I used to think loneliness meant I needed more people. More texts. More plans. More attention. More noise. But lately I’ve realized I feel most alone when I am disconnected from myself. Alcohol, drugs, and misaligned relationships have made me feel lonelier than solitude ever has. Because solitude has never actually been the problem. I do not feel lonely when I take myself out to dinner. Or when I walk into Pilates class. Or during slow mornings with candles lit and music pla

Everyone has a theory about why women are single. Maybe you haven’t healed enough. Maybe you’re too independent. Too emotional. Too intimidating. Maybe you haven’t prayed hard enough. Maybe it’s your weight. Too many carbs. Not enough cardio. Maybe if you became softer, quieter, prettier, less sexual, more agreeable, less complicated, more healed, more feminine, more perfect… love would finally arrive. But what if the truth is less aesthetic than that? What if I’m single beca

There’s a version of me that wants peace: Soft mornings. Art museums. Slow love. Intentionality. A life that feels grounded instead of constantly emotionally charged. A version of me that no longer confuses inconsistency with mystery or longing with connection. And then there’s another version of me. The girl that still loves the music too loud. The rush. The nightlife. The flirtation. The possibility hidden inside random nights and dim lights and strangers that feel familiar

Sometimes leaving has nothing to do with whether you still desire them. That’s the hardest part. Because I wanted the romance. I wanted the good sex, the date nights, the laughter, the intimacy, the feeling of being chosen with intention. I wanted the version of us that existed in potential more than the reality we were actually living in. But eventually I had to ask myself a painful question: Was the little I was getting worth the amount of myself I was losing? I don’t think

There is a certain kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying everything alone for too long. Not just responsibilities. Not just grief. But yourself. Your sadness. Your fears. Your healing. Your loneliness. Your hope. For a long time, I convinced myself that being “good alone” was strength. I wore hyper-independence like armor. I told myself I didn’t need much. I could figure it out. Carry it. Survive it. Hold myself together quietly. But grief has a way of exposing the plac

There is a quiet lie that gets passed around in dating culture, and I used to believe it. I thought being open meant dating people who were not my type. I thought choosing based on attraction made me shallow, and that chemistry could grow if someone was “good enough.” I told myself I was being evolved by giving chances to men who were not fully my type physically, financially, or energetically. I convinced myself I was being fair, mature, and not overly focused on appearance.

I used to think romance would feel like arrival. Like one day, I would meet someone and everything would click into place. The conversations would flow, the energy would be mutual, and the consistency would feel natural. I thought that if something felt good, it meant it was right. What I’ve learned instead is that romance is not what completes you. It is what reveals you. And more importantly, it reveals what you are no longer willing to tolerate. One of the first connection

There was a version of me, not too long ago, who said yes to everything. Yes to the late nights. Yes to the extra drink. Yes to the invite that came in at 10:47 p.m. when I was already showered, moisturized, and halfway in bed. And I had fun. Real fun. The kind where you laugh too loud, dance like no one’s watching, and let yourself be seen without overthinking every little thing. The kind that reminds you you’re still alive in your body after everything it’s been through. Fo

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how many versions of me exist at once. Not in a way that feels confusing. Not in a way that makes me question who I am. But in a way that feels honest. There is a version of me that is grounded. She moves with intention. She values peace. She listens to herself. She knows when something feels off, even if everything looks right on the surface. She is soft, but she is not easily moved. She doesn’t need to prove anything. She just is. And then t

There was something about him I couldn’t ignore. He wasn’t my usual type, but we talked for hours in a club like we had known each other before. We danced the night away, and for a moment, everything felt easy. He was assertive. Clear. Certain. The kind of man who didn’t hesitate. The kind who asked real questions. Would I let my man take care of me? Would I still work? I liked that. I liked his dominance, his edge, the way he moved like he didn’t care what anyone thought. Th

I am not confused about what I want. I want monogamy. I want marriage. I want devotion. I want a man who is steady in his masculinity and secure in his love. I want partnership that feels like legacy. I want children. I want structure. I want a spiritual union that is rooted, not restless. That is my North Star. But I am not rushing toward it. There is a difference between knowing your destination and trying to teleport there. I do not need to fast-forward my life to prove th

I’m realizing something about myself that feels important to name. Creativity and intimacy live very close together in my body. When someone meets me in a creative space, when they see my work, reflect it back to me, build alongside me, or feel inspired by my inner world—my nervous system reads that as closeness. Warmth. Safety. Meaning. And sometimes, my body translates that feeling into romance. Not because I’m confused. Not because I’m lonely. But because creativity has al

There is no shame in non-monogamy. Let me begin there, clearly and without hesitation. For some, it is an intentional, ethical, and deeply honest way of loving. When chosen consciously, it is not confusion. It is clarity. It is spoken early. Named directly. Held with responsibility. And that distinction matters. Because what I have witnessed, both in my own life and in the lives around me, is that confusion is often mislabeled as freedom. Sometimes what looks like openness is

There is a quiet that comes after something beautiful ends. Not the loud kind of heartbreak. Not betrayal. Not chaos. Just a soft closing of a door you were beginning to walk through. And somehow that hurts in a deeper place. Because nothing went wrong. Because it was gentle. Because it was real. Because I felt it. I keep thinking about the path that led here. How Soft Wanting arrived first. That delicate curiosity. The kind that does not grab or demand, only notices. Then c

There is always a last night. Not just of a trip, but of a version of yourself you didn’t realize you were ready to release. Lisbon held me gently. Sunlight on tiled walls. Rain in the air. Music drifting through streets that did not ask anything of me except to feel alive inside my own body. I was soft there. Open. Unfolding in ways that felt sacred and earned. And then—the last night arrived. It did not announce itself as danger. It never does. It looked like laughter. Like

I didn’t come to Lisbon looking for love. I came tired. Tired in the quiet way that doesn’t look dramatic from the outside. The kind of tired you carry in your chest, in your decisions, in the way you keep moving even when you don’t feel moved by anything anymore. I told myself this trip was just a birthday. Just a few days away. Just rest. But Lisbon doesn’t meet you at the surface. It waits. And then, slowly, it begins to soften the places in you that life has hardened. It

To a friend I showed up for fully, until I realized my steadiness made me invisible. There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from realizing you are not unseen, just unprioritized. It’s not the big betrayals that undo you. It’s the accumulation. The pattern. The way your consistency becomes assumed while chaos is treated like an emergency worth mobilizing for. I watched you show up for everyone who was falling apart. The ones who never stabilize. The ones who take

There is a kind of desire that does not whisper. It announces itself loudly in the body. Heat pooling. Breath shortening. Attention narrowing. It aches. It asks. It presses. A sexual tension so tender it feels sharp. I am here now. Wanting someone so intensely it feels almost urgent. Wanting touch, closeness, release. Wanting in a way that could easily collapse into momentum if I let it. And still, I am here, choosing not to rush. Not because I doubt my desire. But because I

I truly don’t believe we can align with our forever lovers, our soulmates, or our true life partners without first doing the work of healing. Someone once told me that a good relationship could heal you, but I think that’s false. A relationship can support your healing, it can offer safety and comfort, but it cannot be the cure. Healing is an inside job. You must first become whole. You must love yourself, know yourself, and pour into yourself before you can genuinely give yo

I wrote recently about Soft Wanting about allowing desire without gripping it, without turning it into a project or a prophecy. This feels like the next chapter. I’m experiencing someone now in a way that feels gentle and intentional. There’s attraction. There’s curiosity. There’s chemistry that doesn’t feel like it’s trying to outrun itself. And what’s surprising me most is how regulated it feels. I’m not collapsing into fantasy, even when I’m daydreaming. I’m not abandonin