Today was eye-opening.
It was our first day at the beach as a family in almost three months.
Three months.
When we first moved here, when everything felt new and magical, we went all the time. At least once a week. Sometimes every month. Then life happened. Normal life. Routine. We stopped going.
I used to dream about living near the beach. The warmth. The sun. The water. I remember daydreaming with Skip about going to local fish markets, buying fresh fish, cooking it that night.
Guess how many times I’ve actually done that in the six years we’ve lived here?
Maybe once.
It’s strange how fantasies live in our minds. Because what I really wanted wasn’t the beach itself. I wanted warmth inside. Freedom. Beauty. Ease.
We live near Siesta Key, one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. But let me stop writing for anyone else and come back to me. This is a journal entry.
Because something shifted.
I’ve been talking about changes in intimacy for a while now. Things shifted toward the end of 2025 in a massive way. For the better. But it came with one of the most explosive, earth-shattering shakeups of my life.
The women inside Power Code know what I’m talking about. When I shared what happened, every single one of them said the same thing: they were going through it too. That part was shocking and validating at the same time.
My nervous system crashed. Completely.
Full dorsal shutdown. Puking from adrenaline surges. Going to very dark places. Moments where I honestly wondered if I was going to come back. I wanted to dissociate so badly. That had always been my way out.
But this time, 2025 wouldn’t let me run.
I had to feel everything.
I had a huge fight with Skip in front of the kids. I wasn’t proud of it. I judged myself hard. “You’re just like your family. You thought you healed, but nothing changed.”
I was at my breaking point. The pressure had been building for years, and my body finally showed it. Old autoimmune markers flared back up in my bloodwork.
I told him, “I need you to get a job. I can’t carry this anymore.”
And it wasn’t really about money.
It was about me.
I looked at my life and asked myself, Can I live like this for another five years?
The answer was a hard no.
Everything that didn’t feel like the life I wanted five years from now had to go.
And then something happened.
Everything changed.
How we approached sex changed.
How we approached each other changed.
How we approached time, presence, safety, love, and the body changed.
It felt ancient. Coded. Like something unlocked that I didn’t even know was locked.
I started seeing patterns I couldn’t unsee. Feeling things I couldn’t un-feel.
For the first time, Skip pulled out of old patterns not because of ultimatums, not because of fear, but because we actually let ourselves look at the unthinkable.
We talked about what life would look like divorced.
We even looked at dating apps.
We had the conversations people avoid when they’re still in love.
The next day, we were wrecked.
I cried myself to sleep until 2 a.m., grieving the life I thought I had, grieving the version of our relationship I was sure was ending. I didn’t know I was actually creating space for the one I had always wanted but never thought I could fully have.
Over the next few weeks, everything slowed down.
We went deep into our own personal growth. Boundaries. Awareness. Learning how to stay instead of flee.
Thank God for Hot Body AI, because my system was in full trauma release mode and I needed real-time grounding just to stay present in my body.
And the truth became clear.
We couldn’t have sex the same way anymore.
We couldn’t love the same way anymore.
We couldn’t rush, perform, numb, or dissociate anymore.
We were being forced into presence.
Into safety.
Into staying.
And then one night, after sex, something small but life-altering happened.
We just stayed.
He didn’t get up.
He didn’t rush.
He didn’t leave the moment the wave passed.
We talked.
We cried.
We named what we were grateful for.
And I realized how much of my life I had spent bracing for love to end instead of letting myself actually be in it.
Even during intimacy, fear would pop up. Thoughts like, What if something bad happens? What if this is too good? Candlelight. Closeness. Presence. And my body still preparing for loss.
At the beach today, it happened again.
Deep gratitude, followed by a wave of nausea. That old bracing. The instinct to not let it all in because it will be taken away.
This time, I noticed it. I breathed. I stayed.
My whole life, love was conditional. Closeness didn’t feel safe. The adults around me were overwhelmed, surviving, unavailable. There was shame. Gaslighting. Emotional absence.
I learned early that receiving came with a cost. That safety never lasted.
So I stayed vigilant. Always ready for the next loss. Never fully letting joy land.
And today, something softened.
Watching Skip dive into the 68-degree Gulf. Seeing this beautiful man about to turn 50, who I met when he was 29. Feeling connected to my kids. Feeling present in my body.
Feeling here.
I cried because I realized how much life I had been bracing through instead of living.
And now, at 40, with him almost 50, with the kids growing, something in me knows this matters.
This is it.
I want to savor it.
I want to write the love story.
Book the trips.
Build the business.
Make the money.
Get in the best shape of my life.
Stay sober.
Say yes to the fuck-yes life I used to only pin on Pinterest.
It’s worth the pain. Every bit of it.
I would never go back to being numb.
