started using the phrase Spiritual Mastery Through Pleasure, I didn’t have a neat definition.

It was more like… a pulse—something my body knew before my mind could explain.

A felt truth. A transmission.

Now? Now I understand what it means because I live it.

Spiritual mastery through pleasure isn’t about seeking constant bliss or chasing ecstasy. It’s about building a relationship with your own aliveness so deep, so honest, that pleasure becomes a compass for truth.

People think softness is easy. They think it’s passive. Weak. Something you’re born with, until life inevitably burns it away.

But that’s not how it works.

Not when you’ve lived through the kind of trauma that rewires your body.
Not when neglect, abuse, abandonment, or betrayal taught you that love isn’t safe.
Not when opening your heart once felt like walking through fire barefoot, again and again.

In this video game of life, where every level tests you, where every boss battle is coded in shadow work and survival triggers—softness is not the default setting.

When we master our relationship to pleasure, we master our relationship to duality itself.

At first glance, pleasure might seem simple—just feeling good. But it’s profoundly deeper than enjoyment alone.

Pleasure forces us to ask:

• How safe do I feel receiving?
• How deeply do I trust my body?
• Can I surrender fully to aliveness without needing to control?
• What shame, guilt, or moral narratives still linger around my desire, joy, and arousal?

We’ve been taught to trust the mind above all. To look for answers in logic and language.

But the body?

The body knows first.

It speaks in sensation. It remembers what the mind can’t yet name.

Most have heard of The Body Keeps the Score—the idea that trauma lives in the nervous system.

And yes, it does.
But so does pleasure.
So does ecstasy.

There was a time I believed love meant proving I was worthy of being chosen.

A time when I chased connection, thinking it was intimacy and forever love I craved—but what I was really longing for was MYSELF.

That ache we feel for the Other is often the ache for the forgotten self, the one we left behind when we learned it wasn’t safe to be the center of our own world.

And so I met a lover. Someone whose desire, and libido, mirrored mine in a way that felt affirming—as if finally my own pleasure and hunger belonged.

Once upon a time…
There was a woman who lived a beautiful, grounded, normal life.
She was successful. Loved. Creating. Exploring.
She was a writer for comics and video games—a world-builder, someone who shaped fantasy into form.

She led community conversations in the kink world—guiding people through embracing their forbidden desires, and sovereign relating. Her life was sensual, anchored, fiercely honest.

She wasn’t spiritual, not really.
Not in the way people think of that word.

You didn’t receive your name.
You chose it.

Maybe not with your mind,
but with the part of you that existed long before breath—
the part that said yes to this life.

Yes to the lessons. Yes to the becoming.

Most people don’t remember that.
They think a name is something they were given.
But you… you might be starting to remember.
The sound you chose.
The energy you wanted to carry.
The spell you cast before your first cry.

There is a kind of power that doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t flash or roar or rush in to be understood.

It waits.
It watches.
It knows.

Stillness used to feel like silence, like stagnation.

Now I feel it like a SPELL:

The unsaid truth humming in the air, rearranging reality around me.
The ache before a kiss that never lands,
The pause between lightning and thunder.

This is not the stillness of collapse. Not the stillness of fear.

There’s something stirring in the collective—a remembrance, a hunger.

Recently, Timothée Chalamet spoke candidly about his desire for “the pursuit of greatness.” And what moved me most was how he spoke of not just in terms of actors but greats in other professions—-athletes in particular—-but the implication is that this includes performers, artists, legends at the top of their genius.

It reminded me of when I witnessed Carlos Santana live in Las Vegas. Watching him channel that level of mastery was like watching divinity in motion.

For most of my life, I felt like I caused disruption just… by being in the room.

When people got close to me, especially quickly, things would start to shift for them.

They’d hit an emotional edge, confront an old wound, or face a truth they’d been avoiding.

And then one of two things would happen:

We’d either grow closer through it—or they’d disappear.

I’ve written before how I believed this made me a “walking trigger.” I carried that label with a mixture of guilt, confusion, and quiet self-blame.

Most people think they’re here to manifest things:

Money. Love. Freedom. A life of ease.

But that’s not really what they’re after.

They’re reaching—sometimes blindly—for something far deeper.

They’re reaching for remembrance.
A reawakening.
A return to the truth of who they are.

Because underneath every desire is the soul’s hunger to know itself as Source/God.

When I first opened my marriage, I remember reading stories from people in the polyamory world who would say things like:

“I’ve always been poly. Even as a kid, I didn’t understand why love had to be limited to just one person.”

And at the time, I thought—wow, that’s beautiful.

But I didn’t relate. At all.

I didn’t grow up feeling that way.

I didn’t feel like polyamory had always been my truth just waiting to be discovered.