Nirvana

There has been a lot of conversation lately about vetting, online safety, and protecting yourself when navigating kink spaces. It’s something that comes up often, especially when new people enter the community and are trying to figure out how everything works.

Reading those conversations got me thinking about my own experiences.

I realised that many of the situations I’ve found myself in over the years could probably have been avoided if I had known how to vet people properly. At the time, I was still trying to understand kink, dynamics, and what healthy power exchange actually looks like. I didn’t always know what questions to ask or what warning signs to look out for.

While I was none the wiser back then, the truth is that it was still my responsibility to learn. Part of exploring kink safely is taking the time to educate yourself, not only about roles, dynamics, and kinks, but also about the people you’re interacting with.

So in response to all the conversations about vetting and safety that have been circulating, I thought I would share some of my own horror stories. These are real experiences I’ve had with people who identified themselves as Doms. Many of these situations could have been avoided if I had known then what I know now.

Trigger warning: manipulation, coercion, racism, boundary violations

Here are some red flags and borderline abusive situations I have personally experienced with so-called Doms over the years.

• I met a Dom whose profile looked picture perfect. He used all the right language, said he practiced PRICK, and seemed well integrated in the community. Within the first day of us talking off the site he moved the conversation to a strange version of Telegram that supposedly couldn’t track location. Within a few hours of being on that platform he demanded that we get on a phone call so that I could get naked for him so he could see “how obedient I could be.”

• One Dom I was speaking to would purposely say things that were outrageous or triggering just to make me react. Whenever I reacted, he would add a strike to a punishment list. This started about a week or two into talking. He was essentially creating situations where he could punish me.

• Another Dom openly said he wanted to make me angry on purpose so that he could beat me as punishment. When we eventually met in person after talking for a few weeks, he would say things specifically to provoke me and then tell me he wanted me angry so he would have a reason to hit me.

• I told one Dom my hard limits during a conversation about boundaries. His response was that those wouldn’t stay my hard limits for long because he planned to “work on them” until I would do them.

• One Dom asked to borrow money from me about three weeks into us talking. He said he would pay me back by spanking me.

• Another Dom love-bombed me intensely. Within a few weeks of talking he was sending me Property24 listings for houses near my workplace and talking about houses that we could buy together.

• One Dom asked me to take full 360-degree pictures of myself so he could decide whether I was his type.

• One Dom blocked me because he believed I wasn’t real. His reasoning was that I “spoke too well for a Black person.” He later created a second account and messaged me again to see if I would admit that I was fake.

• Another Dom repeatedly told me that I should just trust him because he knew what he was doing, and that I didn’t need to ask so many questions.

• One Dom wanted to punish me using one of my hard limits because I took too long to respond to him. The reason I took long to respond was because I was in the hospital.

• Another Dom got angry with me because I was asking too many questions and said that because he was the Dom I wasn’t allowed to question him.

• One Dom insisted that our first meeting should be at his place. When I said I was uncomfortable with that, he refused to give me his address and instead said he would send a car to pick me up. He did not want me to Uber myself there and would not disclose where he lived.

• Another Dom insisted that our first meeting should be at a hotel. His reasoning was that we were kinky people and therefore couldn’t meet in public. According to him, kinky people had to meet privately.

• One Dom said he was a Daddy and bought me toys very early on in our talking stage. About a week into talking he sent me screenshots of a checkout page showing toys and little-space items he had bought for me. Our talking stage didn’t last long, and later I saw him advertising those same things as part of a “little room” he was building.

• With that same Dom, we met at a mall early on and went toy shopping. At one point we walked through a toy store and I slipped into a light little-space headspace. As we were leaving he suddenly stopped me and told me to “be normal.” Later he explained that he wanted to see if he could force me out of little space in public in case we were around other people.

• A Dom once sent me a contract to do a 30-day dynamic, where i would be his sub and he would be my dom, and i was not going to have any hard limits or boundaries, and i would have to follow all his rules because i had to prove to him that i was a good girl and could be obedient and submit to him.

The crazy part is that, at the time, I thought this was okay and was acceptable. One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned from these experiences is how important it is to be informed.

Being informed in kink is not just about learning the language of the community, understanding dynamics, or discovering which kinks interest you. It’s also about knowing how to protect yourself from situations like the ones listed above.

Frameworks like PRICK are not only about knowing your limits and what you enjoy. They also require you to understand consent, risk awareness, and the practical realities of interacting with people in these spaces. That includes knowing how to vet someone properly before trust, power exchange, or titles are ever introduced.

Unfortunately, there are people who use kink spaces as a playground to behave like predators while hiding behind the label of “Dom.”

Because of that, safety in kink doesn’t start when the scene begins.

It starts long before that.

Before titles.
Before dynamics.
Before trust.

So before you focus on how to stay safe during a scene, make sure you are protecting yourself before the scene even has a chance to exist.

This is why community is important. If you aren't sure yourself, ask someone from the community for advice, but NEVER skip it.

Xoxo
Nirvana

“This is not you. Do not let this hurt that you are feeling turn you into something you are not my love. You are funny, caring, kind and such a bubbly person. Do not do yourself an injustice and lose yourself in this maze of pain”

This was said to me on a phone call with a friend about a year ago when i was going through the worst heartbreak of my life. And today, almost a year later, this still holds water. And ironically, I am heartbroken but over a different type of love.

There are two versions or takeaways from this.

I stayed true to what my friend said because I did not lose myself in the maze of pain. I didn't let that heartbreak make me...Once I got back up, I gave life a chance...I gave love a chance...and most importantly, I gave myself a chance. I stayed my caring, kind, funny, bubbly person.
I became everything I hated and told myself I would never
Welp...me being me...i went with version one. Which was not easy, but I did it.

But this time a year later...going with version one is so much harder. I feel so hollow and empty. I don't wanna try again. Don't wanna open up again. Don't wanna love again.

My heart feels so heavy. And i am tired.

But like I did last time i went with version one...i will go with it this time as well. It may take long but i will get there. I always do.

She remembered standing outside the casualty entrance for a moment longer than necessary, as if her body needed proof that her legs would still move if she asked them to. The automatic doors opened and closed in their own rhythm, letting people in and out as if nothing in the world had shifted.

Inside, the hospital felt too bright. The lights were a flat white that erased shadows. The air smelled sharply clean, that unmistakable mix of disinfectant and something faintly plastic. Monitors beeped somewhere in the distance, steady, indifferent. The normalcy of it all felt almost offensive, like the world hadn’t noticed anything had happened.

On the way there, she had called, asking where she should go, what she should say. The voice on the phone told her to come straight to casualty. So she did.

At the desk, there was a man. Her throat tightened at the thought of explaining to him, so she stood slightly to the side, waiting. When a nurse in white and blue scrubs walked past, she stepped toward her before she could second-guess herself.

“Hi Sister… umm I need… a sexual assault examination,” she said. Her voice sounded flat, like it had been pressed under something heavy.

The nurse looked at her carefully, concern flickering in her eyes. “Okay. Come with me.”

The room she led her to was simple. A bed in the center with tight white sheets. Two small side tables. A couch along the wall. The light overhead buzzed faintly. Everything smelled sterile, like nothing messy could exist there.

She sat on the bed. The crisp sheet beneath her crackled and felt cold through her clothes. The nurse pulled a stool closer and opened a tablet.

“I’m just going to take your details.”

Name.
Surname.
ID number.
Phone number.
Email.
Next of kin.
Medical aid.

She answered each question.

The nurse nodded and typed. The tapping of her fingers sounded unusually loud in the quiet room.

Inside her head, she watched herself answer. She felt split in two... the woman speaking, and the woman observing, cataloguing the way the room looked, the way the light reflected off the metal drawer handles, the way her hands sat too still in her lap.

“I’m just creating your file,” the nurse said. “I’ll bring some forms for you to sign and then we’ll start.”

When she left, the silence thickened. She stared at the floor tiles. Memories flickered at the edges of her mind, but she didn’t let them fully play. She focused instead on breathing in, breathing out. The room hummed around her.

The nurse returned with a clipboard. She signed where she was told. Her initials looked unfamiliar, like they belonged to someone else.

Then the nurse placed a blue gown on the bed. “You can undress and put this on. I’ll step out.”

The door clicked shut.

She moved slowly. Shoes off first, placed side by side. Socks tucked neatly inside them. Her bag onto the table. She folded each item of clothing carefully, more carefully than she ever would at home, as if precision could keep her from unraveling. When she tied the gown closed, the fabric felt thin, barely there. She was aware of her skin in a way that felt foreign, like she didn’t fully belong inside it.

The nurse returned and asked her to lie down to take her vitals. The blood pressure cuff tightened around her arm, the Velcro loud in her head as it adjusted. She stared at the ceiling, at the rectangle of fluorescent light.

Relax, the nurse said.

She tried. Her body felt like it was hovering a few centimeters above the bed, not fully making contact with the sheets.

A finger prick for glucose. A small sting. The nurse recorded everything on the tablet, her voice calm and steady.

“The doctor will be in shortly. If you need anything, press the bell.”

Then she left.

Time stretched. She lay there with her hands folded, listening to distant footsteps, the occasional trolley rolling past the door. Her mind drifted ... flashes of memory, then blankness, then the present snapping back into focus. She felt suspended, like she was waiting for something but didn’t know what.

A knock.

The doctor walked in with the nurse. She had warm eyes and a smile that showed all her teeth, braces catching the light. Something about her presence softened the room.

She introduced herself and pulled a stool close. “If you feel okay, can you tell me what happened?”

The story came in fragments. She had been drunk. She didn’t remember everything. But she remembered saying no. She remembered saying she wanted to sleep. Each time she said it, her voice caught, and she repeated it again, as if repetition might make it more real.

The doctor listened without interrupting, nodding gently.

When she finished, the doctor explained the process step by step. Blood tests. Swabs. Photographs. Preventative medication for STIs. Emergency care. A report she could use whenever she chose.

“If you want, we can document everything thoroughly and you can decide later what to do,” the doctor said.

She nodded. That felt manageable ....not deciding everything now, just letting the information exist.

A trolley was brought in. Needles, specimen bottles, forms in plastic sleeves. Everything arranged with careful order.

“This feels strange,” she heard herself say. “I’m usually on the other side, helping collect blood.”

The doctor smiled softly. “I understand.”

The tourniquet tightened around her arm. She extended it automatically. The needle went in ... a brief pinch, then pressure. Dark red filled the tubes one after another. The doctor labeled them with practiced precision.

Afterward, cotton pressed against the site while the nurse packed the samples away.

Then came the physical exam.

The doctor asked her to remove the gown. For a moment her hands hesitated, then she let the fabric fall. Her arms crossed instinctively before she let them drop.

The doctor examined her carefully, noting bruises, marks, tenderness. Her voice stayed calm, explaining what she was documenting. When asked to turn around, she faced the wall, staring at a small scuff mark in the paint while swabs touched the areas where bruising and bite marks were noted. The nurse took photographs quietly.

Small scratches were cleaned with alcohol. A sharp sting, then coolness. Ointment and dressings followed.

Then she was asked to lie back and place her feet up, knees apart.

Tears rose immediately. Her muscles tightened, resisting. The doctor stood beside her, voice gentle, telling her to take her time, reminding her she could stop at any point.

She breathed slowly, then positioned her legs. Her eyes fixed on the ceiling while her mind drifted somewhere just beyond the room. The doctor spoke softly about abrasions and internal bruising, about what she was noting and why. Swabs were taken. Instruments moved with quiet precision. Tears slid down the side of her face, but she stayed still.

When it was finished, the doctor cleaned the area carefully, warning it might burn. It did ... a sharp sting followed by the cool relief of ointment.

“You did really well,” the doctor said softly.

They stepped out so she could dress. She moved slowly, putting her clothes back on like she was reassembling herself piece by piece. Shoes last. Then she sat on the bed again, waiting.

When the doctor returned, she sat at eye level and explained everything she had documented.

There were bruises and bite marks along her back and thighs, superficial scratches, and tearing in her vaginal area that did not require stitches but would heal with time. There was internal bruising that should resolve with rest and medication. She would likely feel discomfort for a few weeks, and if it lasted longer than three to four weeks she should return for reassessment.

The doctor explained the preventative treatment ...injections and medication to reduce the risk of infection. The nurse prepared the syringes. She felt the brief pressure of each injection, the dull ache afterward, small plasters pressed over each site.

They discussed follow-up appointments, results, support services. The doctor’s voice was steady, giving shape to what still felt shapeless.

Then she handed her a blue envelope. Inside was the report ... the clinical documentation of her body, of what had been found, of what had happened.

“This is yours. You can use it whenever you’re ready.”

They left, and she sat for a moment holding the envelope in her lap, feeling the weight of the paper like it meant more than its grams.

Eventually she stood and walked down the corridor to the hospital pharmacy. The lighting there was softer, the line short. She handed over the prescription and waited while the pharmacist packed the medication into a small bag, explaining how to take each one. She nodded, absorbing only fragments.

Afterward she went to the canteen and sat at a table. The envelope lay in front of her. People moved around, trays clattering, conversations blending into a low hum. Life continued at full volume while she sat in a quiet vacuum.

She stared at the envelope for a long time, tracing its edge with her finger.

Her mind felt empty, but underneath the emptiness a single question repeated softly, not demanding an answer, just existing:

What happens next.

I know enough psychology to trace my feelings backwards. I can follow the thread from emotion to trigger to memory to nervous system response. I can say, I’m sad because this happened, which reminded me of that, which activated this belief, which put my body into a state of threat. I can map it out almost clinically.

And yet… I’m still sad.

Knowing why I feel something doesn’t actually reduce the feeling itself. It doesn’t soften it. It doesn’t make it quieter or easier to sit with. It just means I now understand the architecture of my pain.

There’s this prominent idea…especially in therapy-adjacent spaces…that self-awareness is the solution. That if you can name the emotion and understand its origin, you’ve already done the hard part. But in my experience, awareness doesn’t equal relief. Sometimes it just means the pain is better explained.

Psychologically speaking, this makes sense. Emotional processing doesn’t happen in the rational part of the brain. You can fully understand something with your prefrontal cortex and still be emotionally overwhelmed because your limbic system hasn’t caught up yet. And the body doesn’t care how well you can explain what it’s doing.

This becomes even more complicated for me when it is no longer my feelings I am evaluating but when other people are involved. 

I was in a situation where the people I cared about didn’t want to have a conversation together. They’ve asked for space. And on a logical level, I understand that. People process conflict differently. Some need distance before they can speak. Some shut down when things feel emotionally charged. I can explain their reactions rationally…trauma responses, avoidance patterns, self-protection.

I get it…But understanding doesn’t cancel out frustration. What’s hard is holding two truths at the same time...I understand why they’re acting this way, but I’m still deeply hurt by it.

Ignorance really was bliss, in that sense...Because knowing better hasn’t made me calmer. It’s made me more careful. More considerate. More restrained. But not less hurt.

I can be angry and empathetic at the same time.

I can want accountability and still understand avoidance.

I can be sorry for my part and still feel abandoned.

And no amount of insight makes those contradictions disappear.

From a psychological perspective, insight and regulation are not the same thing. Cognitive understanding lives in the prefrontal cortex…the part of the brain responsible for reasoning, meaning-making, and narrative. Emotional responses, however, are largely driven by the limbic system and the nervous system, which operate much faster and far less logically. This is why you can understand your feelings without being able to stop feeling them.

In moments of relational conflict, the nervous system often prioritizes safety over clarity. Avoidance, withdrawal, and the need for space are common regulation strategies when someone feels emotionally overwhelmed. Avoidance is a short-term regulation strategy. It reduces immediate distress, but it often prolongs emotional tension in the long run. They reduce immediate threat, but they don’t resolve the underlying emotional rupture. In fact, unresolved tension often keeps the nervous system in a prolonged state of activation.

For someone who is relatively self-aware, this creates a unique burden. I am constantly translating behaviour into psychological explanations. I recognize trauma responses. I identify attachment patterns. I contextualize reactions instead of taking them at face value. And while this allows me to respond with empathy, it also limits my ability to respond with raw emotion.

This is where knowing better becomes heavy…Because emotional literacy can quietly turn into emotional self-denial. I regulate myself not because the feeling isn’t valid, but because I understand it too well. I talk myself out of reacting. 

What makes this even harder is that knowing better has taken away my ability to react freely. There was a time when I could just feel. When I could respond emotionally without immediately interrogating myself. Now there’s always a pause. A mental checklist. A moment where I think, Okay, but they’re reacting this way because of X, Y, and Z. That awareness acts like a brake.

This has been a big struggle for me especially in the last few day, and it has been a point of great emotional turmoil and frustration. I get it, however getting it is not enough…getting it does not take away the situation…it does not take away my feelings that I still have. And it has frustrated me to a point of almost insanity because I want the explanation to be enough to take away how I am feeling. I want the justification I have given myself to make me feel better and it isn’t and I hate it. 

And so the paradox becomes this: knowing better doesn’t make me feel less…it just makes me feel alone in my feelings. I am aware enough to hold space for everyone else not myself.

So when people say, at least you’re self-aware, I want to say that self-awareness doesn’t heal you. It just tells you exactly where it hurts and why. And sometimes, that knowledge isn’t comforting at all. It just means you’re sitting with your feelings fully conscious, fully articulate, and still completely human.

Maybe the work isn’t to understand myself more… but maybe the work is to allow my feelings to exist without immediately correcting them. I just need to be allowed to feel…fully, honestly, and without having to justify it.

Xoxo

Nirvana 

I've realized something about myself the other day while walking past a tree I’ve admired for months.

It’s always been beautiful to me. And for weeks, I had been thinking about plucking some of its flowers to make a small bouquet for someone else. A gift. A gesture. A symbol of love.

Because that’s what I do. I love people through gestures. Through effort. Through thoughtfulness. Through giving pieces of myself away.

But when I saw the tree that day, instead of thinking about who I could give the flowers to, I stopped and asked myself a question I’ve never really asked before:

Why don’t I give them to myself?

So I did. I plucked one flower and held it in my hand, and in that small moment, I realized something uncomfortable but true: 

I have so much love to give, yet I give almost none of it to myself….Not even five percent.

I am generous with my patience, my understanding, my empathy, my grace when it comes to other people. I excuse their flaws. I make space for their mistakes. I try to be intentional. I try to see them. I try to love them in the ways I wish I had been loved.

But with myself?...I am harsh. I am critical. I am unforgiving. I self-deprecate. I talk myself down. I minimize my own needs. If someone looked at how I treat others versus how I treat myself, they might think I love everyone and hate me, and I don’t think they would be wrong in that assumption…And that realization hurt.

Because the truth is, I love deeply. Passionately. With my whole heart, soul, and body. When I love, I give everything. I pour myself into people. I try to make them feel accepted, safe, seen, heard, and cherished. Yet I have rarely received that same kind of love in return. The kind of love I give so freely, I’ve almost never been given.

So instead of learning to give it to myself, I kept giving it away. Hoping one day someone would finally give it back to me…Waiting.

Waiting to be chosen. 

Waiting to be prioritized. 

Waiting to be loved “properly.” 

Waiting to be held the way I hold others.

And that waiting has shaped so many of my relationships. Whenever I meet someone new, I arrive with an overflowing cup of love. I give them everything I’ve been withholding from myself. All my attention. All my effort. All my devotion. It feels beautiful at first. But it’s unsustainable.

Psychology calls this “external validation seeking” and “anxious attachment.” It happens when you learn, early on, that love feels uncertain, inconsistent, or conditional. So you grow up trying to secure love by being extra: extra caring, extra loyal, extra available, extra forgiving. You don’t believe love will stay unless you earn it. So you overextend…you overcommit…you overgive. And slowly, you abandon yourself.

That’s what I’ve been doing. I’ve been pouring from an empty cup and calling it love. I’ve been loving others without ever learning how to love myself first. And then I wonder why heartbreak destroys me.

It’s because when someone leaves, they don’t just take a relationship with them. They take everything I invested in them. Everything I neglected in myself. I’m left with nothing because I gave everything away. 

That flower was a metaphor I didn’t know I needed. I’ve always said I want to be given flowers. I’ve always imagined someone choosing me enough to bring me something beautiful. I’ve always waited for proof that I mattered. But that day, I realized: I am here. I exist. I matter. I can give myself what I’ve been waiting for.

So I did. And it wasn’t just about a flower. It was about choosing myself in a small, practical way. It was about saying:

I deserve softness.

I deserve effort.

I deserve tenderness.

I deserve my own love.

Another realization followed soon after:

I need to stop waiting to be loved.

Waiting keeps me stuck. Waiting keeps me passive. Waiting makes my life feel like it hasn’t started yet. Self-love doesn’t mean I don’t want partnership or connection. It means I refuse to put my worth on hold until someone arrives….Because what is love if I’m not giving it to myself?

What is romance if I’m neglecting my own heart?

What is devotion if I have none toward me?

True self-love isn’t just affirmations on mirrors or pretty quotes. It’s practice It’s speaking to myself with kindness. It’s resting when I’m tired. It’s setting boundaries. It’s not abandoning myself for attention. It’s choosing myself even when no one is watching.

Right now, I’m my worst critic. My loudest hater. My strictest judge. And that will take time to unlearn.

But I’m starting. Loving myself is also a form of self-preservation. It’s how I stop losing myself in other people. It’s how I stop over-devoting. It’s how I stop loving to the point of self-erasure. I am learning that I can love deeply and still keep something for myself.

I don’t have to give everything to prove I’m worthy.

I can give from abundance, not desperation.

I can show up without disappearing.

And even if no one ever comes along and loves me the way I deserve, I will still love myself that way.

I will still choose myself. I will still give myself flowers. I will still speak gently to my heart. I will still protect my peace. Because I deserve that.

Xoxo

Nirvana 

Trigger Warning: This post talks openly about self-harm, urges, and recovery. Please read with caution ⚠ 

For a long time, I used self-harm as a coping mechanism. Specifically, I used to cut. And I’m not going to lie and pretend I hated it. I didn’t. I enjoyed it. It gave me peace. It made everything in my head feel quiet for a moment. When I cut, I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I was trying to feel something different from what I was feeling in that moment. Anything other than the overwhelming thoughts and emotions in my head.

At some point, though, it stopped being enough. I stopped for a while, then something happened in my life and I went back to it. It felt nice again, but only for a short time. After that, all I was left with was guilt, self-hate, and a scar on my wrist. It’s faint now, but it’s still there, and I see it whenever I look at myself. It reminds me of that moment and of everything I was trying to run away from.

That’s when I started to really think about what self-harm was doing for me. I realized that, for me, it was never a solution. It was a temporary fix. It’s similar to using drugs or alcohol to escape your problems. You get high, you feel okay for a while, and then you come down. When you’re sober again, your problems are still there, and sometimes they feel even worse than before.

Working in a medical environment also helped me understand my relationship with self-harm in a more psychological and physiological way. During Botox procedures, for example, I will stand on the other side with a vibrating device on another part of the patient’s face while the doctor is injecting the botox. While the needle is causing pain in one area, the vibration creates a strong sensation in another.

The human nervous system struggles to fully process two intense physical sensations at the same time. The brain has limited attention when it comes to pain signals. So when multiple signals are sent at once, it doesn’t know which one to prioritize. As a result, neither sensation is felt as strongly as it would be on its own.

This technique is used in many medical settings, not just with Botox. Doctors use cold packs, pressure, vibration, or even conversation and breathing techniques to distract patients during painful procedures. All of these methods work on the same principle: when the brain is overwhelmed with multiple sensations, it struggles to process emotional or physical pain clearly.

When I learned this, I realized that this is exactly what I was doing to myself. Self-harm worked the same way.

When I was overwhelmed emotionally, my brain was flooded with thoughts, fears, self-blame, and anxiety. Everything felt too loud and too heavy at once. Cutting introduced a strong physical sensation that competed with my emotional pain. Suddenly, my brain had something else to focus on. The physical pain distracted me from the emotional pain.

For a moment, my mind felt quiet. Not because my problems were solved, but because my brain was too busy processing the physical sensation to fully process my emotions. It was the same neurological principle. Different context. Same result.

But just like with Botox, the distraction only works while it’s happening. Once the vibration stops, the needle pain is felt again. Once the cutting stops, the emotional pain returns. Nothing has actually been healed. Nothing has been resolved. It has only been delayed.

And every time I used that distraction, I was teaching my brain that hurting myself was a “solution.” I was conditioning myself to believe that pain was the fastest way to regulate my emotions. Over time, my brain started craving that shortcut instead of learning healthier ways to cope.

When I cut, my brain stopped focusing on my emotions and started focusing on physical pain instead. The slicing, the burning, the blood. For a moment, my thoughts went quiet. But only for a moment. When that feeling faded, everything came back. Louder. Heavier. More overwhelming. So I would do it again. Not because I wanted to die, but because I wanted silence. I wanted relief. I didn’t know how else to regulate what I was feeling.

Over time, I realized that self-harm wasn’t removing my pain. It was postponing it. And adding more to it. After I was done, I still had the same emotions, and now I also had a wound to take care of. A scar. A new thing to feel ashamed of. One problem became two.

It became a vicious cycle of temporary relief and long-term damage.

That’s when I understood something important: unless I was trying to actually kill myself, self-harm made no sense for me. And I don’t want to die. I want to live, I just do not know how to cope sometimes. I don’t want to keep running from myself. I want to heal.

So I stopped, and its not to say that I suddenly no longer have thoughts of self-harm. I still get them. But I don’t act on them. I don’t pick up a blade. I don’t reach for scissors. I don’t hurt myself. Because I know where it leads. Nowhere.

Self-harm doesn’t solve the problem. It delays it. And when the delay is over, you’re left with more pain than you started with.

Now, I’m looking, and trying to find healthy ways to regulate myself. Ways that don’t punish me. Ways that don’t leave scars. Ways that help me face my emotions instead of avoiding them. It’s harder. It takes longer. And sometimes I want to reach for the blade cause that would be much easier than facing all of them. But still I don’t…I remind myself…that I don’t want to die…I just don’t want to feel whatever it is that I may be feeling in that moment, and cutting is not the solution.

That’s why I stopped.

Because temporary fixes never heal long-term wounds.

I’ve come to a realization that’s uncomfortable, frustrating, and disappointing. People don’t have to do anything. And I don’t mean that in a careless or dismissive way. I mean it in the most literal sense. No matter who they are to you. No matter what title they hold in your life. Nobody has to show up. Nobody has to make time. Nobody has to choose you, prioritize you, consider you, or treat you the way you would treat them.

You can be angry when people disappoint you. You can feel hurt. You can feel let down. But you can only sit in that space for so long before you have to face the truth underneath it. And the truth is that everything people do, or don’t do, is a choice. Showing up is a choice. Communicating is a choice. Being intentional is a choice. Making time is a choice. And when someone doesn’t do those things, it’s not always because they can’t. Sometimes it’s simply because they didn’t choose to.

That’s the part that’s hard to swallow.

Even when someone is your partner, your friend, your mentor, your Dom, your sub, your protector, your person. Even when they say that’s who they are to you. Even then, they don’t have to do anything. They don’t have to act according to your expectations or your standards or your definition of what’s right. They get to choose. And you get to feel however you feel about that choice.

What makes this so difficult for me is the way I live my life. My guiding principle has always been simple. I ask myself, if this were done to me, how would I feel? And if the answer is that I wouldn’t like it, I don’t do it. I don’t want to make people feel a way I wouldn’t want to feel. That’s how I move through the world. That’s how I treat people.

So when I run into people who don’t live by that same principle, it genuinely confuses me. Not in a judgmental way, but in a “how do you not see this?” kind of way. The double standards get to me. Wanting time but not giving it. Wanting understanding but not offering it. Wanting grace but withholding it. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around that because it feels so basic to me.

And I think that’s where my expectations come from. Not entitlement or control. But projection. I assume that because I would show up, because I would follow through, because I would care, that others will too. And when they don’t, it hurts more than I expect it to. Not because I believe I’m owed something, but because I wouldn’t do that to them.

What makes it hurt even more is when you want it. When you actually want the person to do better, to show up differently, to treat you with more care. It hurts more when you’re not indifferent, when you’re still hoping, still open, still giving them the benefit of the doubt. When you’re invested, the disappointment cuts deeper, because it’s not just about what they didn’t do, it’s about what you wished they would choose to do. Wanting better from someone makes their lack of effort feel heavier, because it reminds you that care can’t be forced, no matter how much you wish it could be.

Lately, I’ve also been realizing that the role you play in someone’s life directly affects how they treat you. How much they consider you. How much effort they put in. How present they are. And that’s a painful thing to sit with, because you can hold someone close to your heart while knowing they don’t hold you the same way. That doesn’t make them a bad person. But it does force you to confront reality instead of the version of the relationship you had in your head.

There’s also a very hard and very bitter truth in all of this, and it’s difficult to say out loud. Sometimes the reality is simply that you are not as important to them as they are to you. Because if you were a priority, they would have made the time. They would have made the effort. They would have been intentional and considerate. That’s a painful pill to swallow, because it reduces everything to something so blunt. If you mattered in that way, they would have done better. And it’s sad to realize that being treated well often comes down to how important you are in someone’s life. That realization is heavy, and it’s one of the hardest things to accept without questioning your own worth.

Time isn’t something people lose accidentally. Time is something people spend where they choose to. And realizing that doesn’t mean I suddenly think less of myself although my initial reaction was to feel unworthy etc. It just means I have to accept where I stand.

What I struggle with now is this idea of “matching energy.” I don’t want to become cold or distant or transactional. I don’t want to treat people poorly just because they don’t treat me well. That’s not who I am. I don’t want to stop being kind, or considerate, or intentional just to protect myself from disappointment. But at the same time, it hurts to keep giving in spaces where it isn’t met with the same care.

No matter who has done me dirty, or what shit stunt life pulls on me. I stay kind, soft, loving and caring. Which is a double edged sword because I end up with such feelings and situations but such is life.

I don’t have an answer yet. I don’t know how to completely let go of expectations without feeling like I’m betraying my own values. I don’t know how to separate how people treat me from how I see myself when I know I show up with good intentions. All I know right now is that people don’t have to. And I have to learn how to live with that truth without hardening myself in the process.

Maybe the lesson isn’t to stop caring. Maybe it’s to stop assuming. To stop attaching my standards to other people’s choices. To accept people as they are, not as I would be in their place.

Xoxo
Nirvana

We sat across from each other

She mimicked me

Wore what I wore

Looked how I looked

Heck!

She even sounded how I sound

But I knew it wasn't me

It couldn't be me

And I was right

When I looked closer

I saw myself but it was not me

It was my copycat

She was a fake trying to be me

She convinced herself 

That if she tried hard enough 

She could be me. 

But she was wrong...

I am everything she was trying to be

Happy

Loving

Caring

Kind 

Funny

Smart

But most of all resilient 

She was just a copycat

An imposter

Hoping that no one would notice

But I did

Cause she could never really be me

No matter how hard she tried.

After all

A copycat never stood a chance against the original 

I will shine through

Like I always do

We sat across from each other

She mimicked me

Wore what I wore

Looked how I looked

But when I looked closer

She was never really there to begin with 

She was just the reflection 

The one that starred back at me in mirror

We sat across from each other

She mimicked me

Wore what I wore

Looked how I looked

She even sounded how I sound

But this time it didn't take long

For me to notice it was just a copycat

I paid no head to her this time

I looked at her one more time

Before walking away 

Know I was not the copycat and will never beefore walking away 

Know I was not the copycat and will never be

There’s something so powerful about seeing Black people in kink spaces. For those of us who grew up in Black communities, sexual exploration wasn’t just frowned upon...it was practically forbidden. Sex was something whispered about behind closed doors, hushed into silence by generations who viewed it as a private matter, or worse, something shameful.

Black women for generations and generations have been conditioned by their mothers, aunties, and grandmothers to believe their pleasure is never theirs. As young girls it is a sin, and pleasure is only embraced when they get married, but even then, their pleasure is still not theirs; their pleasure belongs to their husbands. When they are getting married, they are gathered and sat down by the woman of her family and she is taught various ways to please her husband and how her body is not hers but simply meant to make her husband cum. We are told that our waistlines, hips and curves hold magic and greatness...but we never whine our hips for ourselves but for the pleasure of men.

The idea of pleasure, of unashamed, unapologetic pleasure, was a luxury many of us weren’t afforded. Our bodies were policed, our desires stifled, and any hint of sexual freedom was met with raised eyebrows and judgmental whispers.So, when I entered into a bigger kink space and saw Black people embracing their sexual freedom, stepping boldly into kink, and allowing themselves to explore without shame, it’s more than just refreshing...it’s revolutionary. It’s a bold declaration that we, too, deserve to experience pleasure on our own terms.

It’s a reclamation of our bodies, our desires, and our narratives. But as much as it’s beautiful to witness, the deeper you delve into the kink community, the more you start to see just how much of a struggle it is to be a Black in these spaces, more so a Black woman.

Kink, historically, has been a predominantly white space....built by white people, for white people. When you step into that world as a Black woman, you’re not just breaking out of the mold that your own community has placed on you ....you’re also fighting against the stereotypes and objectification that already exist within kink.

It’s a dual battle: one foot planted firmly in the traditions of Black conservatism, where sexuality is kept behind locked doors, and the other forced to navigate the minefield of fetishization and hypersexualization in predominantly white kink spaces.

Black women in kink and in general are often boxed into harmful stereotypes. We’re seen as either aggressive dominants, expected to play into the “strong Black woman” trope, or hypersexual submissives, fetishized for our bodies rather than respected as individuals. Our pain, our pleasure, and our autonomy are rarely given the same care and consideration as our white counterparts.

How even within our own communities, we’re often pushed to the margins. It’s not just white people fetishizing us; it’s also the way Black boys and men are taught both directly and indirectly....that white women are the pinnacle of beauty, while Black women are everything but.

We’ve all seen it. The way Black boys fawn over white girls, drooling in the comments, reposting their OnlyFans, hyping up their every move like they invented seduction. But when a Black woman does the exact same thing? Silence. Or worse...mockery. We’re called “ghetto,” “too much,” “ratchet,” “masculine,” or “doing the most.” 

This isn’t just about personal preference. Let’s not pretend it is. It's about generations of conditioning...about the media, schoolbooks, history, colonization, slavery, and trauma all coming together to paint white femininity as soft, pure, and desirable... while Black femininity is reduced to strong, loud, and disposable. It’s about how Black women are told to be resilient but punished when we dare to be vulnerable. It’s about how we’re expected to be hypersexual but are rarely allowed to be sensual.

The same behaviors, the same kinks, the same confidence that gets white women celebrated gets Black women dissected or dismissed. Our bodies aren’t just sexualized...they’re politicized. 

And when our own "brothers" start worshipping whiteness in those same spaces, it stings. It tells us, again and again, that we’re not enough. That even in a community meant to be about liberation, we’re still climbing uphill just to be seen.

It’s like our bodies are seen as props...tools for someone else’s fantasy rather than vessels of our own desires. And if we dare to demand more....more respect, more understanding, more acknowledgment of our humanity, and more space...we’re labeled as difficult, as too demanding, as not fitting the mold.

This erasure and exploitation aren’t new; they echo throughout history. Take, for example, Sarah Baartman. An African woman who was paraded around Europe in the 19th century as a sideshow attraction, her body ogled and objectified under the guise of curiosity. But it wasn’t just gawking; her body was dissected, examined, and prodded by so-called scientists desperate to prove their warped theories of racial difference.

She was stripped of her dignity and humanity, reduced to nothing more than an object of fascination. Even after her death, she was denied peace....her remains were preserved and put on display until 1974 in a Paris museum. It was only in 2002 that her body was finally returned to South Africa for a proper burial. Her story is a haunting reminder of how Black bodies have been commodified, fetishized, and put on display for others' consumption. When we talk about Black women in kink, it’s impossible not to acknowledge how those threads of exploitation still ripple through the community today.

Even more troubling is the blurred line between race play and blatant racism. While some may argue that race play is consensual and empowering for those who engage in it, it often edges into spaces where Black people are dehumanized, objectified, and stripped of agency. There’s a difference between consensual power exchange and the perpetuation of harmful stereotypes, yet that line is crossed far too often, hidden behind terms like “kink is kink.”

The truth is, it’s not about pretending this is an easy conversation. It’s about recognizing that some things aren’t just uncomfortable...they’re harmful. Terms like "BBC," "Mandingo," "Jungle Fever," and others like "Ghetto Gaggers," "Ebony Queen," and "Chocolate Delight" are rooted in the history of Black enslavement and mistreatment, yet have now been romanticized and woven into the fabric of kink spaces. These terms reduce Black bodies to caricatures, stripping away individuality and reinforcing harmful tropes.

Honestly, writing this blog wasn’t easy nor was it any fun. Kink, for many of us, is where we escape....the place we go to forget the struggles and demands of everyday life. It’s where we can be free, be wild, and let go. But the harsh reality is, kink spaces are not immune to the shackles of real-world oppression. They don’t exist in a vacuum. The same racism, stereotyping, and prejudice that we experience outside the dungeon still find their way in. And that’s a truth we can’t keep ignoring.

There were moments when I felt like giving up. It felt like I was screaming into the void, trying to carve out space in a community that wasn’t built with me in mind. But then I found other Black women in kink...women who understood the struggle, who faced the same barriers, who refused to be silenced. We shared our stories, our frustrations, and our triumphs. In them, I found strength. In their voices, I found community. I wasn’t alone, and neither are you.

It’s important to recognize that this is a challenging conversation. Staying silent allows harmful practices to continue unchecked, but speaking out risks being accused of kink shaming. Yet, ignoring it entirely only perpetuates the cycle. We have to find the courage to address it head-on, even if it’s uncomfortable.

Despite these challenges, we still show up. We still find our way into dungeons and play parties, still create our own spaces, still demand our right to be seen and respected. Because our pleasure is just as important, our desires are just as valid, and our voices are just as powerful. We do the work not just for ourselves, but for the ones who will come after us...to make the path a little easier, a little less hostile, and a whole lot more welcoming.

To my fellow Black women in kink....you are not alone. Your presence in this space is valid, and your pleasure, your safety, and your experience matter just as much as anyone else’s. Keep pushing. Keep speaking up. Keep taking up space. Because we belong here, too.

Xoxo

Nirvana

On Friday, 21 November, I stood in a moment I’ll never forget.

At exactly 12:00, across South Africa, women laid down for 15 minutes in silence. Fifteen minutes for the fifteen women who lose their lives to gender-based violence every single day. Fifteen minutes to honour them, to remember them, and to refuse the silence that has swallowed too many of their stories.

I was one of those women.

And being part of the Women for Change Shutdown wasn’t just powerful… it was necessary. In a generation often dismissed as “internet activists,” friday was a reminder that we are more than hashtags. We are more than comments, retweets, shares, likes and reposts. We are not just voices behind screens…we are bodies in the street, marching, chanting, demanding justice.

From Constitutional Hill, across the Nelson Mandela Bridge, past Bree Taxi Rank, we marched. We sang liberation songs until our voices cracked. We cried. We held strangers’ hands. We hugged women whose names we will never know. When the police tried to stop us, we didn’t back down.

I went alone, but I was never alone.

In those crowds I found my sisters, women who carried the same fire, the same grief, the same determination. Women who showed up not because they had to, but because they refused to let silence win. As we walked, talked, laughed, held hands… it felt like finding my people. My community. My fellow fighters.

And as a survivor of abuse, it was something indescribably emotional about seeing so many people stand in solidarity with us, people who may not have experienced violence themselves, but still showed up to say: Enough.

I am proud, deeply proud to have been part of this. To have used my voice. My body. My courage. To have stood up for something that matters. There is a unique kind of power in knowing you did not look away. You did not hide. You showed up.

And I hope that Friday becomes more than a moment.

I hope it sparks real, tangible change, in government, in policy, in communities, in homes, in conversations. I hope it forces South Africa to confront gender-based violence not as a yearly campaign, but as an urgent national crisis.

Friday 21 November 2025 was a beginning. A promise. A reminder.

We will not be silent.
We will not be still.
We will not stop demanding change.

I was there.
And I will keep showing up.

Xoxo 

Nirvana