I encourage you to have a think about that…

What are you on there for?
Why do you share on there?
And maybe most importantly, what are you actually getting from it?

Everytime I open one of my social media apps, my nervous system gets flooded.

All I see is performativeness. (Is that a word? My spell check doesn’t think so).

People ‘sharing their life’. Showing the world how they have come to be so aware, so spiritual, so mindful, so sensual.

Look at me and how I show up in the world.

If you want to be a better version of yourself, do this.

Or better yet, sign up to my course and I’ll show you how.

Some people say they are on there to show people how real their life is. The drama, the heartbreak, the tough times. Not just the highlight reels, but the really shitty stuff.

So you can resonate.

So you can see you’re not alone in the world, right?

But is it really?

Or is it just a different way of trying to get attention and likes?

You see, when I think of social media, all I think of is social status.

People wanting to be seen. To be heard. To be understood.

And I do get it.

I’ve been there.

I’ve shared my struggles. I’ve shared my highlights. I’ve even been performative.

I’ve set up the camera and filmed myself moving my body.

I’ve shared the sexy photos.

I’ve filmed the embodiment practices.

I’ve taken videos at my workshops and retreats - when I remembered to.

And at the time I genuinely believed I was doing it to show other women what was possible. To encourage them to connect with their sensuality. To show them that you can feel sexy and alive and embodied in your body.

But now I’m wondering if I was actually doing that at all.

Because when I see another woman moving sensually on Instagram, do I immediately feel inspired to go and explore my own sensuality?

Sometimes.

But other times I compare.

She moves better than me.

She looks sexier than me.

Her body looks better than mine.

She looks more confident.

More embodied.

More feminine.

More whatever-the-fuck I’m supposed to be this week.

And suddenly something that was supposedly intended to inspire me to connect with myself has just given me another woman to compare myself to.

Another way I might not be doing womanhood properly.

And that has had me questioning my own content too. Hence why I haven’t been posting.

Because what happens to the actual experience when I know I’m filming it?

Surely the second I set my phone up, press record, position myself in the frame and start thinking about the fact that I’m going to put this on Instagram later, something has changed.

I’m no longer just experiencing myself.

I’m also observing myself.

How do I look?
How am I moving?
Is this a good angle?
Will people understand what I’m trying to show them?
Will this make someone want to work with me?

And yes, maybe parts of the experience are still completely genuine. I’m not saying everyone filming themselves is faking it.

I’m saying there’s now an audience in the room.

Even if they haven’t watched it yet.

I’ve told myself I needed to show people that I walk my talk. That if I teach women about sensuality, I need to show them that I’m sensual. If I talk about embodiment, I need to show them that I’m embodied.

But why?

What do I actually need to prove?

And more importantly, who am I helping by proving it?

Because maybe the woman watching me doesn’t think, I’d love to explore what sensuality feels like in my body.

Maybe she thinks, I could never move like that.

And suddenly I’ve done the exact opposite of what I thought I was doing.

I’ve given her another fucking standard to live up to.

But there’s another kind of content that makes me even more uncomfortable.

The fucking retreat videos.

Someone is on the floor sobbing. Someone’s body is shaking. Someone is screaming. Someone is being held while they apparently have this enormous emotional release.

And there’s a camera filming it.

Maybe they consented… I hope they did.

Maybe the experience is completely genuine… I imagine a lot of the time it is.

But I still find myself wondering...

Why do I need to see this?

Why does this person’s incredibly vulnerable moment need to become content?

Because inevitably the video becomes evidence.

Look what happened at my retreat.
Look at the breakthrough.
Look at the release.
Look at the transformation.

Don’t you want this too?

You probably NEED this too. Because if you aren’t having a breakthrough/release/transformation like this, you’re probably suppressing something and unable to be your highest, most authentic self.

And maybe nobody actually writes those words.

They don’t have to.

That’s what the video is there to communicate.

It’s marketing.

Someone’s most vulnerable moment has become a way of selling the possibility of transformation to somebody else.

When did that became normal?

I don’t know... but something about it has started to make me really fucking uncomfortable.

Why do we need to see so much of each other’s lives?

Why do I need to know what you ate for breakfast, what OOTD you’re wearing, watch you cry after your breakup, see your morning practice, watch you dance in your underwear, come with you to the gym and then watch you have a spiritual breakthrough on a retreat?

When did simply living our lives stop being enough?

Why does everything need witnesses?

I think this is why I love Substack so much.

Or at least the parts of Substack that are still centred around writing.

Because writing doesn’t require me to show you that I’m sensual.

I can tell you what sensuality feels like inside me.

I can write about sex without showing sex.

I can write about my body without showing my body.

I can describe desire without filming myself performing desire.

Of course writing is a performance too.

I’m choosing what to tell you right now.

I’m editing my thoughts.

I’m deciding which parts of myself you get access to.

I’m literally writing an article criticising social media that I will probably share on social media.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

Honestly, I don't know what the answer is or where I’m even going with this. I'm just increasingly interested in experiencing my life without needing anyone else to witness it.

Maybe before I share something I need to start asking myself:

Who is this for?

Is it for me?

Is it genuinely for you?

Is it because I have something I want to say? Need to say?

Or do I just want you to see me?

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Well, they don’t seem to have come back.

Not fully anyway.

Kissing feels platonic.
Touch has lost some of its electricity.

The things that used to send shivers up and down my whole body don’t seem to at the moment and it’s been really hard.

It’s had me questioning everything.

My work.
My relationship.
My presence.

Am I disconnected?
Have I closed my heart without realising?
Am I stressed?
Resentful?
Avoiding something?

If a client came to me and described all this, I’d probably start asking questions about safety. Emotional connection. Unmet needs.

But I don’t feel unsafe.
I don’t feel disconnected.
I ask for what I need and my husband responds.

The reality is…
I adore him.

Even when we’re annoying each other. Even when one of us is grumpy. Even when life is busy and mundane and we’re arguing over who forgot to put the bins out or what’s for dinner.

I adore him.
I am wildly attracted to him.
I want him.
No one else even compares.

Which is what makes this whole thing so confusing.

The desire to connect is still there. The desire to have sex is still there. The desire to be close is still there.

But it’s like my heart and mind have arrived at the party and my body and pussy got lost on the way.

I can access desire in my mind.
Fantasy still works.
Erotic stories still work.
Orgasms are still great.

But everything just feels... muted.

Like someone has turned the volume down and the button needs oiling to turn it up.

It’s frustrating because I know all the tips and tricks. I teach others how to access their desire and pleasure, but it’s like I don’t know what’s happening inside my own body.

Maybe it’s perimenopause…
There are certainly enough clues.

Night sweats the week before my bleed.
Foot cramps.
My libido is definitely not the same as it used to be.

I don’t know.

Maybe it’s that.

Maybe it’s not.

Part of me wonders whether it started with the Sacred Pause.

When my husband and I stopped using sex as a measure of how good our relationship was.
When I stopped performing.
Stopped chasing frequency.
Stopped believing that more sex automatically meant a better relationship.

I spent so long retraining my brain around intimacy that sometimes I wonder if my body got the memo a little too well.

Then there’s the alcohol part.

I stopped drinking over a year ago now.

I wasn’t a big drinker. I wasn’t dependent on it. Giving it up wasn’t particularly difficult and honestly, I don’t miss it.

But I remember reading a post by Ian Callaghan about pleasure and quitting alcohol.

How sometimes when you remove something that has been giving your brain little hits of excitement, reward, celebration and novelty for years, life can feel a bit flat for a while. It’s called anhedonia. Or more simply, a lack of pleasure. As a self-proclaimed hedonist, it seems weird to think I may be lacking in pleasure.

I don’t know enough about the science to explain it properly, but I remember reading it and thinking huh… that makes sense.

Because that’s kind of how life has felt lately. Not unhappy. Not ungrateful. Not broken. Just a little less sparkly than it used to.

Which feels ridiculous to admit out loud.

My entire work is based around pleasure and finding pleasure in all the small things.

And yet here I am sitting on my couch wondering why kissing isn’t sending shockwaves through my body anymore. Is it because we’ve been kissing for so long now that the excitement is gone? Would something new and exciting give me the jolt I think I need?

I sometimes wonder what it might feel like to kiss someone else...
The awkward beginning, heavy with anticipation and possibility. Standing just a little too close wondering who is going to make the first move.
The nervous excitement.
The unfamiliarity of them. The scent of their skin, the warmth of their breath, the taste of someone new.
The tenderness of them cupping your face for the first time.
The way your stomach flips when the intensity starts to build.
The hunger for more as you find a rhythm together.
It makes my mouth salivate and my pussy tingle just thinking about it.

But what if it was exactly the same? Still platonic. Still muted. My body still betraying me.

The thought terrifies me. Because then I'd have to admit this was never about who I was kissing at all.

You see, I’ve never been here before.

My husband and I have been together seven and a half years.

I’ve never reached this point in a relationship, because every other time, I’d already left.

I’d noticed all the things that weren’t quite right. The things they did that annoyed me. The ways we weren’t compatible. The things that were missing. Some of the exact same feelings I’m having now. And back then, using that as the proof I needed to confirm the relationship was over.

In the past I convinced myself I needed to find myself. That I was settling. That there had to be something better out there. Someone better. More exciting. More adventurous. More electric. And sometimes there was… At least until that relationship became familiar too.

Years ago I watched a Netflix series called Newness.

It explored the addictive nature of modern dating. The constant novelty and chasing the intense feelings of the honeymoon phase. And once the characters decided to be in a committed relationship they struggled with boredom, dissatisfaction, temptation and the feeling that there might always be someone better just a swipe away. Someone hotter. Someone more compatible. Someone more exciting. Sound familiar?

I remember watching it and seeing myself in it. My tendency to chase the feeling.

You see, I am addicted to the honeymoon phase. There is something so seductive about newness and getting to know someone.
The butterflies. The anticipation. The wondering. The fantasy. The first kiss. The first time you see each other naked. The conversations that somehow last until 2am even though you’ve got work the next morning. The possibility that this person could be anything. The feeling that absolutely anything is possible.

I also love being discovered. Being seen through fresh eyes. Being fascinating to someone. Being desired. Being wanted. Being chosen.

Sometimes I find myself fantasizing about it. Not because I want someone else. But because I miss the feeling. The rush. The anticipation. The dopamine hit of being desired by someone new.

But then I think about what inevitably happens next.

Because eventually every relationship becomes familiar.

Every first kiss becomes the hundredth.

Every exciting new person becomes someone who leaves their dirty socks on the floor and asks what’s for dinner.

And that’s the part nobody really talks about.

We spend so much time romanticising the beginning of love that we rarely talk about what comes after.

The privilege of being known. The reality of someone seeing you not only in your best moments, but in the darkest times. The comfort of having someone in your corner. The person you call when something exciting happens. or when something terrible happens. The person you build memories with. The person who witnesses your life. The person who chooses you over and over again long after the novelty has worn off.

Maybe that’s why this feels so complicated. Not because I think there’s something wrong with my marriage. But because I’ve spent so much of my life looking for the spark that I never stopped to ask what comes after it.

I miss the electricity. I’m not gonna lie.

But I also know that what I’ve built with my husband is worth so much more than a dopamine hit.

I don’t have all the answers.

I don’t know whether it’s perimenopause. Or the Sacred Pause. Or a year without alcohol. Or simply what happens when two people choose each other day after day, year after year.

What I do know is that my husband still reaches for my hand when we walk together.
He still kisses me every afternoon when he walks through the door.
He still makes me laugh.
He still makes me feel loved.
And I still look at him and think, “Fuck, you’re hot.”

Maybe I’m not meant to solve anything.

Maybe I’m being asked to trust myself. To trust that my body isn’t broken and that desire hasn’t disappeared forever. As cliche as it sounds.

I’m very aware that not every season of life is meant to feel electric. I teach that. I write about that. I remind other people of that all the time.

That knowledge doesn’t make it any easier when you’re the one living it though!

Life, social media and spirituality seem determined to convince us that everything is a lesson. That everything happens for a reason. That if we just look hard enough, we’ll find the meaning in it.

But what if this doesn’t need to mean anything? What if it’s just a season? What if my body is doing exactly what bodies do? Changing. Evolving. Asking to be listened to instead of analysed.

Maybe all I really know is that things feel different right now.

And for now, that will have to be enough.

With love,

Bryony x

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One thing I want to be transparent about though...

I don’t write to a content calendar. I don’t send emails just because it’s been a week since my last one. And I don’t write for the sake of writing something.

I write when I have something to say.

Sometimes that means you’ll receive three articles from me in a week because an idea won’t leave me alone and I need to get it out of my head and onto the page. (Like this week - both articles are cut from the same cloth!)

Other times you may not hear from me for a few weeks.

I’ve learned that forcing creativity rarely creates anything worth reading.

The stories worth sharing tend to arrive in their own time.

When you subscribe, you’re not paying for a specific number of posts each month.

You’re supporting honest writing.

The late-night thoughts.
The questions I’m still trying to answer.
The erotic stories.
The relationship musings.
The articles that make you feel a little less alone in whatever season you’re currently navigating.

If that sounds like something you’d like more of, I’d love to have you here.

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Having been divorced twice before, I wanted all the tools to make marriage work. I was determined not to fail again.

And while there were so many great teachings from this couple, there were also so many things they had not yet experienced themselves and so parts of the course didn’t really evaluate the reality of all the different seasons relationships go through.

They were quite early in their own relationship. Still in the limerence phase.

They didn’t have children.

They hadn’t gone through the seven-year itch or many of the quieter seasons relationships naturally cycle through over long periods of time.

I remember them saying something about just making time when the kids go to bed…. as if it was that simple.

Clearly they didn’t understand what bedtime with little ones looked like.

There are so many relationship and sex coaches out there offering courses, retreats and coaching for couples who don’t have children themselves and are still in the honeymoon phase of their relationship.
Great if you’re a childless couple also in your honeymoon phase!

It’s also easy as a coach or facilitator to create a course when you’re in that phase, because your relationship is incredible. You feel inspired. Connected. Creative. Everything flows naturally and it makes sense that you want to share it with the world.

And while that has its own magic - fun, spontaneity, adventure, curiosity - it’s not the reality of many couples who actually need the work.

Because the majority of clients I work with are way past that point.

They are navigating careers, mortgages, school drop-offs, resentment, exhaustion, aging parents, hormonal changes, mental load, grief, illness, differing libidos and children who seem to need something from them every six seconds.

Seeing coaches on social media in their honeymoon phase - and their highlight reels - as if it’s something your relationship needs to aspire to isn’t actually that helpful.

Because it’s not a true reflection of a couple who have been through the trenches and still come out the other side more in love and more connected than ever.

I truly believe that a coach with lived experience of what you’re navigating holds so much value. Which is why I am so committed to this work.

I have lived through a lot.

I have faced the seven-year itch.
I’ve given up when it felt like too much.
I have run away to find myself.
I have stayed through the droughts.
I have sacrificed my own needs out of fear, shame and guilt.
I have experienced relationships where communication broke down so completely that neither of us knew how to find our way back.
I have known what it feels like to lie next to someone and feel lonely.
I have known what it feels like to want more: More connection. More intimacy. More understanding.

And I’ve experienced a love unlike any other.

One where two people decide that their relationship is worth fighting for.

Not fighting with each other. Although there is still fighting.

But fighting for each other.

The relationships I admire most aren't the ones that look effortless. They’re the ones that have been through some shit and found their way back to each other.

The couples who have sat across from one another and had the hard conversations. The couples who have navigated betrayal, resentment, mismatched desire, financial stress, parenting, grief, illness and all the other things life inevitably throws at us. The couples who have looked at each other at times and wondered if they were going to make it, and then made a conscious decision to keep showing up anyway.

Because that’s what long-term love actually looks like.

It’s not permanent honeymoon energy. It’s not endless passion and effortless connection.
It’s two imperfect humans trying to stay connected while life pulls them in a hundred different directions.

Some seasons are easy.
Some seasons are incredibly hard.
Sometimes you feel deeply connected and wildly attracted to each other, and sometimes you’re just trying to survive raising children, paying bills and getting enough sleep to function. None of that means your relationship is failing. It means you’re living a real life together.

I think that’s why I love this work so much. Not because I’ve mastered relationships or because I have all the answers, but because I’ve lived long enough to know that relationships aren’t linear. They expand and contract. They flourish and they struggle. They ask different things of us in different seasons.

Maybe that’s why I’m less interested these days in relationship advice from people who seem to have it all together on social media. The ones that haven’t learnt how to navigate the hard seasons together.

Give me the couples who have walked through the fire.

The ones who nearly didn’t make it.

The ones who had to learn how to choose each other again.

The ones who discovered that love isn’t something you find once and keep forever. It’s something you keep creating, over and over again, as life changes around you.

Those are the relationships I want to learn from, because that's exactly what I'm learning in my own relationship.

With love,

Bryony x

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I remember at the time thinking I hope he’s got a cool story. A grown man with a plaster cast; he’s either super clumsy, sporty or heroic. Turns out it was kinda all three.

I can’t recall the exact incident, but I believe it was a sporting accident due to clumsiness and it turned out, he was a police officer. Oh, and did I mention, he was Irish?

I think his accent had my panties wet from the get go, as well as his slick moves on the dancefloor.
The chemistry between us was undeniable. We couldn’t get enough of each other.

I don’t even remember where my friends went, I was so wrapped up in him - literally.
Hands gliding all over each other, passionate kisses that would have had onlookers blushing, and a hard cock pushed up against me as we pulsed and swayed to the music.

It wasn’t long before we decided it was time to take all this heat elsewhere.

The walk out of the club felt almost unbearable. I was nervous, talking fast, trying to act normal, but I was also so frigging horny. I couldn’t wait to sit in the back seat and makeout with him again.

It was actually my birthday. And because the universe has a twisted sense of humour, I’d spent most of the night trying not to think about the fact I was on my period.

Not that it seemed to be slowing either of us down.

By the time the cab arrived I was beginning to wonder what I was getting myself into. Where were we even headed? Could I trust this man? He seemed trustworthy, and he was a cop… My girlfriend made sure my phone had plenty of battery before kissing me goodbye and telling me to have fun. But she needn’t have worried.

He was actually very sweet once we got back to his unit. He introduced me to his brother, showed me photos of his family on the fridge, before leading me upstairs to his bedroom.

He sat down on the bed - awkwardly as he accommodated is broken arm - and I started to strip for him. I had on thigh high boots, and a little matching skirt and top. I pulled the bow on my top slowly - inch by inch - slowly revealing the black bralette beneath and the swell of my breasts with every breath I took. I unzipped my skirt and let it fall to the floor, before removing one long boot at a time, all the while he lay there watching me. I could see the hunger in his eyes and the bulge in his pants.

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But that’s not what happened for me.

This week, I lost my sense of taste.

It came out of nowhere.
One minute I could taste, the next day I couldn’t.

I’ve been under the weather for what… seven weeks now? I’m so over it. I’m sick of not feeling 100%.

I reckon I’m functioning at about 80–85% and it’s such a strange in-between place to exist. Not sick enough to completely stop life, but not well enough to feel vibrant either.

There’s been this lingering tickle in my throat. The occasional runny nose. Random fatigue. Nothing dramatic enough to warrant staying in bed all day, but enough to just feel blah.
And until I lost my sense of taste, I really didn’t think much of it.

I am deeply connected to my sense of smell and taste.

A smell can transport me back in time and bring me so much joy.

As a self proclaimed foodie, I delight in food. The way it tastes, the textures, the flavours dancing together on my tongue. I am a hedonist at heart and delicious food is at the centre of it.

So, as someone who spends so much time in the kitchen, cooking and baking, not being able to taste and experience the food I’ve prepared has been so depressing.

I made scones the other day for the kids — strawberry jam and cream on top — and it felt like a waste of calories.

Yesterday, I ate pancakes — purely for texture because apparently that’s who I am now.

Do you know how offensive it is to bite into a soft fluffy pancake, drizzled with cream cheese and swirled with cinnamon sugar and feel [taste] absolutely nothing?
Honestly, it’s just rude.

What is even the point of eating something delicious if you don’t get to experience the pleasure of actually tasting it?

But losing my sense of taste and smell is not even the worst part.

It feels like my whole body has lost its sense of feeling too.

The other afternoon I gave my husband permission to wake me from a nap by licking my pussy — which honestly sounds far sexier than the reality of me half drooling into a pillow with tangled hair and mouth-breathing snoring.

And while it did feel nice… it felt muted.

Like someone had dimmed the lights.
Or turned the volume down.

I could feel his tongue moving against me, but the sensation felt far away somehow. Like my body was receiving the message but was unable to fully translate it.

Even my orgasm felt anti-climactic.

Like running a marathon and crossing the finish line only to realise there’s no crowd cheering, no banner to burst through, and no medals waiting.

Just me standing there breathing heavily wondering…
was that it?

I’ve been testing myself this week just to see — because pleasure is such a huge part of how I experience life.

Not just sexually — although obviously sexually too — but through all my senses.

I love taste.
Texture.
Smell.
Warm coffee.
Incense.
Massage oil on my breasts.
My sonic wave pulsing on my clit.
The smell of my husband’s cologne.
The way a neck kiss can travel all the way down between my legs.

And it all feels dulled down.

Flat.

I’ve experienced heightened states before when I’ve been blindfolded during intimacy. When sight disappears, everything else sharpens.

Touch becomes electric.
Breath becomes louder.
Every kiss feels amplified.

So why does losing taste and smell feel like the opposite?

Why does it feel like my entire body has gone slightly numb alongside it?

Maybe it’s because taste and smell are deeply connected to memory and emotion? I don’t know..

It’s weird that we don’t realise how much we rely on these tiny experiences — tasting, smelling, feeling — until they disappear.

But I can promise you this:

The minute my sense of taste returns, I’m eating a short stack of pancakes, lathered in maple syrup and making out with my husband immediately afterwards.

For research purposes, obviously.

Have you ever lost one of your senses? Tell me what happened. I’d love to know!

With love,

Bryony x

We had been chatting for about a week.
His place wasn’t nearby.
I didn’t know anyone down that way.

In hindsight it probably wasn’t super smart of me to rock up in the dark to an unknown house and a person I’d never met, but as I said, something about him made me know I was safe.

The minute he opened the door we both felt a magnetism. A chemistry.
I dunno if it was just both of our egos shining out, but a small smile on his cheeky face as he pulled me in for a hug and kiss on the cheek made me feel right at home.
I’m a hugger, and as it turned out, so was he.

He was flirty, oh so flirty.
The banter between us was unmatched.

We fed off each other in such a delicious, almost childlike way.
Two Leos both searching for the limelight — playful, warm, innocent, yet equally egotistical and proud.
We both knew how to give the other exactly what they wanted, because deep down we wanted the same thing: to feel adored.

It’s interesting seeing so much of yourself reflected back through another person.
The similarities in humour, personality, ego.
It’s comforting… but also confronting.
Because more often than not, the things we dislike in them are simply the same parts of ourselves being mirrored back to us we haven’t learned to love or accept.

We played and joked on the couch for a while. Drinking beer and eating pizza. I felt unbelieveably comfortable in his presence, like we’d known each other and been best friends forever.

But, I’ll be honest.

It wasn’t the greatest sex of my life.

There were definitely times I’d end up with a UTI or thrush afterwards. We moved too fast sometimes. Not enough slowness, not enough time spent really getting me wet and ready before he was desperate to be inside me.

I wouldn’t call him selfish exactly… but he didn’t worship my body the way some other lovers did.

He was eager though.

Eager to learn.
Eager to impress me.
Eager to prove himself.

Definitely the Leo in him coming out.

There was this playful determination in the way he touched me, like he wanted gold stars and praise for getting it right.

His ego definitely got in the way sometimes — wanting to lead, wanting to be impressive, wanting to be seen as good in bed rather than fully surrendering into the experience itself.

Sometimes it was frustrating.

He could be a little too rough. Too jackhammer for me at times.

But what he lacked in skill, he made up for in chemistry.

There were playful little bites.
Nuzzling into each other’s necks.
Rolling around tangled in sheets, both of us wanting to be on top, to be seen, to steal the spotlight from the other.

That’t what I loved most about our time together.

I never felt embarrassed with him.
Never too much.
Never too loud.

When I wanted more, I simply took over. I’d climb on top of him, sit on his face, guide things where I wanted them to go. I think he loved that too — even if a part of him still wanted to prove he could get me there himself.

There was something incredibly fun about the push and pull of it all.

The banter.
The teasing.
The chemistry.

We were like two wild animals playing.

I remember just how much fun I had with him.

Whenever I think about him and the times we spent together, I think about Simba and Nala reuniting in The Lion King.
Wrestling. Laughing. Two little wild lion cubs rolling around in the grass, except we were rolling around on the bed. There was such an innocence to it, a childlike playfullness that reminded me sex can be fun.

And that’s exactly what I needed at that time.

It’s funny to reflect on now, because there were absolutely moments where both of our egos wanted stroking — and neither of us wanted to fully yield to the other.

Two Leos battling for the spotlight.
Two people wanting to be adored.

Somehow that tension made the chemistry even better.

But I also think the fact it was casual made it easier.

I’m not sure my ego could handle sharing centre stage every day with someone who needed as much adoration and attention as I did.

Honestly, some days I wonder how my husband does it now. I do want and need a lot!

Still, there’s something about that energy I’ve never quite recreated with anyone else.

That playful, animalistic, chaotic joy.

I think that’s what I learnt from him more than anything else.

That intimacy can be light.

Not everything has to be heavy.
Not everything has to be sacred.
Not everything has to heal us.

Sometimes love looks like devotion.

And sometimes it looks like two lion cubs wrestling naked in bed, fighting for attention, biting each other affectionately, and laughing until they can’t breathe.

Not profound.
Not life changing.
Not forever.

Just two people meeting each other in play.

Perhaps the message I’m trying to share is that we all need a little more of that sometimes.

Interestingly, yesterday’s theme in my women’s circle was play.

The innocence of it.
The freedom of it.
The way so many of us lose access to it as adults — especially in relationships and sex.

I think that’s why I wanted to begin this series here.

Not with the deepest love of my life.
Not with the most transformative sex I’ve ever had.
But with a connection that reminded me intimacy can be playful, messy, ego-driven, imperfect, ridiculous… and still deeply enjoyable even when it isn’t the best sex of your life.

Are you a Leo who has slept with another Leo?

I would LOVE to hear what your experience was like.
Can you relate to any of this?

This is the very first piece in my new Sex With an Ex: The Astrology Edit series — and the only one that will be available to all subscribers.

Future pieces in the series will live behind the paywall alongside my growing library of erotic stories, meditations, rituals, relationship reflections, and deeper thoughts on intimacy, love, sex, and being human.

If you’d like instant access, you can upgrade to a paid subscription for just $5 per month or $50 for the year.

Writing in here brings me so much joy. There’s something so satisfying about sitting at my laptop, fingers gliding across the keyboard, as the random words in my head turn into a story.

But alas… the bills still need paying and the children insist on having a heap of extra curricular activities I need to pay for!

To my paid community — thank you.
Your support genuinely allows me to keep creating, writing, and sharing this work from the heart.

As always,
With love & pleasure,

Bryony x

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And most of us were never taught how to recognise them.

We are sold this fantasy of a never ending Spring. That the passion should stay alive, that we should desire our partners forever, that if the curiosity dies then there’s something wrong with us.

Most of the relationship coaches out there, giving advice and who you’re comparing your relationship to, are still in the honeymoon phase. It’s so easy to tell people how to connect and be spontaneous from this state — because the reality is, life is easy in this phase!

But relationships are not a lineal line of love. They are living, breathing cycles that shift — sometimes gently, sometimes abruptly — depending on life, stress, growth, and time.

And what I’ve come to realise, both in my own relationship and in the couples I work with, is this:

Most couples don’t fall apart because love is missing.
They fall apart because they don’t recognise the season they’re in.

Because when you don’t understand the season…
everything starts to feel like a problem.

You think something is wrong.
You think you’re failing.
You think maybe you chose the wrong person.

When sometimes… you’re just in winter.

Spring — The Beginning

This is the honeymoon phase.

Everything is new.
Curiosity is the beating heart of your relationship.
You want to know everything about each other.

You stay up too late talking.
You touch constantly.
You laugh easily.

There’s a softness here. An ease. A natural pull toward one another.

You forgive quickly.
You overlook more.
You don’t keep score.

Love feels effortless.

And for a while… it is.

I can still remember what that felt like for us.
The way everything felt light.
Simple.
Certain.

But this isn’t the full truth of love —
it’s the beginning of it.

The bonding.
The opening.
The “yes.”

Summer — The Expansion

Then life begins to layer itself in.

Responsibilities grow.
Time fills up.
The relationship becomes something you live inside — not just something you feel.

Careers, responsibilities, activities, children, appointments…
The calendar is full, and sometimes your relationship becomes second fiddle to the mental load of life admin taking over.

For us, this looked like children, routines, tired evenings, full days.

Love didn’t disappear.

But it changed shape.

There was still passion.
Still connection.
Still laughter.

But also…

Mental load.
Fatigue.
Expectations we didn’t always know how to communicate.

This is where I see so many couples start to quietly panic.

Because it doesn’t feel like spring anymore.

And instead of recognising that love has expanded…
they assume it’s faded.

Autumn — The Emotional Turning Point

This is where things start to shift.

Emotions rise.
Needs become louder.
Conversations get deeper… and sometimes harder.

You stop skating across the surface and start meeting each other in truth.

This is where I find myself right now.

There have been conversations that sting.
Moments where I’ve felt misunderstood.
Moments where I’ve questioned him… and myself.

Moments where it would have been easier to shut down than lean in.

But something else has been happening here too.

Clarity.

Because autumn strips things back.

It asks:

What’s actually working here?
What isn’t?
What have we been avoiding?

Autumn is uncomfortable.

But it’s also honest.

And I’ve come to see that honesty — even when it shakes things — is still a form of love trying to deepen.

Deep Autumn — The Unraveling

If you stay in Autumn long enough… it deepens.

This is where the real stuff comes up.

Old wounds.
Patterns you thought you’d outgrown.
Protective parts of yourself that suddenly feel very loud.

Our inner child starts screaming — at us, at them, at everything.

Next thing you know, two grown adults have turned into two small children, throwing tantrums, reacting, defending, trying to be heard.

This season can feel like things are breaking.

And sometimes… they are.

But not always in the way we think.

Sometimes what’s breaking is the version of the relationship that could no longer hold who you’re becoming.

Deep Autumn can feel like rough seas.
Unpredictable.
Relentless.
Like you’re being tossed around with no solid ground beneath you.

And many couples don’t make it through this part.

Because it’s uncomfortable.
It’s confronting.
It asks you to face parts of yourself you’ve spent a lifetime avoiding.

Sometimes we don’t have the tools.
Sometimes we don’t have the support.
Sometimes we simply don’t want to see what’s being shown to us.

So we leave.
Or we shut down.
Or we turn away from each other instead of toward.

I’ve felt this.

I’ve done this…

Run when it felt like too much.
When I wasn’t ready.
When I didn’t have the capacity to stay.

And even now, I can feel those familiar urges at times.

The urge to pull away.
The urge to protect.
The urge to say, “this is too hard… I’m done.”

But underneath it all, there’s also a quiet knowing.

That there is still love here.

It’s just buried beneath layers that are finally asking to be seen.

And if you can stay — not perfectly, not without mess — but stay present enough to move through those rough seas…

Something begins to shift.

Not immediately.
Not dramatically.

But gradually.

The storm starts to pass.

And what follows… is Winter.

Winter — The Pause

If you make it through Autumn, Winter is where everything slows down.

Connection becomes quieter.
Softer.
Sometimes distant.
Sometimes uncertain.

But this is where it’s often misunderstood.

Because from the outside — and even from within — Winter can look like the end.

Like two people who’ve given up.
Who’ve stopped trying.
Who are simply co-existing.

And sometimes… that is what’s happening.

Some couples don’t move into Winter through awareness — they arrive there through exhaustion.

The fighting stops.
The conversations stop.
The effort fades.

Not because everything is resolved…
but because they don’t know how to keep going.

And that version of Winter can feel empty.

Disconnected.
Lonely.

But there is another version of Winter.

A conscious one.

One that comes after the storm, not in avoidance of it.

This Winter isn’t about giving up.

It’s about integration.

It’s the nervous system finally exhaling after holding so much.

It’s space.
Rest.
A soft landing after the intensity of Autumn.

There may be more solitude.
More reflection.
More quiet moments than passionate ones.

But beneath that… something is recalibrating.

I’ve learned that forcing connection in this season doesn’t work.

You can’t demand warmth from a relationship that’s asking for stillness.

And this has been one of the hardest lessons for me.

Because I like connection.
I like closeness.
I like feeling “good” in my relationship.

But Winter asks something different.

It asks for patience.

It asks you to trust that just because it’s quiet…
doesn’t mean it’s over.

Sometimes, it just means something deeper is being rebuilt.

And then… the return

If you don’t rush it… something begins to shift.

A softening.

A moment of eye contact that lingers a little longer.
A conversation that feels easier.
A touch that feels genuine again.

And slowly…

Spring returns.

But not the same spring.

Not the naive, effortless, everything-is-perfect version.

This one is different.

Wiser.
More grounded.
More conscious.

This is the kind of love that has seen itself.

The kind that has moved through distance and chosen to come back.

And I think this is the part no one really teaches us.

We’re taught how to fall in love.

But not how to stay when it changes.

I’m learning that love isn’t something you hold onto.

It’s something you move through.

That disconnection doesn’t always mean something is wrong.
Sometimes it means something deeper is asking to be seen.

That pressure — especially around intimacy, connection, “getting it right” — often makes things worse, not better.

And that when we soften the expectations… space opens up for something more real to come through.

If you’re in a hard season right now…

Maybe nothing is broken.

Maybe you’re just in autumn.
Or winter.

Maybe your relationship isn’t ending…

Maybe it’s changing.

And maybe — instead of trying to fix it or force it back to what it was —
the work is learning how to meet each other where you are now.

Gently.
Honestly.
Without rushing the process.

This is actually what inspired me to create something simple for couples who feel like they’re in one of these heavier seasons.

Not a big overhaul.
Not a “fix your relationship in 5 steps” kind of thing.

Just small, intentional ways to reconnect… without pressure.

Something you can return to when things feel a little off, a little distant, or a little stuck.

If that’s where you are, you’ll probably feel it.

And if not… just take this as a reminder:

Love isn’t meant to feel the same all the time.

It’s meant to move.

And the real magic isn’t in staying in spring forever…

It’s in learning how to walk each other through every season that follows.

30 Day Relationship Reset

If you enjoyed this, you can step a little deeper by becoming a paid subscriber.
You’ll get access to my library of paid content — erotic stories, meditations, rituals, and the pieces I don’t share publicly — plus the ability to join the conversation inside the comments.

With love,

Bryony x

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One negative remark.
A snide comment.

And if there’s no attempt at a repair beyond you wanting to get in her pants, she will likely not be in the mood for a while.

Because a woman’s heart is the gateway to her pussy.

So when she doesn’t feel emotionally close to you her heart closes, and her pleasure often closes with it.

But one of the biggest — and easiest — ways to kill a woman’s desire is surprisingly simple:

Not being a good Dad.

Now, I don’t mean being an awful human who does nothing. Most women would say their partner isn’t like that.

I’m talking about the little things.

The moment he loses patience when your toddler is having a meltdown.

When he takes their behaviour as a personal attack instead of recognising they’re simply children with big emotions they don’t yet know how to manage.

The frustrated comment muttered under his breath — the one you know your child heard.

These moments might seem small. Completely human. Even insignificant. You’ve probably even succumbed to them yourself.

But for many women, they matter far more than you might realise.

Because a woman’s instinct is deeply maternal. She is wired to protect her children. Not just physically — but emotionally too.

Her children are connected to her through her heart.

And when someone — even unintentionally — threatens their emotional safety, something inside her shifts.

Her heart closes.

And as I said, when a woman closes her heart, she often blocks her pleasure too.

She opens when she feels safe.
When she feels loved.
When she sees the people she loves being treated with care and tenderness.

Especially her children.

However, when a woman watches the man beside her respond to a child’s meltdown with patience instead of frustration… something powerful happens inside her body.

Her nervous system relaxes.
Her guard drops.
And when that happens, her pussy responds.

She sees that the person beside her can handle big emotions without becoming reactive or overwhelmed. And if he can hold a child’s emotions safely, somewhere deep inside she knows he can hold hers too.

And that is the HUGEST turn on for a woman.

But when she feels protective, tense, or emotionally guarded, her heart closes and so do her legs.

This is why emotional connection isn’t just a “nice bonus” for many women.

It’s the gateway.

Which is why repair is so important for a woman.

It shows her you are accountable for your actions.
That you want to do better and be better.

We are all human and we all have human moments we aren’t always proud of. But when a man can apologise for his actions and recognise that it may not have been the best approach, her heart re-opens.

In Tantra we often talk about the heart as the bridge between love and pleasure. When the heart chakra is open, energy can move freely between the emotional and sexual centres of the body.

But the beautiful thing is that opening the heart doesn’t always require deep conversations or relationship breakthroughs.

Sometimes it’s much simpler.
Sometimes it’s playful.
Sometimes it’s sensual.
Sometimes, the body just needs help remembering how to soften again.

Opening the heart isn’t about forcing desire.

It’s about creating the conditions where desire can return naturally.

A woman’s heart is sensitive.

It opens with patience, presence, and care.

And it closes when it senses threat — even subtle ones.

That isn’t weakness.

It’s biology.

For thousands of years a woman’s nervous system has been wired to assess safety for herself and her children. When she sees the man beside her respond to big emotions with calm, patience, and love, her body exhales.

So if you’re a man wondering why your partner sometimes feels distant, closed, or uninterested in sex… look at the environment around her heart.

And if you’re a woman who notices your heart closing, know that it doesn’t mean something is broken inside you.

Sometimes the heart simply needs help softening again.

A little laughter.
A little presence.
A little conscious touch.

Because when the heart opens again, everything else tends to follow.

With love,

Bryony x

Here are a few practices I often share with women to gently reopen the heart.

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1:26am

I hear the creak of the floorboards.
In about two seconds I’m going to hear my bedroom door open and feel the energy of him standing over me, leaning into me ever so slightly, whispering under his breath…

I had a nightmare. I’m scared.

I offer an arm as a cuddle and then get out of bed, walking down the hallway naked to lie with him until he falls back asleep.
This is a regular occurrence.

4:45am

A crack of thunder splits the sky.
Lightning lights up the bedroom.
Next comes the inevitable creak of the floorboards and the slow opening of my door.

This time there’s no going back.

He’s panicked.
So I move over — making my four-year-old and husband shift too — creating space for my teenager.

He’s shaking.

Every time the lightning flashes he startles. The thunder follows seconds later and he grips the blankets tighter.

He’s convinced it’s more than a storm.

My phone lights up in his hand.
He’s checking the weather app.

“Mum it’s a tornado.”

“It’s not a tornado.”

“Mum I’m scared. Mum what’s happening?”

Over and over.

“Mum I’m scared.”

The phone lights up again.
I’m getting annoyed.
Everyone is trying to sleep.
There are four of us in this bed remember.

7:15am

My youngest wakes up.

“Can we have pancakes for breakfast?”

Of course my darling.
Let’s get ready for school.
My teenager pulls the blanket over his head.

“I’m not going.”

Simple. Final. No room for negotiation.

7:45am

“Get dressed. You’re going to miss the bus.”

“NO.”

Refusal.
Again.
And again.

School refusal is like trying to move a mountain with your bare hands.

I call his dad.
I call the school.
Eventually I drag him to the car.

He cries.
I cry.

When we arrive he refuses to get out.

Teachers come out to help.
He’s clinging to the seatbelt like it’s the only thing keeping him safe.

“I’m scared Mum.”

I feel completely helpless.

9:52am

My phone vibrates.

Mum I’m scared.

9:57am

Mum I feel sick.

10:01am

Mum pick up.

10:06am

Mum if I eat this will it make me sick?

I’m at my new job.
Trying to focus.
Trying to look professional while my phone buzzes every few minutes.

58 Notifications.
23 Missed calls.

My boss is incredible.
So understanding.
But I just want five hours where I can be at work without having to think about being a mum.

Five hours.
That’s all.

10:18am

Muuuuuuuuuuuuuum.

10:24am

Mum I’m scared I’m going to throw up.

10:31am

The school calls.
I answer immediately — something must be wrong.
It’s him.
Calling from the school phone because I stopped answering his mobile.

I’ve already called the school three times asking them to take the phone off him.

They tell me he’s sitting in wellbeing again today.
No pressure.
He can go to any classes he feels comfortable in.
Just getting him there is the win.
I’m grateful.
So grateful.

But I’m also drowning.

1:12pm

Mum I think I’m going to be sick.

1:27pm

Mum can you pick me up.

1:41pm

Mum please answer.

I promise I’ll check in later.
I promise he’s safe.
I promise myself I can make it through the rest of the day.

3:30pm

After school he’s meant to go to his dad’s.
A break.

Except he refuses.

“I don’t like it there. I want to stay with you.”

The school suggests setting up a meeting.
Honestly? Thank god.
Because I need help.

I cannot keep doing this on my own.

3:50pm

He’s caught my bus home.
God damn it.

6:30pm

Dinner.

“I’m not eating.”

“I don’t want to be sick.”

Another meal wasted.
Later I’ll find him eating lollies and chips in the pantry.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

8:10pm

We start preparing for tomorrow.

“Let’s get your clothes out.”

Silence.

“What classes might you go to?”

“I’m not going.”

“You said that today and you went.”

“I’m not going tomorrow.”

My body is already bracing.
Anticipating the tears.
The begging.
The bargaining.
The car ride.
The teachers.
The helplessness.
All of it.

And it’s still twelve hours away.

9:00pm

He won’t let me leave his room.

“Can you stay until I fall asleep?”

So I lie there staring at the ceiling while he drifts off.
Eventually I sneak out.

I just want to see my husband.
I want to feel something other than exhaustion and frustration.

Life has been all-consuming.
My teenager has been all-consuming.

We’ve barely seen each other lately.

9:40pm

We’re watching Bridgerton in bed.
Neither of us really talking.
Just existing next to each other.
Then the tension on the screen builds.
The longing.
The stolen touches.
The sex scenes.
Something shifts.

Pleasure was the last thing on my mind today.

And yet suddenly I want it.
I want to feel something other than stress.
I want to remember that my body is more than just a container for anxiety.

What follows is the most unexpected release.

All the frustration.
The overwhelm.
The distance we’ve been carrying.
It melts.

My body responds in waves I didn’t even realise were there waiting.

Tears come with it.
Not sadness.

Just… release.

He holds me close as the day finally drains out of my body.

“I’ve missed you,” I whisper.

“I’ve missed this.”

And for a moment everything feels quiet again.
Connected.
Safe.

We fall asleep wrapped around each other.

12:03am

The floorboards creak.

Here we go again.

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Most women — and many men — experience responsive desire. That means arousal doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. It builds in response to stimulation.

I say it all the time: kissing isn’t always enough for me. I need touch all over my body. I need sensation. I need activation.

But it’s not my husband’s responsibility to always generate that for me.

It’s Valentine’s Day today. My husband offered to give me a foot massage tonight — which will more than likely lead to sex.

And that sex would probably be good. Comfortable. Predictable.

But is that what I want tonight?

Or do I want electric sex? Hungry sex? The kind that surprises us both?

Today, in between basketball games, sitting in the car, I decided to listen to a podcast. The host had reached out to invite me on as a guest, so I thought I should get a feel for their vibe. It’s called The Lifestyle Lounge, a Melbourne-based podcast dedicated to the swingers lifestyle.

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I haven’t seen my husband in a week. I am longing for him. There’s an ache in my heart — and in my pussy. But the mind chatter is constant. I wish it would stop for just a moment so I can be present.

We start kissing — slowly, intentionally — his hand cupping my face. It should feel good, I mean it does feel good, but I also feel a million miles away.

I’m thinking about my son’s head and the fact I saw him itching it earlier, along with the comment my husband made about our son saying he has eggs in his head.
Did he pick up head lice on our trip away?
I slept with him every night, is my head itchy?
God, if he does have head lice, I’m gonna have to check his sisters hair, treat the whole family, and wash all the bed linen.

Oh that’s right, we’re meant to be getting in the mood.
These kisses feel nice, but, oh I’ve got an itch. Shit.

I’m trying really hard to be in the moment. I’m trying to pay close attention to the warmth of his tongue on mine, his hand in my hair. I try tracing my fingers over his biceps and arching my neck back — exposing my neck to him. His mouth moves to my neck — soft, small licks on the nape of my neck and across my collar bones — this is usually my go to spot. I can orgasm from neck kisses alone, my body pulsing and contracting like the swells of the ocean…
but not tonight.
I just can’t get the idea of head lice out of my head and kissing is not enough.

I notice what’s happening. I need to get out of my head and back into my body. I can’t think my way into pleasure and connection.
I ask him to touch me — slowly, deliberately, without expectation.
I need touch that moves me away from my head and further down my body.

He starts slowly, gently, almost like a tickle. Running his fingers down my arms, my torso, my thighs. Within seconds, I am following his touch with my mind. Noticing where he touches me, how softly, where it triggers a response from me.

My body starts waving. I can feel the sexual energy awakening and coursing through my body.

My legs part — an invitation.

My pussy is aching for his touch. I’m surpised at how fast I got here. A few minutes ago I was planning the whole fumigation and elimination process for head lice, and now, I am begging for him to be inside me.

And this is something I wish more people talked about.

Because we’re sold this idea that desire should just appear out of nowhere — spontaneous, fiery, effortless. Like we’re supposed to be instantly horny the moment our partner touches us.

But for so many of us — women especially, but honestly men too — desire is responsive.

It wakes up because we start.

Which means sometimes “not in the mood” isn’t actually a no — it’s just a not yet.

And if we always wait to feel turned on before we begin, we might never begin at all.

Sometimes that looks like the simplest thing: kicking off the blankets, lying naked, and asking my husband to just touch me. No agenda. No performance. Just skin on skin.

His hands on my bare body bring me down out of my head.
My body starts to wake.
His body wakes too as he glides his hands over my curves, watching my breath deepen and slow. The visual stimulation and physical touch bringing us both into the present moment and allowing us to feel pleasure.

And before long, the energy is moving between us like a current.

Not forced.
Just… activated,
responsive.

Sometimes, all we need is to move attention away from our minds. To surrender to touch, to sensation, to presence. And when we do, even a distracted, chaotic day — potentially filled with head lice — can be transformed into connection.

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With love,

Bryony

I can feel people’s judging stares baring into the back of my head. Quietly disapproving of me, of my children.

They wont stop screaming. Every little thing seems to trigger them into some kind of emotional breakdown. Crying, yelling, swearing, hitting, whining. It’s constant. It’s exhausting. I can’t even count the amount of times I’ve heard “I hate you” in the last few days.

I’m trying really hard to be the parent who allows their children to feel and express all their emotions.

I’m trying really hard to hold space for their emotional overwhelm.

But I am overwhelmed.
I want to scream, yell, cry, and stomp.
I know it’s my inner child wanting to scream. Feeling injustice at the fact that these children can do all the things I was never allowed. Children were meant to be seen and not heard. They were expected to be respectful, disciplined, polite. Behaving like this would result in the wooden spoon or strap when we got home.

This is a mother’s grief.
Not just grief for my children in their overwhelm — but grief for the little girl I once was, who never got to fall apart like this and still be held.

But noone aroud me seems to understand.

We’re in public.
Trying to eat breakfast.
My youngest swearing at his siblings. His silblings doing what seems to be anything to purposely piss him off.

He starts screaming. Bashing his scooter into the furntiure. Throwing himself on the ground. Swearing again, trying to hit.
I try to reach out to him, to offer him safety and comfort and am hit with a foot and a fist and a curse.

People are staring.
I get it. They’re trying to enjoy their breakfast. My children don’t create peace and serenity. It’s more like chaos and catastrophie.

I try to ignore his protests.
Maybe he’ll stop if he has no audience.
But is that good parenting? I can feel the judgement in that choice too.

I look around and everyone appears to be trying to ignore us. No one looks at me with quiet understanding or empathy. No one offers to help. I feel helpless.

I stand up and grab all their things, stating we are leaving. My arms are loaded with a bike, a scooter, a coffee, a bacon and egg roll, an apple juice. And still he lays on the floor of the pavillion screaming at me. Expecting me to pick him up.
I can’t.

I polietely tell the other kids to pack up and head back to the room. I’m trying to stay composed, calm, non-chalant. Like none of this is bothering me in the slighetst. But inside I’m quietly dying.

I tell the youngest one we’re leaving. I reach out to him to help him, and nearly drop everything I’m carrying. He screams no and tries to hit my hand away. So I walk away. The quiet approval of ‘thank god they’re leaving’ hitting me from all directions.

I hold my head high and stride away. I know he’ll follow me. And he does. But not without a show.

I’m so embarrassed.

It’s been like this all week.

Fighting in the pool. Screams that echo and reverberate all around the room. Fights over the TV and the remote.
That goddamn remote.
I want to throw it in the bin. I’ve had to hide it more times than I can count. In my underwear, in the fartherest cupboard behind random things. In the bathroom, in plain sight andin the one place they haven’t found it yet — the dryer.

I thought it would be a fun, relaxing week away. Just me and my kids. Lots of fun activities and of course the pool — or pools, because there are two. And truthfully, there have been fun times. But there’s also been a lot of chaos. A lot of overwhelm.

Thank god I have a girls weekend planned this weekend. An opportunity to re-regulate my nervous system. No kids. No screaming. No fighting.

Trying to be a good parent to three children who all have big emotions and trouble regulating is really hard. I was never taught how to regulate, so I’m also learning, and trying to teach at the same time.

It looks like embarrassment a lot of the time.
It feels like failure a lot of the time.

But the moments I get it right — and they are able to self regulate — feels like winning the lottery. And so I keep going. Keep showing up. Keep sitting the uncomfortable, in a world that doesn’t always support me.

Carrying a mother’s grief in a world that doesn’t always know how to hold it.

Parenting like this can feel isolating. So, if this piece stirred something in you, you’re invited to join the conversation below. Comments are open to paid subscribers — a small, contained space where we can speak openly and honestly, and be witnessed, together.

With love,

Bryony

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Life got busy.
I stepped back from work to be more present, knowing my youngest is about to fly the coop and head to school in 2026. And everything kind of paused.

But 2026 is also the year I get to go all in on my creative work — including in here. So don’t leave me just yet. And thank you, truly, if you’ve hung around.

I’m back — but differently.

Not louder.
Not more frequent.
Just more honest.

I’m not here to fill space or keep up with algorithms or offer constant output for the sake of it. What I share comes from what’s alive in me. Sometimes that’s words. Sometimes it’s facilitation. And lately… it’s been art. But I’ll get to that later.

As I said, life has been busy.
December especially!
Did anyone else feel like there was an extra week in there before Christmas? I actually thought my period was due on Christmas day because the weeks felt so long. Alas, I was a whole week early! My brain still can’t comprehened I got an “extra week” before my bleed! haha

We had 2 big school transitions.
My baby did 4 weeks of orientation for grade prep! WHAAAAT? I actually can’t believe he’s going to school in less than a months time.

AND…

My eldest did orientation into Year 7! I officially have a highschooler! I know what you’re thinking…. I’m obviously far too young for that!

Add in a Grade 6 graduation, my daughter’s 11th birthday (on the same day as graduation), Christmas, my husband’s birthday on Christmas Day, New Years etc and my physical time and mental capacity have been pretty full.

It wasn’t that I had nothing to say.
I had so much to say.

I’ve had at least twenty ideas floating around my head over the past couple of months — whole posts written mentally while driving, cooking, showering. But I didn’t prioritise sitting at my computer. The procrastination crept in, the days passed, the pressure built… and then it felt harder to come back in here.

But the truth is, sometimes words just aren’t enough.
Or maybe… it’s that they are too much.

So I found my way back to art. Art in the tangible sense. Painting, drawing, mixing mediums.

When the words in my head felt scrambled and impossible to articulate, painting let me express without thinking.

I created so much art in November and December — maybe that’s why December felt like it went forever…?

Small art. Big art.
Art for my workshops. Commissions for people.
Art with my kids. Art just for me.

I drew. I painted. I created digital art.
I played with watercolour, acrylic, oil crayons, greylead.

I remembered what it feels like to get my hands dirty.
To pick paint out from under my fingernails.
To have cups, plates, tables, and random corners of the house splattered with paint remnants.

There’s something deeply grounding about that kind of mess (even though a part of my brain also can’t handle mess!)

It still feels a bit strange to call myself an artist.
I remember it felt the same when I first called myself a writer. And yet… it also feels right.

Surely if you’re covered in paint, not showering all day, and spending hours absorbed in a single piece, you get to claim the title?

I think I’m slowly dismantling the belief that we have to perfect something before we’re allowed to name ourselves as it.

Not because I haven’t made art before — I have.
Zodiac prints. Canvases. Pieces gifted, pieces commissioned, pieces made for the sheer pleasure of creating.

But claiming the title?
That stirred up old stories.
Imposter syndrome has been loud.
And familiar.

Which is ironic, because I spend so much of my life reminding others that art isn’t about perfection — it’s about expression, presence, and allowing something to move through you.

Turns out I needed to listen to my own teaching.

So I’m sitting in this slightly uncomfortable — yet entirely justifiable — space of:

I am an artist.

And as I sit here on holidays with my children in North Central Victoria, typing this out, I remind myself that I am also a writer.

Truthfully, now that I am here again, I have missed this space.
I’ve missed feeling the keys beneath my fingertips. The slight resistance with the pressing of each button that feels sooooo good.

Most of my sharing happens on my phone now, through apps. But there’s something sacred about a keyboard. The sound. The slowness. The way my fingers know exactly where to go almost before my brain can comprehend what I’m about to type. The quiet thudding, the pure pleasure of typing.

Pleasure, of course, sits at the heart of everything I do. If it doesn’t bring me joy, presence, or aliveness, I’m no longer interested. And this — writing to you right now — has been a beautiful reminder that writing still does that for me.

And alongside this, my work in the world is evolving too.
In 2026, you’ll see me stepping more clearly into the role of sex educator.

I’ve realised how deeply I love teaching. I love educating people — especially around the things we were never properly taught and the things we were told were taboo. I love the moment something clicks. When the penny drops. When shame dissolves a little. When someone realises they weren’t broken — they were just never given the language, the context, or the education. And suddenly, things make sense.

And I think that clarity is shaping this space too.

This might look a little different moving forward.
More lived experience.
More reflections.
More education.
More of what I’m actually sitting with, learning, unlearning, and embodying in real time.

Not content for consumption.
But offerings from my heart.

Sometimes that will be words.
Sometimes art.
Sometimes insight gathered from teaching, facilitating, mothering, loving, questioning, and living.

I’m not here to flood your inbox.
I’m here to share what feels honest, nourishing, and alive.

And right now, this — art, writing, education, and presence — feels like the truest expression of where I’m headed.

I’m glad to be back.
Even if it’s differently. Even if it’s softer. Even if it feels like less.
Because creating for the sake of creating is not how I work.

Some reflections, teachings, and behind-the-scenes writings live in the paid space — more personal, and shared as they arise. If you feel called to support my work and sit a little closer to the process, you’re always welcome there.

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But I want to be clear about what this space is — and what it isn’t — now that I have a little more clarity.

I’m not here to over-promise or lock myself into a rigid content schedule that doesn’t honour how I actually live and create. I don’t believe in forced output or writing just to meet a quota.

What I offer here — especially in the paid space — comes from what’s genuinely alive in me. Sometimes that means a few pieces close together. Sometimes it means space. Silence. Integration.

If you’re here for constant consumption, this probably isn’t the right place.
But if you’re here for depth, honesty, reflection, and being close to a lived, evolving process — you’re exactly where you need to be.

Your support doesn’t buy more of me.
It supports the work I’m already doing — and allows me to keep creating from integrity rather than pressure. So thank you.

With love and pleasure,

Bryony, x

When I think of feminine energy, I don’t think of softness or spirituality or aesthetics.
I think of empowerment.

Empowerment, to me, means being fully resourced in the way your body, emotions, and intuition naturally work. It’s knowing that your energy isn’t linear — and refusing to judge yourself for it. It’s honouring that you have seasons, cycles, ebbs, and flows… and choosing to live with them rather than forcing yourself through them.

It’s the power that comes from emotional honesty — the ability to name your feelings, express them without shame, and allow yourself to be supported without thinking it makes you weak.

It’s the courage to stop settling, shrinking, or pretending you don’t want what you want. Feminine empowerment is:

• trusting your desires

• listening to your libido

• honouring your pleasure

• claiming your needs without apology

It is opening to receive — support, pleasure, help, rest, love — without feeling indebted or unworthy.
It is understanding that tenderness, compassion, rest, and intuition are forms of strength — not signs of fragility.

And it is owning your full spectrum.
Because feminine energy isn’t only gentle or nurturing.
It’s also fierce, wild, passionate, erotic, creative, and deeply intuitive.

True empowerment is allowing all of your expressions — not only the ones the world finds palatable.

Ultimately, feminine empowerment is feeling at home in yourself:
in your emotions, your pleasure, your intuition, your cycles, and your truth.
It’s living from the inside out, instead of from expectation inward.

So naturally, when I sat down to record this masterclass, I found myself speaking about a woman’s cycle — because there is nothing more empowering than understanding your own rhythm.

And for my paid subscribers, I’ve decided to share that masterclass with you.

If you are a man who has sex with women (and you’re a paid subscriber), this masterclass is also for you. It will help you understand why women feel different at different times of the month, what to expect when it comes to intimacy and pleasure, and offer a deeper insight into the cyclical nature of female-bodied people.

Understanding our rhythm changes everything — for everyone.

And if you’re not a paid subscriber, but you live here in Victoria, you are warmly invited to join me in person at my all-day women’s retreat at the stunning Cleveland Estate in Lancefield. There, I’ll be diving into everything covered in the masterclass — plus so much more.

This retreat is your opportunity to finally learn about your body, your emotions, your hormones, your natural seasons, and your pleasure in a way you’ve never been taught before.

Because an empowered woman changes the world — starting with herself.

Your Inner Seasons Retreat.

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Because if we’re not careful, our pursuit of equality can quietly become a pursuit of sameness.

Yes, women should absolutely be paid the same as men.
Yes, our work, voices, and contributions should be equally valued.

But, we are not the same.

Our biology, our hormonal rhythm, our emotional cycles — they don’t follow the same 24-hour pattern that men’s do. The world we live in was designed around a masculine rhythm: the 9–5 workday, the expectation of consistent energy, productivity, and focus day after day.

That model works well for men, whose hormones reset roughly every 24 hours.
But for women, it’s completely different.

We move through a monthly rhythm that mirrors the seasons — times of expansion and creativity, times of reflection and rest. Our bodies ask for fluidity, not consistency.

So when we strive for “equality” by trying to keep up with a masculine rhythm, we’re not actually empowering women — we’re teaching them to disconnect from their own.

What if true equality meant celebrating our differences?

What if we valued the cyclical nature of women as much as the linear nature of men?
What if workplaces, relationships, and education systems were built to honour both?

Because neither rhythm is better.
Neither more efficient or worthy.
They’re just different.

This is why I teach cycle awareness.
It’s not just about periods — it’s about understanding your body, your rhythm, and your unique pattern of energy and desire.

When we honour that, we stop trying to be the same — and start embracing the wisdom of being ourselves.

Imagine if the world was designed with women’s bodies in mind.
If our schedules ebbed and flowed like the moon,
our energy honoured rather than expected,
our rest celebrated rather than shamed.

Right now, we live in a system built from the patriarchy — wake, perform, achieve, repeat.
For women, though, our hormones move in a roughly 28-day cycle. Our energy expands and contracts. We have inner seasons that guide how we create, connect, and rest.

And yet, the world asks us to stay in perpetual summer.
To be always “on,” always producing, always available.

In a cyclical world, success wouldn’t be measured by how much we do — but by how deeply we align with our own energy.
There would be space for stillness.
Space to rest without guilt.
Space to create when inspiration blooms instead of when the calendar demands it.

Meetings could be scheduled around collaboration and connection during our “ovulatory” phase, when we feel naturally expressive and magnetic.
The quieter, reflective work — planning, writing, inner processing — could be reserved for the “luteal” or “menstrual” phases, when we’re more inward and intuitive. Creation and new idea’s come more easily in the follicular phase, but sometimes we need to wait until the luteal phase to bring them to life.

Instead of burning out, we’d build momentum working with our internal rhythms.

Equality doesn’t mean sameness.
It means valuing both the linear and the cyclical, the solar and the lunar.

When we expect women to operate like men, we strip away the very wisdom that makes us powerful.

Women deserve equal pay, equal opportunity, and equal respect — but we also deserve structures that reflect who we are.

Imagine schools that teach girls about their inner seasons.
Workplaces that encourage rest days instead of sick days.
Families that flow together through creation and quiet, rather than pushing through constant doing.

The world would be softer.
More compassionate.
More sustainable.

When women honour their natural cycles, everyone benefits. We become more present partners, creative thinkers, intuitive leaders, and grounded mothers.

I am committed to teaching this wisdom to women and men alike so we can all understand the different rhythms in and around us.

This is what I’ll be exploring in my upcoming workshop, Your Inner Seasons — a space to reconnect to your body’s natural wisdom and remember the power of your cyclical energy.

If you’re a woman or female bodied person, or know someone who is, and you just read that and you’re nodding along, I am inviting you to join me for an all day women’s retreat.

Saturday 23 November | Cleveland Estate, Lancefield
Limited spots available — visit evolvinghearts.com.au/event-list for all the details.

I am ready to make this dream a reality — one where women get to live by their inner compass, and not the external one that’s been placed on them — one workshop at a time!

With love and pleasure,

Bryony xo

If you enjoy my writing and want access to my more personal musings, consider becoming a paid subscriber. For only $5 a month or $50 a year, you will get instant access to my library of paid posts including erotic literature, meditations, and practices.

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There’s an almost relief in it. Another cycle complete, a new one about to begin.

My body finally fully exhales — my yoni exhaling too as my uterus contracts and sheds the old.

The rage has stopped — thank god. My body doesn’t have the energy to be rageful. I just want peace and quiet; solitude would be great right about now.

I feel like a bear ready to hibernate for the winter.

The kids are yelling in the background, but it’s like I have ear muffs on. I can’t quite hear them but I know it’s happening. Have a switched it off on purpose? Or maybe I am just so turned inward everything is bouncing back off me? I don’t know, but I don’t care — the quiet and the ease is so needed.

I can sense that I’m more attuned right now. Not to the world outside, but internally. I can feel hits of wisdom coming in — my body receiving them — but there’s no urgency to do anything with it. I know when the time is right I will act, and yet I also trust that not everything I receive is meant to come to life.

I am a vessel of reception — open, passive, and wise — yet I am slow and mindful. It’s a welcome relief when my mind is normally running at a hundred miles an hour. I welcome this slow and receptive state.

I didn’t always… I’d push through, continuing on in my fast, active, and productive state. The world keeps on spinning after all, the kids still need tending to, the house still needs to be kept. Or, rather, that’s what I’d been sold.

But there’s so much to gain by listening to our bodies and trusting our natural cycles rather than trying to adjust to the patriarchal world that works against us.

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It’s been a week — or two, or ten — since you were last intimate, and you were planning on some connection time tonight.

You’ve done nothing to get yourself in the mood.

You know you should have turned yourself on during the day in the lead up. Maybe some sexy banter, time to soak in the bath, or listening to your favourite music and swaying your hips to the beat. You probably should have done the breast massage you’ve been told helps open your Yoni, or slowed things down and got in tune with your senses at some point — smelling the fresh air and blooming flowers outside, eating your food slowly and sensually; savouring every bite, or even grounding or some meditation to help you get in your body.

But, the day was busy and you did none of it.

The sheets are cold and your pillow is calling to you as you slip in beside your lover.

You look at your partner and smile.

You begin stroking one another, but your eyelids are getting heavy. You both agreed to being intimate tonight so you’re trying, but you’re exhausted and you can tell they are too.

You look at one another again, each of you with a knowing yet questioning look.

Who’s going to ask the question?
Are you sleepy?

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Sometimes it feels like all you see is the things I haven’t done. Maybe it’s a reflection of my own feelings of inner disappointment — I’m not good enough, I’m a bad mum, get your shit together. A recurring inner dialogue mirrored back to me through your eyes.

But what you don’t see is this….

The washing I pickup and put in the machine, dry fold, and put away.
The 10 times I’ve swept the floor; following the crumbs and trail left by tiny humans.
The constant planning for the week ahead — the countless grocery store visits. the hours spent in the kitchen cleaning, prepping, cooking, baking, tidying, and then cleaning again.
The number of times I’ve opened the dishwasher to add yet another item.
The number of times I’ve opened the fridge trying to satiate the appetites of our growing kids.
The number of snack plates I’ve made, only to see them still full hours later as a child begs for another because their food has gone all yucky.
The 20 fights I’ve had to break up.

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At the time, I remember feeling really hurt. She said I wasn’t “deep” enough. That the things I spoke about were too superficial.

What she didn’t understand was that at that stage of my life, I was having “deep” conversations everywhere. About trauma. About grief. About relationships unraveling. There was also a lot going on in my inner world I didn’t have the capacity to keep speaking about. And honestly? I needed some lightness. Some superficiality. A break from everything being heavy all the time. She was meant to be my safe space. Where I could be whatever I needed to be in any given moment, but it came with conditions.

What hurt me the most was that the thing that lights me up more than anything else — my work in sacred sexuality, relationships, and intimacy — was something she didn’t want me to bring into our space anymore. Because the truth is, my work is my life. It’s not just what I do, it’s what makes my heart beat. It’s what makes my world turn. It sparks something in me I can’t even put into words.

These past few months, since scaling back to “be more present” as a parent and not working in my spare time, I’ve noticed something big. I have felt like a shell of myself.

My life has felt chaotic. Grey. A little pointless, if I’m honest. I think I may have been the closest to depressed I’ve ever been.

I made the decision to stop working on my business for the rest of the year before my youngest goes to school next year. I didn’t want to regret not spending time with him while I still could.

But without those conversations with women and couples, without teaching, creating, or sharing my magic — I’ve just been surviving motherhood. And while my kids are the greatest loves of my life, they’re not the whole of me.

Because my work isn’t just a job. It’s my purpose. And when I’m living my purpose, I’m a better human. A better mother. A better lover. When I’m not, I feel like I’m walking around without my soul.

That same friend used to tell me that motherhood should be a woman’s only purpose. That I should be more grateful for simply being a mum. And I am grateful. So deeply grateful. But being a mother is only one facet of my being.

And I refuse to feel guilty for needing more.

What I see now is that when I stopped doing the work that lights me up, I didn’t become more present as a mother — I became less. Not from resentment, but because a part of me had been switched off. Like a wire disconnected. Like the colour drained out of life.

I’ve realised, being a mother doesn’t mean erasing the parts of me that need to create, to teach, to be lit up by something bigger than the endless to-do list. When I silence that part, I’m not giving my children more of me. I’m giving them a dulled version. A muted mother. A woman who’s surviving, but not really shining.

I used to believe that choosing myself would somehow take away from them, from us, from the love I pour into my family. But I see now it’s the opposite. When I allow myself to be turned on by life, when I’m creating and sharing and living from that spark, that’s when I have the most to give. That’s when love feels abundant instead of stretched thin.

Maybe that’s the real lesson in this season — that motherhood and womanhood aren’t separate, and neither are presence and purpose. They are deeply intertwined. And when I forget that, when I disconnect, everything dims.

I know I can’t be the only one who feels this. The woman who’s given so much of herself that she can’t quite remember what lights her up anymore. The one who’s holding it all together, but wondering why life feels flat.

Life can look so grey when we lose touch with ourselves — when the part of us that feels most alive gets buried under responsibility and busyness.

This reflection has been huge for me. And it’s why I’m bringing women together in Bali for Awaken Her — a retreat to remember who you are outside of the roles you play. To reconnect with the parts of yourself that make you feel alive, purposeful, radiant.

If you’ve been feeling like a wire has disconnected inside you, if you’ve been walking around without your soul lit up — I just want you to know you are not alone. You simply need to remember what makes life feel worth living.

With love and pleasure,

Bryony x

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The film is profound in its simplicity. It begins with an ending — a world collapsing, lights flickering out, people facing the quiet truth that life as they knew it was over. Then it moves backwards, revealing the beauty of one ordinary, extraordinary life. Nothing flashy. Nothing larger-than-life. Just a man named Chuck.

And yet, by the end, I was in tears.

The final words have lingered with me ever since:
I am wonderful. I deserve to be wonderful. And I contain multitudes.

That line stirred something deep, because it reminded me of what I’ve always known but sometimes forget: we are not simple creatures. We are complex, contradictory, brilliant, and messy. We are multitudes.

And yet we live in a world that tells us we must choose sides, we must fit within a box.
Good or evil.
Light or dark.
Left or right.

But life isn’t all-or-nothing. Duality isn’t separation — it’s coexistence.

Our bodies are built on polarity: positive and negative charges, left and right hemispheres, inhale and exhale. Both are needed. Both are natural.

And the same is true within us. We can’t only ever be the “good girl” or the “perfect person.” Our shadow aspects aren’t wrong — they’re part of our wholeness. When we stop condemning them, we begin to live more fully and freely.

This truth doesn’t just apply to our inner world. It shows up in the way we engage with society too.

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