Letting Desire Lead Me Home

There was a time I didn’t trust desire.

Not because it hurt me—

but because I had been taught to fear its power.

Desire was framed as dangerous, unruly, selfish.

It was something to suppress, manage, or ignore.

And so I did.

I built a life around discipline.

I shaped myself into someone who was praised—

for her self-control, for her logic, for her detachment.

But beneath the applause, I was withering.

I didn’t know then that desire isn’t a threat to safety.

It’s the thread that leads us back to truth.

To aliveness.

To home.

The Split Between Wanting and Worth

As a girl, I learned that being good meant being quiet.

It meant wanting less.

Needing less.

Taking up as little space as possible.

Desire was messy. It disrupted the image.

So I learned to trade longing for approval.

I became who I thought I had to be to be loved.

Polished. Predictable. Pleasing.

But the cost of that performance was intimacy—especially with myself.

Because when you abandon your desire long enough,

you forget what you actually want.

What feels good.

What feels true.

What feels yours.

When Numbness Became Too Loud to Ignore

I didn’t wake up one day and suddenly remember how to feel.

It was slower than that. Quieter.

Like the soft ache of a hunger I could no longer pretend wasn’t there.

It came in moments:

Staring at a ceiling, feeling nothing after sex.

Laughing in a room full of people but feeling deeply alone.

Looking in the mirror and seeing a version of myself that was... not mine.

That ache was not the problem.

It was the invitation.

To turn inward.

To ask: What have I silenced in order to survive?

Desire as a Path, Not a Problem

What I learned next changed everything:

Desire is not just about pleasure.

It’s about direction.

It’s the soul’s way of calling us back to ourselves.

It’s not chaos—it’s clarity.

Not recklessness—but remembrance.

Desire told me I needed rest, not more ambition.

It told me I craved gentleness, not more performance.

It told me I was lonely in relationships that only saw the curated version of me.

It told me I missed myself.

And so I followed it.

Not blindly—but reverently.

As a compass that pointed toward healing.

As a language my body remembered, even when my mind resisted.

The Homecoming

Coming home was not about achieving some perfected version of myself.

It was about surrendering to what was already there.

The soft.

The wild.

The holy hunger.

It was about letting myself want again.

To want deeply. Honestly. Unapologetically.

To want connection that didn’t require shrinking.

To want joy that wasn’t earned through exhaustion.

To want to feel safe in my own skin.

Desire didn’t ruin me.

It returned me.

To truth.

To embodiment.

To me.

Letting desire lead me home was the most radical thing I’ve ever done.

Because it asked me to trust myself in a world that taught me not to.

It asked me to belong to myself first,

so that every yes I give now is from wholeness—not fear.

This is what it means to come home:

Not to the version of you they applauded—

but to the version that has always known how to feel,

how to want,

how to be free.

There was a time I didn’t trust desire.

Not because it hurt me—

but because I had been taught to fear its power.

Desire, I was told, was dangerous.

It was unruly, selfish, indulgent.

It would ruin my reputation.

It would lead me away from logic, stability, approval—

all the things I was conditioned to believe kept me safe.

So I learned to be careful.

I learned to perform goodness.

I learned to trade my longing for applause.

I shaped myself into someone palatable.

Disciplined. Contained. Predictable.

And for a while, I was celebrated for it.

But beneath the surface, something essential in me was wilting.

I had locked myself out of my own body, my own truth.

I was alive, but I wasn’t living.

The Split Between Wanting and Worth

Desire had been coded as something external, something suspicious.

Girls like me were taught to be “wanted,” not to want.

To be looked at, but never to look too closely at our own needs.

Wanting too much made you high-maintenance.

Wanting too little made you easy to ignore.

So I settled somewhere in between—quiet enough to be accepted,

but hollow enough to forget what I actually needed.

Somewhere along the way, I learned how to numb.

I mistook detachment for strength.

I called it maturity when I no longer expected to be met in the places I longed the most.

And yet, in quiet moments,

the ache still whispered.

The Ache That Refused to Be Silenced

Desire doesn’t die—it waits.

Sometimes buried beneath fatigue.

Sometimes disguised as irritability or discontent.

Sometimes rising up through dreams, memory, or sudden tears

you can’t explain.

Mine began to surface in strange ways.

In a room full of people, I’d feel empty.

In bed with someone who “loved” me, I’d feel unseen.

In front of a mirror, I’d feel like a stranger in my own skin.

There was no single breaking point—only moments that chipped away at my detachment

until I could no longer lie to myself.

I wasn’t okay.

And more than that—I was hungry.

Hungry for something I hadn’t let myself name in years.

Desire as Return, Not Ruin

The world had taught me that desire was something to control.

But I began to realize: maybe it wasn’t chaos—maybe it was clarity.

Maybe the ache was a map.

Desire became a compass, not a curse.

It told me I was tired of pleasing people who never really saw me.

It told me I needed gentleness, not perfection.

It told me that intimacy wasn’t just about touch—it was about truth.

And I missed mine.

I stopped asking, “What do they want from me?”

And started asking, “What do I want?”

At first, I didn’t always know.

But slowly, my body remembered.

It wanted warmth.

It wanted to be listened to, not only looked at.

It wanted sleep.

It wanted stillness.

It wanted wild laughter.

It wanted to dance without being watched.

It wanted me—without performance, without apology.

The Return to Myself

Letting desire lead me home meant grieving first.

Grieving all the years I silenced what I needed.

Grieving the version of me that believed I had to earn every ounce of love.

Grieving the comfort I once found in approval,

even if it cost me connection to myself.

But the grief made room for truth.

And the truth made room for joy.

I began to speak up.

To take up space.

To ask for what I wanted, even when my voice shook.

To say no, not out of guilt—but out of self-respect.

Desire made me brave.

It made me soft and fierce at once.

It reminded me that I am not here to survive someone else’s expectations.

I am here to belong—to my own skin, my own rhythm, my own life.

Home Is Not a Place—It’s Permission

Home is where I no longer abandon myself.

Home is where my longing isn’t a burden but a guide.

Home is where my “yes” and “no” matter.

Where I don’t have to shrink to fit.

Letting desire lead me home didn’t mean chasing every impulse.

It meant learning discernment through embodiment.

It meant trusting my inner voice more than the outer noise.

And now, even when the old stories resurface—

the ones that say “be good,” “be small,” “be quiet”—

I know how to return.

Not to their safety,

but to my truth.

Letting desire lead me home was not a rebellion.

It was a reclamation.

A reunion.

A remembering.

Not of who the world asked me to be—

but of who I’ve always been,

underneath the silence:

a body alive with longing,

a soul lit by hunger,

a woman coming home to herself.

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