There’s a moment I’ll never forget.
I had just come back from ceremony with Grandmother, a full night of her pushing me away every time I tried to bring my budding relationship into the space with me. The energy was unmistakable:
not now.
So I waited. I sat with all of it; the questions, the hope, the fear, and let her do what she does.
When she finally spoke, she gave me one thing: He’s a good guy.
That’s it. My mind went: that’s it? And then, almost instantly, something soft moved through me; a wave of serenity, innocence, peace. Oh. That’s really it. It doesn’t need to be more complicated than that.
A few days later my partner came over. We’d been apart for a bit and were excited to reunite. We sat down together, his hand warm on my left thigh. And before I could think about it, two weeks into dating, by the way, the fears I’d been quietly carrying just walked right out of my mouth:
“So I have some fears I want to share with you. What if you and your ex-wife aren’t really finished? What about the fact that you have two kids?”
At the time he was still living with his ex…different bedrooms, different schedules, trading weeks with the kids. My mind had been spinning a whole story: what if they get back together? What if I ruin a family? If it’s really done, why are they still under the same roof?
I felt it all in my body before I said a word. My chest was hot. My heart was loud. There was a constriction in my throat so unmistakable I couldn’t ignore it. A teacher once told me: if something needs to be said out loud, you’ll know it in your throat. That night, I knew.
When I finally said it… the levity, damn, the levity. Like I’d set something down I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.
He responded with that sweet, easy humor I’ve come to adore: “Uh... I like you too?”
And then he shared his fear. That I would eventually leave him for someone with more flexibility, someone who could travel year-round with me, someone without two pretty cute pairs of little hands and small suitcases.
Time stopped. I felt my nervous system find somewhere to land. And then, this tender, quiet shyness moved through me. The shyness that comes after genuine exposure. After being completely yourself and being seen for it.
I had felt that before. In another relationship that didn’t last but was worth every ounce of what I gave it. That shyness, that innocence, it doesn’t come from things going perfectly. It comes from being real.
The one who never knew
For a long time I had a lover I’d see two or three times a year. He lived far away. When we met, it was in potent environments, we’d go all in for days at a time. And for portions of those years, I quietly hoped he’d make more of an effort. Come visit me. Reach across the distance.
He never did.
And every time we were together I would fully override myself, because I wanted more and he wasn’t giving it to me, but I never asked. I just held on, telling myself things would change. The distance made the longing easier to maintain. I gave away enormous amounts of my energy and my power to something he had no control over, because he never knew.
I would resent him without him knowing. I’d put on a sweet face because I would have done anything for his presence when we were finally together. I don’t regret those years. But I am so grateful I’ve learned to be a fearless leader for my heart rather than a curmudgeon bouncer for her.
He couldn’t meet what he didn’t know existed.
The sword
I spent a long time terrified of saying I like you first. My conditioning ran deep: the man speaks first, the woman waits. My fear of rejection felt like trudging up a snow-covered mountain in bare feet, a hard no before I even took the first step.
Here’s what I’ve learned, over and over again, the slow and sometimes painful way:
If I don’t risk my own ego by laying it all on the table, there is zero chance I will be met.
If I contort myself out of fear of losing someone, they will constantly meet someone who isn’t me. And I am messy. I am real. I am not holding my shit back anymore, which has taken more practice than I can tell you. Practice trusting my own truth. Practice accepting that if I end up alone, I will still never be truly alone.
The most common thing I hear from people sitting across from me in sessions or in workshops:
“What if I lose her?”
“What if I lose the cuddles, the intimacy, the great sex?”
“What if I’m wrong? What if I make a horrible mistake?”
It’s always a scarcity story. Or a self-trust story. Always.
But here’s the thing; it’s insane to expect someone to meet your needs if you’ve never shared them. He can’t read your mind. And if you ever want him to have even a chance of getting it right, you have to speak for yourself so he can actually get to know you.
I’m not pretending this is easy. Sharing what’s alive in us requires a kind of emotional nakedness that most of us were never taught to offer. I call it laying down the sword, releasing the weapon we carry to protect our hearts in case someone tries to break them.
This is how resilience is actually cultivated. Not by staying guarded. By laying the sword down, using our words to show what’s inside, and living to tell the tale.
And here’s the real gift: if someone can’t meet you in your most honest self, aren’t you relieved you found out before you were buried under shared leases and mutual obligations?
I’m done with the ‘leave something to the imagination’ advice. Done with ‘don’t reveal all your cards at once.’
Strip down. Show yourself. So you finally have the chance to be seen, in your gorgeous, self-responsible, authentic truth.
Where this practice lives in the body
The throat knows. The chest knows. The constriction before the words come out, that’s not anxiety to be managed away, that’s information. Your body is telling you something needs to move through here.
The problem isn’t that we don’t know what we feel. Most of us know. The problem is that these patterns; the overriding, the shrinking, the sweet face over the silent resentment, don’t live in our minds. They live in our nervous systems. That’s why knowing better doesn’t always mean doing better.
This is exactly why I’m so excited about the Wheel of Consent® Weekend Immersion happening April 3–5 at NowHaus in Boulder.
This three-day in-person workshop is where you get to feel, not just understand, the difference between giving from generosity versus obligation. Between receiving with ease and receiving while bracing. Between saying yes because you want to and saying yes because you’re afraid.
Through partnered (fully clothed, non-sexual) exercises, solo reflection, and group integration, you’ll build the nervous system capacity to actually do the thing most relationship advice just tells you to do: communicate.
You’ll practice making clean requests without apology. You’ll notice your yes and your no in real time. You’ll begin to recognize the subtle ways you override yourself, and learn what it feels like to stop.
If your chest gets hot when someone asks what you want. If you’ve ever given away years of energy to someone who never knew. If you’ve been waiting for the right moment to say the thing that’s sitting in your throat…
This weekend is for you.
Only 8 spots remaining.
If you’re sitting with a scary share right now, something that’s been living in your throat, drop it in the comments. I’m here to listen.