Fucking Season, Part One: How to Touch Your Body (and Enjoy It)

It’s February. Which means it’s fucking season. And I want you to have the best fucking season of your life- not because someone else chose you, touched you, or validated you, but because you showed up for yourself. We’re starting here. With the most basic, most radical question: Do you know how to touch your own body? Because most of us were never taught. I wasn’t taught how to touch my body. I was taught to be ashamed of it. I spent years believing that wanting to touch myself- wanting to feel myself- was bad, wrong, or dangerous. And I know I’m not alone in that. So many of us grew up disconnected from our bodies, taught to override sensation, taught to be quiet, taught to endure. That kind of shame doesn’t just disappear on its own. It shows up in how we move through the world. It shows up in how we seek love. It shows up in what we tolerate. Touch- intentional, loving, self-directed touch- has become one of the most important tools in my practice of radical self-acceptance. Not performance. Not fantasy. Not fixing. Just presence. When you learn how to touch your own body, something powerful happens: You stop outsourcing intimacy. So many of us are walking around starving for connection, waiting for another person to give us the love, attention, and care we’re craving. And when we don’t get it, we spiral into sadness, doubt, or a sense that something is wrong with us. But when you practice loving yourself- literally, physically- it becomes a two-for-one deal: You receive the connection you need now. And you learn how to communicate what you want later. You can’t tell someone how to touch you if you don’t know what feels good. You can’t advocate for your pleasure if you’ve never practiced listening to it. Everyone’s body is different. Everyone’s language of touch is different. There is no universal technique- only curiosity. I want to say this clearly, gently, and without flinching: If you have a history of being touched in ways you did not consent to- if your body holds memories of harm- learning how to touch yourself can be profoundly healing. I’m speaking from lived experience. Reclaiming touch doesn’t mean bypassing fear or pretending the past didn’t happen. It means choosing how and when and why your body is touched- on your own terms. Sometimes, touching the places that once held pain- slowly, kindly, with consent- can begin to soften a wound that’s been waiting to be seen. If you’re a survivor: I feel you. I see you. You’re not alone. If you’re wondering how to prepare for this practice, here’s the truth: You don’t need to prepare. You’re already enough. All you need is an open mind- and maybe a willingness to laugh. At yourself. At the world. At the absurdity of healing. At the fact that tenderness can feel awkward before it feels good. Even if you don’t arrive open-hearted, you’ll leave changed. I trust that. If you want to start today, here’s a simple entry point: Place your hands on your chest. If that doesn’t feel good, place them on your thighs. Or your legs. Or anywhere that feels neutral. Take a breath. Feel your body rise and fall. Feel the fact that your breath is moving through you- not metaphorically, but physically. Let your shoulders soften. Let yourself exist. If it feels okay, let your hands wander. If it doesn’t, stay still. There is no wrong way to begin. This is what we’ll be exploring all month long- pleasure, presence, embodiment, reclamation. Not for performance. Not for anyone else. For you. This is fucking season. And it starts with you touching your own life with care. 💋 If this resonated, the full How to Touch Your Body practice lives here.