Sun salutations this morning with the doors wide open. Felt the sea breeze on my bare skin and remembered why I stopped wearing clothes in this house years ago. There’s a profound power in not giving a fuck what the neighbours might think.

It got me thinking about a conversation I had at my workshop yesterday. A lovely young woman, so timid, asked how I got so comfortable in my own skin. I told her it started when I stopped seeing my stretch marks as flaws and started seeing them as a map of a life well-lived. The ones on my hips from carrying my children. The ones on my breasts from years of changing and feeding and loving.

Then there are the other marks. The faint scratches from a lover’s stubble on my inner thighs. The memory of a bite on my shoulder that made me cum harder than I thought possible. This body has been a vessel for creation, for pleasure, for grief, for ecstasy. Every crease and curve has a story.

I don't moisturise to look younger. I oil my skin to honour it. To make it glisten in the afternoon sun that streams into my bedroom. To feel my own hands sliding over my belly, my cunt, my heavy tits, and to remember that pleasure is my birthright at any age.

Your body is not a problem to be solved. It is the home you will live in for your entire life. Decorate it with love, with touch, with the memories of hands that have worshipped it. And if no one is worshipping it right now, for God's sake, worship it yourself.

Now, who's for a cuppa? ☕️