Nirvana

Yesterday I was in a car accident. No broken bones. No blood. Nothing dramatic enough for the movies. Just that moment when everything slows down, your chest tightens, and your mind goes blank…until it doesn’t. Until it catches up and starts running faster than your heartbeat.

This morning, getting back into a car felt like the worst punishment. The minute the wheels hit a hump, I froze. My hands were shaking, my breath shallow. It wasn’t just the car, though. It was the sound of it…the memory of screeching tires, the smell of burnt rubber, the weight of “what if?” still hanging in the air.

But the accident isn’t what truly broke me. Its everything that happened after it.

Because when the dust settled, my uncle, who was my first family at the scene because he was the closest. This morning took it upon himself to call my estranged father and inform him I was involved in an accident yesterday. The same father I haven’t spoken to in five years. My uncle decided that this was the perfect time for a reunion I didn’t ask for.

So my father called me. It was a WhatsApp call. The name didn’t appear because I lost my contacts when my phone crashed a few months ago. I answered without thinking because I always answer...what if it’s important? What if it’s work? etc. He started talking before I could even process the voice. I asked, “Who is this?”, and he said, “Your uncle told me you were involved in a car accident”..."Okay yes...but who is this?"..And he said, “So you don’t have your father’s number?”

That one line hit harder than the accident.

I didn’t even respond. I just… froze. Because what do you say to that? To someone who disappears for years. After the call, I just stared at the number. I knew it. I knew that number. It was the number I memorized as a little girl...the one my mother made sure I knew by heart. Back when my after-school routine was simple: get home, take off your shoes, and send “please calls.” One for Mom, one for Dad. I would get in some serious trouble if i didn't do it.

And so I did...Every. Single. Day.

Even on weekends. Saturday morning before cartoons. Sunday before church.
“Please call.”
“Please call.”
“Please call.”
And he never did. Not once.

Still, I sent them. Because I thought maybe, maybe one day he’d see one and call me back. Maybe he’d be reminded that he had a daughter who still waited for him.

He never did.
He never came.

So when I saw that same number on my screen, it felt like my childhood reached through time and grabbed me by the throat. It reminded me that hope can hurt just as much as loss. He said he didn’t have my number anymore. That he had to ask my uncle to send it to him. And I just sat there thinking...how could that be? I’ve had the same number all my life. The same one I used to send him “please calls.” The same one I messaged a few years ago on WhatsApp when I found out he was active there.

I remember the first time I saw that he’d read my messages. Those blue ticks. My heart jumped so hard, I actually smiled. I thought, “He’s finally going to reply.”...and i was anxious waiting for his reply...But he never did. He just kept posting statuses...about his wife, his sons, their birthdays, their outings. I watched from the sidelines as he built a family he actually showed up for. And I learned what it felt like to be seen but ignored, read but unanswered, remembered only when something bad happens or when he has "Time"... i felt so insignificant.

And then, as if yesterday wasn’t enough, he showed up at my workplace.Why you may ask ...because not only did my uncle give him my number, but he gave him my work address too. I walked out to find him standing there. He came to me, acting like it was the most normal thing in the world. As if he hadn’t missed years of my life. As if I hadn’t cried myself to sleep wondering why I wasn’t enough to be loved the same way he loved his sons. He insisted on taking me home. I didn’t want to make a scene, so I got in the car.

He tried to hold my hand. I pulled away. He said “You’re okay” I said, “No. I’m not okay. Not just because of the accident...but because of you.” He looked irritated. He said, “You don’t have to keep emphasizing that you’re not okay.”... "But I’m not. Do you want me to lie?"

He didn’t know what to say. Or maybe he didn’t want to. He just sat there, uncomfortable in a silence he helped create. When he finally spoke, it was to tell me, “You don’t have to keep saying you’re not okay.”

But I am not okay.
And I wasn’t about to lie to make him comfortable.

In that moment, I realized how much he hasn’t changed. Still uncomfortable with emotion, still dismissive, still pretending everything’s fine. Still refusing to acknowledge the absence. And I’m just… tired. Tired of being the bigger person, tired of pretending it doesn’t matter, tired of watching him pop in and out of my life when it suites him.

At one point, he even got angry at me because I didn’t call him “dad” or “father.” I called him “sir” instead. And just like that, everything I was feeling...everything I had carried since the accident, since the phone call...just got heavier. It wasn’t about disrespect; it was about how I saw him, how I needed to protect myself in that moment. But he didn’t see it that way. He got angry. And in that anger, I felt small, frustrated, and exhausted all at once.

After he left, I blocked him. Because I can’t do this right now. Not again. Not when I’ve spent years trying to stitch together the holes he left in me. And yet...blocking him didn’t make it hurt any less... but it hurt ten times more. It hurts more because it should not be like this, i shouldn't have to block him, he should be present.

Beneath the anger and exhaustion, there’s still that little girl standing on the balcony, waiting. The one who memorized his number and whispered to herself, maybe today.

I am still her. Even as an adult. Still hoping, still waiting for a day he’ll come...and stay...and keep his promises. And if that day never comes, I tell myself I’ll be fine.
But the truth is… I don’t know if I will...Not yet.

Maybe one day I’ll stop tearing up when I see a father and daughter holding hands. Maybe one day it won’t sting so sharply. Maybe one day I’ll stop rehearsing conversations with him in my head. But for now, I’m still that girl...standing on the balcony, watching the road, hoping that the next car that passes might finally stop.

Xoxo

Nirvana

 Describe your weirdest/most interesting sexual fantasy?

There’s one fantasy that lingers in the back of my mind more than I’d like to admit. It comes uninvited sometimes...when I’m half-awake, when the world is too quiet, when the shadows stretch a little too long. It’s not about romance or candlelight or slow kisses. It’s about tension. Power. Fear with a hint of desire

In this one, I imagine the quiet of my room breaking. The door creaks open when it shouldn’t. The air shifts. That heavy silence before something happens...the kind that makes every heartbeat echo louder than sound.

He’s just a silhouette at first. The kind that blurs the line between danger and fascination. I can’t see his face, only the outline against the faint light from the street outside. The unknown of it...the not knowing what comes next...makes my breath catch.

I always imagine trying to fight it... not because I don’t want it, but because I’m supposed to. The room becomes a stage for everything I try to hide about myself: the need to surrender, the craving to be overpowered, the part of me that wants to let go completely.

It’s the paradox that draws me in....being taken and chosen at once. The idea that someone could see right through the good-girl exterior and pull out the raw, unfiltered version of me that hides beneath it. There’s something intoxicating in that imagined loss of control, where the mind says no but the body remembers what it’s always wanted to say yes to.

I think what fascinates me most isn’t the act itself...it’s the psychology of it. The play between danger and safety, chaos and control, resistance and surrender. The illusion that something forbidden could also feel like freedom.

That’s what the fantasy is really about...control, and the surrender of it. The moment where fear turns into trust... and trust turns into something far more primal.

The concept of CNC captures the paradox I crave: wanting to feel both powerful and powerless at once. To give someone permission to take control completely, knowing that even when I resist, I’m still safe. It’s the dance between no and yes, fight and yield, fear and ecstasy.

And then there’s the breeding element...that primal instinct, the raw pull toward being claimed, marked, filled. It’s less about the literal meaning and more about the energy of it... creation, surrender, legacy, belonging. It’s the fantasy of being seen as something so desired, so precious, that someone wants to leave their mark inside me, permanently.

What fascinates me most is how both elements...CNC and breeding...strip away everything civilized and controlled. They tap into something ancient and instinctual, something that exists beneath words or reason. It’s about trust so deep it borders on madness. It’s about giving up control not because I’m weak, but because I choose to.

Xoxo
Nirvana

What I Hope My First Kinky Experience Will Be Like

When I think about my first kinky experience, I imagine it being intimate, deliberate, and full of tension. I want to feel anticipation before anything even starts ....the kind that makes my stomach flip and my skin buzz.

I picture being told exactly what to do, hearing my name in a voice that leaves no room for arguing. I want to feel hands pinning me down, the rush of being controlled but knowing I’m safe. I want spanking...sharp enough to sting, slow enough to make me squirm and ache for more. I want my breath caught in my throat when he whispers rules or commands, and the thrill of following them.

Restraint excites me too. Rope or cuffs, something that makes me surrender my body fully, where every movement feels magnified. I want the teasing... being edged, denied, brought right to the brink and then pulled back again until I can barely think straight.

But it’s not just about the physical. I want the words, the tone, the presence that makes me feel owned and claimed in the moment. And afterward, I want to be pulled close, kissed, stroked, and reminded that I’m cared for just as much as I was controlled.

That’s what I imagine: my body pushed, my mind quiet, my submission unlocked, and the sweetness of being seen and held when it’s all over.

Xoxo
Nirvana

Any early experiences that, in retrospect, hint at your kinks?

When I think back, it’s funny how many little moments were hinting at where I’d eventually land. At the time I had no idea, of course… I just thought it was me being dramatic, or obsessed with certain tropes in books. But looking back? Yeah… those were the early signs.

For starters, I was always hooked on storylines with authority figures, structure, and someone being taken care of in this really intense way. Wattpad was my kryptonite, and while most of my friends were reading sweet high school romances, I was devouring the ones where there was a “strict” love interest who demanded respect, laid down rules, and punished bratty behaviour. That mix of power and tenderness was magnetic to me.

Even outside of reading, I remember how much I liked the idea of being “kept in check.” Not in a scary way…more like the thrill of someone noticing my attitude and being like, “Nope, not on my watch.” It gave me this delicious mix of butterflies and safety. I couldn’t explain why it felt good, I just knew it made me feel… seen.

Another clue was how much I loved being cared for in small, almost childlike ways. I’d get attached to mentors, teachers, or older figures who showed me patience and gentleness. The part of me that melts at the idea of a Daddy Dom today? Yeah, that was always there, tucked under the surface. I didn’t know what to call it, but I knew I craved guidance and protection, even while pretending to be independent.

There were also all these little things I brushed off as quirks at the time. Like how fascinated I was with rules… I’d roll my eyes at them, pretend to hate them, but secretly I thrived on the structure. Or how obsessed I was with characters in books or movies who were called “little one” or “princess” in this protective-but-firm way

I didn’t think of any of this as kink at the time…I mean, which teenager was? But now, when I connect the dots, it’s so clear that all those little fixations were the building blocks. They hinted at the submissive side of me, at my craving for structure, at my desire to be cared for but also challenged.

Looking back now, I kind of laugh at myself. Like, of course I ended up here. The signs were written all over my teenage obsessions. It wasn’t random… it was me, all along, quietly gravitating toward exactly the kind of dynamic that makes me feel alive today.

Xoxo

Nirvana

How I Discovered I Was Kinky

If I had to name the moment when I realized I was kinky, I’d have to admit it came from the most cliché place possible: Fifty Shades of Grey.

I was in high school when a friend mentioned the book to me. By then, I was already a hardcore smut romance reader, thanks to Wattpad. That was my secret world, where I spent hours soaking up stories that went far beyond the innocent “boy meets girl” plots everyone else around me seemed obsessed with. So when my friend whispered about this scandalous book, I was curious. I got my hands on it, read the first one in record time, then tore through the second and third like my life depended on it.

I was hooked. Not just in the “this is spicy” way, but in the “something deep inside me feels alive” way.

There’s one memory that still makes me laugh: I was sitting in an exam hall, waiting to write English Paper 3, which is creative writing, "oh the irony".There was still an hour to go before the exam was to start, and instead of quietly revising like a good student, I pulled out my copy of Fifty Shades. My English teacher, who was moderating the exam, walked past my desk. She was a woman who loved literature with her whole soul, and I could see it on her face when she spotted my book. She picked it up, flipped it over, and the look of pure disappointment she gave me was unforgettable. She didn’t even have to say a word...the disapproving head shake she gave as she set the book down and walked away said everything.

Most people would’ve been mortified and shoved the book into their bag. Me? I kept right on reading. Because by then, nothing could stop me. That’s how much it pulled me in.

And it wasn’t just the books. I went on to watch all three movies, and...don’t laugh...alongside The Sound of Music, the Fifty Shades trilogy has become my comfort films. They’re still ones I can put on and sink into like a cozy blanket. But if I’m honest, Fifty Shades was only the spark. The truth is, I had already been circling these ideas for years.

On Wattpad, I was devouring stories that now I realize were all about BDSM dynamics...I just didn’t have the language yet. I would fall in love with the plots where a broken girl, scarred by life, would be taken in by a Daddy Dom who nurtured her with gentleness, calling her “little one” while giving her the safety and structure she craved. Or the rebellious teen who was on the wrong path in life and somehow found herself over a Doms knee everytime she rolled her eyes, punished with firm but caring discipline. Those stories weren’t just entertaining; they made me ache in a way I couldn’t explain. I didn’t know why I kept rereading them, but they resonated with me in a way nothing else did.

When I discovered Fifty Shades, it was like someone finally gave me a vocabulary for the feelings I’d had all along. Suddenly, what I thought was “just me being weird” had names: D/s, DDlg, bondage, control, rules, structure. It wasn’t just about the sex. It was about trust, power, safety, ritual, and intensity all woven together. The contrast of discipline and tenderness, of structure and surrender, made me feel whole. Like I had finally stumbled into a world where my fantasies weren’t only possible....but accepted.

I wouldn’t say Fifty Shades alone made me kinky. But it was the first time I saw myself reflected in something outside of my own imagination. It put a face, a story, and a definition to the secret world I’d been carrying inside me. From there, I dove deeper, exploring more stories, more blogs, and eventually the BDSM community itself.

So yes, my origin story is cliché. But it’s mine. And when I look back now, I see that teenage girl reading in the exam hall with her teacher glaring down at her, and I smile. Because she had no idea then that the book in her hands wasn’t just a guilty pleasure...it was the doorway to a part of herself she’d keep uncovering for years to come.

And i am proud and glad to be kinky because i would not have it any other way

Xoxo

Nirvana

 What are your kinks?

Okay, so let’s talk kinks. This is always the fun part because it feels like pulling the curtain back and saying, “Here’s what actually makes me tick.” And trust me, there’s a lot that makes me tick. Some of it is playful, some of it is dark, and some of it is just… well, complicated. But that’s what makes it interesting.

First and foremost, I live for power exchange. That’s the heartbeat of everything I do in kink. There’s something so DEVINE about giving up control...not because I’m weak or incapable, but because I choose to. That moment of saying, “Here, I trust you enough to hold this for me,” is ridiculously hot. It makes me feel small, safe, and free all at once. But don’t get me wrong, I can be stubborn as hell about it too. Part of me loves the game of testing, pushing, and then finally giving in. That push-pull is half the fun.

Impact play? Yep, that’s definitely on my list. Spanking isn’t just a slap on the ass for me, a wooden spoon or paddle hitting my bare ass. It’s about the build-up, the anticipation, the sound ringing in my ears. It makes me feel present and grounded. And depending on the mood, it can be playful (me giggling and wiggling away) or serious (me being reminded exactly who’s in charge). Both sides turn me on in different ways.

Restraint and bondage are another huge thing. Whether it’s rope, cuffs, or just a strong hand pinning me down, being held in place does something to my brain I can’t even fully explain. It forces me to stop fighting, stop overthinking, and just exist in the moment. That loss of control is intoxicating, even when I pretend to resist it. Actually… especially when I pretend to resist it.

Psychological kinks? Oh, I have plenty. Consensual non-consent is a big one. There’s this thrill in dancing on the line between “no” and “yes,” knowing that underneath it all, I’m still safe. The mind games, the intensity, the roleplay... it all feeds into that craving I have for being overpowered but protected at the same time. It’s scary and hot, which is exactly why it works.

And then there’s the softer stuff....praise, structure, rules, rituals. The nurturing side of kink is just as big for me as the rough side. I love being guided, cared for, and even spoiled a little (okay, maybe a lot). Hearing “good girl” will never not melt me into a puddle. But here’s the bratty part: as much as I crave structure, I also love breaking the rules just to see what happens. When i do it, its not about disrespect; it’s about the thrill of being caught and the intimacy of that little battle of wills.

So, what are my kinks...in a nutshell? They’re a mix of rough and gentle, dark and soft, playful and serious. Together they tell the story of who I am as a submissive: someone who wants to surrender, be challenged, be cared for, and yes, sometimes get away with being just a little bit naughty.

Xoxo
Nirvana

Dom, sub, switch? What Parts of BDSM Interest You? Give us an interesting in-depth definition of what that means to you. Basically define your kinky self.

If I had to put a label on myself in kink, I’d say I’m a submissive and little. That feels like the most accurate and honest description. But it’s not a flat, one-size-fits-all kind of label…for me it’s layered, textured, and very personal. For me, submission isn’t about weakness or blind obedience. It’s about deliberately choosing to hand over power, and in that choice, I discover a different kind of strength.

What draws me in is the balance between structure and freedom. On the surface, it might look like I’m giving something up. But when I allow myself to follow someone’s lead… someone I trust, someone who has earned that place…I actually gain something much bigger. I gain peace. I gain freedom. I gain safety. I gain the ability to step out of my own head and stop trying to control everything all the time. Submission, to me, feels like exhaling after holding my breath for too long.

That doesn’t mean I can’t stand on my own… I can, and I do. But there’s a side of me that lights up when I can lean into someone stronger, steadier, and more demanding of me. Submission feels like a softening into myself, where I don’t have to carry every burden or be the one steering every decision. It’s not just about play. Yes, the sting of impact, the excitement of being told to kneel, the intimacy of rituals, and the physical thrill of surrender. But what keeps me in kink is the emotional and psychological side. I love what those physical acts mean. Rope isn’t just rope…it’s the experience of being held. Impact isn’t just pain… it’s a conversation between trust and vulnerability and all the space in between.

It is about the transcending unspeakable and profoundly deep connection and devotion present in a dynamic. Rituals aren’t just rules or completing tasks… they’re grounding anchors that remind me I’m cared for and claimed. These things aren’t just sensations; they create connection. That’s the part I can’t get enough of.

I wouldn’t say I am completely a switch but do have my moments where it comes out. I am however a BRAT and boy oh boy is it fun, and I’ve learned to love it. It’s not about wanting to be blatantly disobedient, but about enjoying the push-and-pull, the spark of playful resistance. Sometimes I poke at rules, not because I want to break them, but because I want the thrill of being pulled back in. That mischievousness makes me feel more deeply seen and cared for, and it keeps my submission fun and alive. And being put in my place ..welp who would say no to that lol

Beside my deeply submissive side and bratiness…there lies a little. Soft, cute, playful and always eager to please. When I first entered into kink I started off as a little but at the time being a little and trying to understand myself and what I was feeling was a bit too much for me to handle at the time and I hide her away. It is only in the last few months that I gave her a chance, and I’m glad I did. Our favourite little pastime would have to be Bluey, whether it is watching it, or colouring in. we are trying too build our stuffie collection, we currently have 2, CupCake and Sparkles and we are hoping to make a big stuffie army to take over the world!

The more I explore, the more I realize that being a submissive isn’t something I “do”.. it’s part of who I am. I crave structure, I crave connection, and I crave the grounding feeling of giving myself over to someone I can trust. Kink gives me all of that in a way nothing else does. It doesn’t make me less it actually makes me feel more: more woman, more whole, more alive, more free.

So if I had to define my kinky self, I’d say this: I am a submissive who finds strength in surrender, freedom in structure, and intimacy in power exchange. I’m still learning, still growing, but I know this part of me is real. It’s not just play… it’s a truth I carry, and a journey I’m walking one step at a time.

That is the kinky self I’m choosing to grow into, day by day.

Xoxo
Nirvana

The bedroom was caught in the half-light between day and night. Sunset bled through the curtains in slow, ribbons of red and orange that painted everything with a molten glow; the room felt like the inside of a flame. A low, wordless music threaded the air, a pulse behind the pulse of their hearts, low and sensual, curled through the air like incense, weaving its rhythm into the stillness.

The bottle of oil in her hands was warm enough that the heat felt like permission. She stood with oil in her hands, her fingers trembling not from nerves, but reverence. Warm, slick, fragrant. It pooled across her palms like liquid sunlight. Each drop was smoothed across his skin with devotion. She pressed it into his chest first, spreading in broad circles, her fingertips lingering at the slope of his collarbone. Every kiss she placed was both soft and deliberate…one at the hollow of his throat, one over his heart, another against the curve of his ribs. The oil glistened where her lips had been, and the room seemed to hum louder with every offering. Once she was done, she took a step back and clasped her hands behind her back as trained.

His gaze was fixed on her now bowed head. Taking in her skin, the rise and fall of her chest as she waited for what was next. “Turn around,” he said with finality, and she did exactly that. “Hands Up,” he said, voice steady, commanding. She obeyed, arms lifting overhead like a prayer. He poured oil into his hands, rubbing them together before touching her fingertips. His thumbs moved with ritual slowness, tracing each finger down to the palm. He kissed the inside of her wrist, the hollow of her elbow, the curve of her shoulder.

“You are radiant. You deserve this. You belong. Breathe with me.”

He worked lower, massaging oil into the length of her arms and collarbones, lips grazing the oiled path, voice threading affirmations into her skin like vows. His arms moved lower…down her back, over her ass, between her legs. By the time he finished, her body felt not just touched but consecrated.

He made his way around her and sat himself at the foot of the bed and watched her for what felt like a lifetime. His eyes were burning with something unspeakable as he watched her…the setting sun casting a golden glow on her already glistening skin, the way she tried to rub her thighs together, he saw it all. He pulled her onto his lap, the grip around her waist painfully tight. She straddled him, thighs gripping his waist, their bodies aligned like two halves of a single thought, foreheads pressed together. The world contracted to their eyes, their breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. He set the rhythm, guiding her to mirror him: four counts in, hold, six counts out. Their breath tangled until it felt like a single body inhaling itself. Her chest rose and fell against his, and the stillness grew so charged that it buzzed between them like a taut string ready to snap.

Then he shifted. His strength spun her onto the bed in one fluid motion. And in the blink of an eye, a coil of rope coiled around her wrists…rough, fibrous, smelling faintly of earth. He tied with precision, pulling the knots firm but careful, his thumb pressing the circulation points, checking her skin. “Safe?” he asked, voice low against her ear. She nodded, and he tugged once more, securing her wrists to the bedpost. The rope didn’t just restrain; it framed her, drew lines of surrender across her body.

His touch turned mercurial. At times, his hands pressed deep into her muscles, kneading, grounding her body into the mattress. At others, his fingertips barely skimmed, raising goosebumps like whispers. A sharp spank landed against her thigh…not brutal, but enough to jolt her breath. Before the sting could bloom fully, his palm soothed it, slow circles, a kiss against the same spot. Pain braided with solace, and suddenly the two could not be separated; the two were an offering and a response. She let out a sound that was part laugh, part surrender…”You deserve everything I am about to give to you.”

“Feel everything. Stay here with me.” The cadence of their breathing grew urgent as he hovered above her. His lips brushed her ear, his words slow, deliberate. Then, like an answered prayer, he oh so gently slid inside her. Slow as if he was telling her we had all the time in the world, “Let me feel you,” he said as one hand slid between her breasts to grip her throat, and the other grabbed her hip. And just like that, he began. Slow, deep thrusts that caused shallow gasps and whimpers to fall from her mouth. She never left his eyes…they were fixed on him, and his were fixed on her. Even when he would pull all the way out and thrust back in, their eyes never left each other.

He hovered over her, his forehead resting on hers. She breathed in what he breathed out, and he breathed in what she breathed out. She was part of the rhythm, her hips moved with his…meeting his slow thrusts. Her hands ached to touch him…” I want to touch you” was all she said, and he let her. Reaching over, he undid the knots, and before her hand was even fully free, she wrapped them around his neck. Rubbing and dragging her palms across his back. She reached for his hands and held them as his thrusts got deeper…she allowed her eyes to close as her head fell backwards in bliss.

“Inhale when I take… exhale when I give. Let me inside your breath. Let me inside your body. Let me inside your soul.” He guided the ritual of their union the way a priest keeps tempo: slow invocation, measured pressure, breath as prayer. Each movement they made together was matched to inhalations and exhalations. Inhale as he leaned in, exhale as she softened into him. He threaded words between each breath, not empty praise but anchors. “You are seen. You are held. You are mine.” The repetition turned his voice into a rope of its own, winding around her until she could not tell what was what.

When the turning point arrived it did not explode so much as break open. The sensation rose, a building tide that made her ribs hollow and then stretch…something temporal that pulled sensation into focus until it became almost too bright to bear. Her breath stuttered, then broke, and tears welled hot at the corners of her eyes as release tore through her in waves…a climax so consuming it emptied her, then filled her with something unnameable. He stayed with her through it, eyes locked on hers, guiding her breath back to steadiness. When the tears spilled, he kissed them away, murmuring against her damp cheeks.

“You are safe. You are enough. You are mine. Always.” The affirmations fell like soft cloth over her trembling body, wrapping her tighter than any rope ever could. He pulled her into his chest, stroking her hair, rocking her gently as she drifted down from the high. Their breathing returned to one rhythm again…slower, softer now.

After, the world was a wash of afterlight and quiet. They lay tangled: one arm over shoulders, a forehead resting on a chest, breath slowing from flamed cadence back toward a steady shore. Words still tumbled between them, but softer now…assessments and worship, the tidy suturing of two people reknitting. He murmured practical things as well as tender ones: Drink. Stay. You did well. She clung to the sound of his voice like a map home.

Outside, the sunset completed its arc and the red shifted to twilight. Inside, the air smelled of oil and rope and skin and the faint residue of incense...a room that had been consecrated for the span of an evening. The heat had burned out to embers; the glow remained, slow and sure, and in that steady warmth they rested. The music faded into silence, but the room still hummed with the imprint of what had just passed: devotion, surrender, and the alchemy of two souls daring to meet without armour.

Affirmations on their own can feel like simple positive thinking. But when I pair them with my breath, with stillness, with awareness of how the words move through my body, they shift into something else. They become tantric. It’s intimacy with myself. It’s the union between word, breath, body, and spirit. So this practice isn’t just a list of affirmations. It’s a ritual of remembering who I am, even when life tries to make me forget.

This past week has been one big poop show. In fact, if I sat down and counted the cracks, I’d run out of fingers. Life pressed, tugged, pulled me in directions that didn’t always feel kind. But still...despite everything...I decided I’m going to hold on to the one thing I can choose: POSITIVITY.

And so I began a simple practice. A ritual of breath, word, and awareness. Feel free to do it as well.

🌬️ Inhale deeply. Feel your chest rise.
🌬️ Exhale slowly. Let your shoulders fall.

✨ Inhale: I am free.
✨ Exhale: I release what cages me.

✨ Inhale: I am divine.
✨ Exhale: I return to my sacred self.

✨ Inhale: I am strong.
✨ Exhale: I ground into the strength of earth.

✨ Inhale: I am resilient.
✨ Exhale: I bend, but I do not break.

✨ Inhale: I am brave.
✨ Exhale: My heart stays open.

✨ Inhale: I am courageous.
✨ Exhale: My body carries me forward.

These words are a reminder. A reminder that even when my voice trembles, I still speak. Even when my knees wobble, I still stand. Even when my heart aches, it still beats with purpose.

Sometimes I laughed at myself, because I must have sounded like a broken record. Like some scratchy vinyl replaying the same line. But maybe that’s the beauty of it all. They loop, they repeat, they remind you of the melody you might forget when the world is too loud.

And so continue to hold onto my melody this week. My own vintage soundtrack of resilience.

I am FREE.
I am divine.
I am strong.
I am resilient.
I am brave.
I am courageous.

I am everything I need to be, and I will continue to be all of these things...Not because life has been easy. But because I am here. Despite everything, I am still here.

Xoxo
Nirvanva

Week Two
Sunday: How do I express pleasure in non-sexual ways?
For me, pleasure lives in the little things...like the feeling of warm water hitting my back in the shower, or a warm cup of rooibos tea on a cold morning. It’s putting on body lotion slowly, not because I’m rushing to get out the house, but because it feels good to glide my hands over my skin, and feel ME!

I’m laughing so hard I snort...more like the hyenas from Lion King. It’s blasting music and dancing around. It’s being silly with someone I love and not having to perform or explain why I am the way I am. IT'S LAUGHING AT MY OWN JOKES....Pleasure doesn’t always have to be sexual. Sometimes, it’s just letting myself enjoy something fully, without guilt or needing it to “mean” anything. I think the more I allow myself to feel good in these small, everyday ways, the more safety I’m building in my body to receive pleasure in bigger ways, too.

Monday: What physical sensations do I notice most often?
Tension. Let’s start there. My shoulders are always tight. My jaw clenches even when I sleep. My belly? Usually knotted up or held in. I catch myself in this low-key state of bracing, like I’m preparing for something...without even knowing what that “something” is.

But when I do slow down, I notice other things too. Like how my thighs feel when I'm sitting cross-legged. How the fabric of my shirt brushes against my arms. How my breath gets shallow when I’m anxious, and how I can feel my heartbeat in my throat when I get excited. Or how I slightly stick out my tongue when I am focusing.

I’m learning that these sensations are messengers. That my body has a whole language, and I’ve just been ignoring the vocabulary. The goal isn’t to control the sensations...but more so to notice them. To let them tell me what I need. And then maybe… to actually listen. I think realising that my body is BODY (like it's a living thing...if that makes sense)...i think i was just living in some sort of limbo or disconnect from my body. I did not realise that it is MY body and it feels things...tells me what it needs etc. 

Tuesday: How do I nurture myself emotionally?
That’s still a work in progress. LOTS of it. I, for one, am still teaching myself not to dismiss my own emotions. Which is proving to be rather difficult but we push forward. 

Sometimes I nurture myself by just saying, “Yeah… this is hard,” instead of trying to force myself to be okay. I let myself cry when it builds up. I journal. I vent. I let my voice notes be messy and long and full of thoughts that don’t connect perfectly...and I send them anyway. I comfort myself...which feels so validating...in that instance, I allow myself to be sad/angry/mean/frustrated and i feel much better than i would have had i i tried to tell myself that i am overeating or it is not a big deal, etc. 

I also give myself softness in practical ways. Cleaning my room when my mind is chaotic. Making something nice to eat, not because I have to, but because it makes me feel cared for. Taking naps when I know I’m emotionally exhausted, not just physically. Allowing myself to take breaks from people/friends/family without feeling guilty or the need to explain why. 

Nurturing myself emotionally means not abandoning myself when I’m triggered. It means saying, “You’re allowed to feel this” instead of, “You should’ve known better.” And I don’t always get it right...But I notice the shift when I do. My whole body thanks me. i feel better...even though the situation is not resolved or anything, but me simply feeling better helps me handle it better.

Wednesday: What fears do I have around intimacy?
Whew. Deep breath. I am not a fan of this one...*womp womp*...I think my biggest fear is being fully seen and then... being left. That someone will witness the softest, most tender parts of me and decide it’s “too much.” Or worse...not enough. Intimacy is so fuzzy for me...i have a lot of mostly fearful thoughts about it. I think mainly because of past experiences.

I’m scared of opening up and then being met with silence...rejection. I fear repeating the past...where I gave too much, loved too loudly, trusted too soon. Where I tried to be easy to love, and still wasn’t chosen....There’s also a fear of being trapped. That if I get too close, I won’t be able to leave even if something doesn’t feel right. That I’ll stay out of loyalty or fear of starting over.

So yeah...intimacy feels beautiful and terrifying. I want it so badly...I want to be known, seen, and heard in deeply profound intimate way… but it’s wrapped in all these quiet fears I’m still unlearning. I’m working on holding those fears gently. Not letting them run the show. Just noticing them… and choosing softness anyway.

Thursday: How do I feel about being vulnerable with my partner?
If I had to sum it up in one word? Scared. But also craving it. It is along the same lines of my sentiment to intimacy.

Vulnerability used to feel natural to me. Now it feels earned. Like I need to test the waters first, make sure they’re really safe before I open up. And sometimes, by the time I feel “safe,” the moment has passed. And I’m left wondering if I missed out by guarding myself...But I want to be vulnerable. I want to be able to say, “This hurt me” without feeling dramatic. To say, “I need you” without feeling weak. To show the unfiltered, messy parts of myself and still be held.

So, how do I feel? Hesitant. Hopeful. And still learning what it looks like to let someone see me without needing to manage how they receive it. That is my biggest thing how the person will receive it...i am scared of being vulnerable because i am scared of what the person i am telling will think. "What if it offends them...what if i sound needy...what i come across as someone with a lot of baggage". That’s the edge I’m standing on...wanting to be met there, without flinching.

Friday: What does "sacred sexuality" mean to me?
Sacred sexuality, for me, isn’t about aesthetics or performance. It’s about presence...The intimacy that feels honest. Where I don’t have to suck in my stomach or arch my back just right. Where I can laugh, cry, moan, breathe, and still feel desired...It’s when sex becomes a meeting place...not just of bodies, but of energy... intention...mutual care.

Sacred sexuality is when I feel safe enough to let go. When the experience isn’t about doing things to each other, but with each other. Where I’m not performing softness, I am softness. I’m not chasing connection...I’m in it. And even though I’m not always in that space right now, it’s what I’m working toward. A version of intimacy that honors both me and the moment.

Saturday: How do I connect to my breathing during intimacy?
To be honest? I forget to. I want to....but I often get too in my head, too focused on the other person, too worried about how I look or sound. My breath gets shallow, stuck in my chest. Sometimes I even hold it without realizing. I am so in my head...there are so many thoughts floating around in there..and i am trying to get myself to be present that I miss the breathing part altogether. 

But when I do remember to breathe? Everything shifts. My body softens. My mind quiets. I feel more… here. And I think that’s the goal...not perfect performance, just presence. Breathing is what brings me back into the moment when my mind tries to run ahead. So I’m working on that...on *cumming* (wink wink) back to breath during intimacy, not just when I meditate or do breathwork.  But it is where I can remember that I’m not just in the act....I’m in my body, too.

A Little Softer Every Day:

Week Two is done, and honestly? I’m proud of myself.

This week felt deeper. More intimate. Not just with others, but with me. These questions pulled things out of me I didn’t even know I was holding. They reminded me that I’m still learning what it means to slow down, to trust my body, and to allow pleasure and softness to show up in ways I don’t always expect. Some days felt light. Some felt heavier. But through it all, I felt present. That’s progress.

Here's to week 2 and onto week 3

Xoxo

Nirvana