Three weeks after the birth of my fourth child, my husband left for a camp job — three weeks away, one week home. And in that one week together, we started a partnered mindfulness practice as a way to connect with each other again when he came home and attempt to stay connected across the distance.

Part of the practice involved him describing, out loud, what he saw when he looked at my vulva.

I flat out called him a liar.

He told me my vulva was beautiful — like a delicate flower in the softest shades of pink. That she awakened so much desire for me and my body. That he wanted to devour me.

I demanded he take a photo so I could see what he claimed to see. And when I looked at it, I could not see what he saw.

His words landed nowhere.

What I felt instead was a quiet disappointment and sadness. We were looking at the same thing, why did he see it so differently than me? I felt a low-grade shame I didn't yet have language for.

That was the moment I understood, in my body, how deep the disconnection actually went.

And maybe you know this feeling too? That quiet disconnect you can't quite name.
That sense that you are there, but you aren't quite feeling it. You're not fully present in the moment.

Because it wasn't that I couldn't feel. I could orgasm. But I got there by gripping, holding my breath, pushing myself over the edge through fantasy, friction or sheer determination. My orgasms were short — like sneezes. They arrived and vanished, leaving me feeling vaguely hollow and sometimes frustrated, like I had let myself down, like I had let my partner down.

I didn't know there was another way.

What followed was years of slow, intentional, trauma-informed work. Daily pleasure practices. Breathwork. Embodied sexuality training. Working through the layers of trauma that had taught my body to brace, to perform, to survive sensation rather than receive it.

Slowly, I learned how to name what I was feeling — first just to myself, then out loud, and eventually to my partner. What I needed. What I wanted. What felt alive in me.

And then came the shift that changed everything.

I learned how to surrender during sensation instead of bracing against it. To soften instead of clench. To stay present in my body instead of escaping into my head or pushing toward a finish line.

When I stopped gripping and started opening, my entire experience changed.

Orgasms that used to feel like sneezes became full-body waves that could last up to an hour. Not because I tried harder — but because I finally stopped forcing and learned how to surrender instead.

This didn't happen overnight. It took years of daily practice, embodied trauma-informed work, and slowly, painstakingly learning how to listen to my body instead of override her.

But what took me years to find and learn?
I can guide you into the beginning of in just 8 days.

Not the whole journey — that takes time, and it's worth every step. But the first real doorway back into your body is the moment where sensation stops being something you chase and starts being something you can actually feel.

That's what these 8 days are for. Not to fix you, because you’re not broken.
Just to bring you back into relationship with your sensations.

And in my experience? That first step changes everything.