Trusting your vagina over your soul..

Is it really a wise choice? 

Why do we do that sometimes?

Ladies… we’ve all been there.

Knees weak, heart racing, body screaming “YES this is the one” - as you begin to feel comfortable with a lover, while your soul’s in the corner whispering, “Uhhh, babe? WTAF??”

Guilty!! Multiple times…

So you’ve read ALL the books, meditated through the madness, saged the fuck out of your trauma, cried into the moonlight, journaled til your hands cramped and still found yourself undressing for someone you knew wasn’t it.

Welcome to what I’ve discovered is the sacred mess of being spiritually wise and still horny for chaos.

Let’s get real with a personal story of mine to kick things off.. 

I was majorly attracted to this guy.

It was chemical.

Addictive.

Could’ve powered a small city with the wattage we were creating.

But if I hadn’t been stuck in the mess of people pleasing, fawning, the desperate choose me spiral; I would’ve seen it for what it was & saved myself a LOT of heartache.

I now realise what I was feeling, was more consistent with a trauma echo of sorts.

A nervous system hit.

A karmic hit and run even.

We had similar stories.

Wounds that rhymed & danced with each other, better than any Rumi quote.

Scars that mirrored each other… and I, in all my bleeding heart naivety, thought that meant we were ‘connected’.

That the ache we shared was some cosmic Hansel & Gretel breadcrumb trail bringing us back ‘home’ to each other.

That the intensity was fate, not a slow burning dumpster fire on steroids!! 

Spoiler: it obviously wasn’t fate...

It was a fucked up game of trauma ping pong.

It was a type of Hansel & Gretel story though.. one that led right into chaos, misery & a soul death like no other.

Maybe you’ve been there too.

Maybe you’ve mistaken that raw, feral magnetism, the kind that hijacks your breath and bypasses every ounce of logic as - love.

Maybe you’ve laid in the aftermath of a mascara streaked face, an empty stomach clenched & screaming for the hunger of them to end, while hearing the faint whispers of, “But I knew better. Fuck, I know better!!”

Yeah, babe.

You do know better.

But you don’t always get the memo in time, unless you know what you are looking at.

Because when you’ve been raised in a culture that teaches women to be palatable, to override instinct, to confuse desire with obligation, your nervous system becomes a battlefield.

Are you turned on or triggered?

Safe or feeling familiar?

Intuition or impulse?

Love or a beautifully wrapped lesson in self abandonment?

We don’t always know & that can bring a lot of shame down the track, for not knowing.

But hear this: It’s not your fault.

It’s years of women being told: “be nice,” “be chosen,” “be grateful,” “don’t be too much.”

It’s generations of women taught to ignore the scream in their gut for the sake of keeping the peace.

Taught to trade authenticity for attachment.

To choose the breadcrumbs over solitude.

But now?

Now we’re unlearning.

Now we’re calling out the patriarchal, performative fuckery and asking:

What if that fire in my loins is actually a warning from my inner child yelling “STOP… think about this!”?

What if the high voltage chemistry is just my trauma doing cartwheels because it’s been waiting for familiar terrain?

What if my soul, in her quiet inconvenient wisdom, is whispering “Not yet. Not this. Not him.”

This isn’t about shame.

It’s about sovereignty.

Because your body?

She’s wild.

She’s holy.

She wants to taste and touch and surrender (& she should..)

But your soul?

She holds the map.

She remembers why you came here & sometimes she throws herself between you and the door, saying “No. Not this portal. Not again.”

Not to punish you.

But to protect you.

Here’s something I’ve learnt for myself:

Your soul isn’t just the gatekeeper or the lesson maker.

She’s also the rebel who refuses to be rushed, if you let her. 

She’s the wise grandmother sitting by the fire, whispering, “Love yourself enough to wait.”

But waiting? That can be the tricky part. 

It doesn’t mean paralysis; it means choosing presence.

It means leaning into the ache of not being met, of feeling that tension between wanting and wisdom.

It means sometimes sitting with it of not having what you crave, and not settling for the next hit of chemistry to numb whatever starts to feel uncomfortable.

Your soul wants you alive in your fullness — not anaesthetised by a dopamine tranquilliser disguised as euphoric lust.

It wants you to meet desire without drowning in it.

To dance with your hunger without losing yourself.

So, yeah, your vagina might be ready to set the world on fire.

But your soul?

She’s pumping the brakes for a reason.

If you need a sacred invitation, here it is:

Learn to listen to both.

Learn to hold the wild fire in your body and the quiet compass in your soul in the same breath.

Because this dance? It can get messy as hell.

It’s not neat.

It’s not pretty.

It’s raw.

It’s the chaos of being a woman reclaiming her power, her pleasure and her wisdom all at once.

So, next time your body says “fuck yes” but your soul whispers “hmmm, really girl?!,” don’t fight it.

Don’t shame yourself.

Don’t push through.

Pause.

Breathe.

Take a step back. 

Listen.

Feel.

And remind yourself:

You are not a slave to your desire.

You are the sovereign of your whole self.

Your worth is not measured by how wanted you are.

Your healing is not validated by who stays.

Your liberation?

It’s in the pause.

The unconscious no.

The moment you choose you over the familiar chaos, crumbs & so called chemistry.

Not because you’re hard to love (which you will be accused of..)

But because you’ve finally remembered:

Your body is sacred.

Your heart is protected.

Your pleasure is precious.

And your soul?

She’s not playing second fiddle anymore.

She’s reclaimed herself & remembered.