Think of your spiritual journey like the beautiful art of Shibari rope bondage.

It’s not about the ropes themselves—it’s about how they’re tied.

Too tight, and you cut off circulation.
You numb sensation.
You lose the ability to feel anything but pressure.

Too loose, and you float—disconnected, ungrounded, never really dropping in.

Spiritual growth works the same way.

If you spend all your time diving into shadow work—endlessly revisiting the past, trying to fix and heal and understand—you’re tying your knots too tight.

When life shifts—especially when it feels like everything’s unraveling—it’s easy to slip into the story that the universe is doing something TO you.

Maybe you’ve lost something. A relationship, an identity, a version of your life that once felt solid.
Maybe you feel blindsided, like the rug’s been pulled out from under you.
Maybe part of you wants to scream, “Why is this happening?”

But here’s the truth most of us forget in those moments: YOU wrote this storyline.

Not from the part of you that’s afraid or uncertain.

I think I finally understand something that’s been confusing me for years.

It has to do with unconditional love—and the way I used to think I had to balance it with having boundaries.

I couldn’t quite reconcile how I could love someone without conditions and still protect myself when they showed up in ways that didn’t feel good. I thought BOUNDARIES were the answer. That I needed to keep certain people at arm’s length in order to love them, and MYSELF safely.

But something clicked recently. And it went deeper than anything I’ve ever felt before.

Let’s clear something up:

A turned on life isn’t about being sexually aroused 24/7. (Though hey, no shame if that happens.)

It’s about being alive.
Plugged in.
Lit from the inside.
Connected to your own rhythm and presence.

A turned on life is one where you’re in relationship with your desire—not just the sweet and shiny ones, but the edgy, gritty, wild ones, too.

It’s where your body isn’t just a vehicle you drag around—it’s your oracle, your compass, your ritual site.

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.