Humans don’t just live life — we story it.
Narratives are the invisible architecture through which we make sense of our lives, shape meaning, and decide what we believe is possible.

On a personal level, someone might live by the story:

“I’m broken, and my desire is dangerous.”

On a cultural level, we’ve inherited stories like:

“Spirituality is separate from the sensual body.”
“Pleasure is indulgent.”
“The erotic is sinful.”

Years ago, when I was leading discussions in the ethical non-monogamy community, we often talked about what it really means to love someone.
Not just the easy parts. Not the curated, date-ready version.

Sovereign love—the kind that deepens over time—asks us to love someone because of their little idiocies, not in spite of them.

Because those quirks, those triggered moments, those frustrating edges, are often the exact mirrors that show us where we still close, where we still withhold tenderness.

Over the last couple of years, I’ve seen a lot about Mary Magdalene and her lost gospel. In it, she says that to “sin” is to act contrary to one’s true spiritual nature.

Her writing wasn’t lost by accident. It was buried because it threatened the governing structures that relied on fear and shame to maintain control. Her teachings—that the divine could be known through love, through the body, through union—were too destabilizing for a world built on hierarchy.

Every time a story is silenced, a part of our collective truth goes underground.

I woke up today thinking about the innocence of pleasure, and when it is that we lose our connection to it.

When we’re babies, no one tells us that our pleasure is indulgent, or that it needs to be rationed or controlled. As long as it’s not harming us in some obvious way, we are invited to explore and experiment and play without judgement.

Then somewhere along the way, that freedom is conditioned out of us. We’re told to be smaller, quieter, to follow a set of societal and relational rules we never had agency over.

We’ve been taught to fear anything in ourselves that doesn’t look like love and light.

Anger. Hunger. Chaos. Power.
The part of you that wants to be taken. The part of you that wants to take.

We call these part of ourselves “dark.” But the truth is, they’re not dark at all. They’re just the parts of us the world has forbidden. The parts that don’t fit inside polite boxes.

What if I told you that your forbidden desire is the portal to Source, God, or full self-actualization?

We’ve been taught to keep our turn-ons in the dark. To separate spirit from sex, as though The Divine lives in prayer halls but not in the body. As though the sacred couldn’t possibly show up dripping, moaning, hungry, and raw with wanting.

But spirituality and sexuality were never meant to be separate.

Do you remember the movie Monsters Inc.?

At first, the monsters powered their entire world with screams. Fear was the currency. It was effective, but heavy, limited, and destructive.

And then came the revelation at the end of the film: laughter generated ten times the energy. Joy, not fear, was the real source of power.

This, to me, is the perfect metaphor for where we are in our collective spiritual path.

I shared how a friend once said to me: “I’m so happy with you.”
That one little word—with—changed everything.

It showed me the difference between standing outside someone’s experience and stepping inside it. Between sympathy and resonance.

That, I’ve come to see, is the difference between witness and withness.

Most people think of pain as something to avoid. But here’s the truth I learned long ago: pain is just sensation with a story layered on top.

As an erotic masochist, I trained my body to stay open to pain. To soften into a whip strike instead of contracting. To ride the intensity until my mind rewrote the story: not danger, but aliveness. Sometimes even pleasure.

It was a survival skill. It was also a spiritual initiation.

When I shared my excitement about completing the recording for the Flesh & Flame audiobook, a friend responded with something so simple, yet so profound:

“I’m so happy with you.”

Not for you.
Not at you.
But with you.

That one little word shifted everything.

We’ve all heard of the trust fall. You close your eyes. Cross your arms. Let yourself drop backward and hope—pray—that someone catches you before you hit the ground.

It’s a meaningful exercise for corporate retreats and summer camp, but let’s be honest: it’s also how many of us have been conditioned to experience life.

There comes a point on the path where you stop obsessing over what needs to be healed... and start anchoring into who you're becoming.

Most people are taught to measure their growth by how much pain they’ve transmuted, how many shadows they’ve dragged into the light, or how many hours they’ve spent in the emotional trenches, pulling apart trauma responses and healing the past.

But what if that isn’t the only way?