Her Mother Tongue

This is not click bait.

Honestly, I am shocked to find out so many women have not experienced orgasm. It makes me feel tingly between my legs to even say the word. An orgasm is one of my favorite feelings next kissing baby cheeks, the first bite of nigiri or balancing a silky cappuccino out to a sunlit table.

I have always been sexually curious, erotic. I wondered what it meant to be a woman. To be alive.

I’d sip Shirley temples and eat buckets of clams at the restaurant my mom worked at while she finished her shift. With the sweet-sour smell of bread baskets lingering in the air, I learned to roll hot silverware into thick fabric napkins and chat with solo bar patrons on their way to this business meetings. I sparkled in their eyes, bob headed and big smiled, a born entertainer.

I was mostly alone, bored and playing make believe in my head. I taught myself to read off billboards and out of books that lay around our house; my pelvic bone pushing into the floor. I began to notice the good feeling when I wiggled side to side. Fully present with the feelings in my body. Unsure where this burning would take me.

Our bodies are feeling things. They are eating things. They are crying things and they are dying things. And in between those first cries and last breaths we get to live. We get to drink cold water after a long walk. We get to kiss. We get to feel.

Are you holding your breath right now? Or breathing so shallow you aren’t aware you are a body? Did you taste your lunch or just count the macros? Did you eat? Or just choke down the last three Chik Fil A nuggets your kids didn’t eat. Did you create? or just consume, following affiliate links to find what the world, or an influencer, tells you to love? Does your heart break; over the violent vulnerability of it all?

Mine sure does. Grief consumes me often. And luckily, so does joy. I try and remind myself where I am, what luck I have. This might be the only moment, and here again, this one. We have the honor of experiencing this life. All of its joy and all of its pain. Our bodies are meant to feel. The more we sink into this ability in our body the deeper our awareness of ourselves becomes. This intuitive power in our body is a superpower. It allows us to move into alignment. It allows us to be creative. It ebbs and flows with new ways to discover ourselves. Change is inevitable. We are not a project. We are alive.

Orgasm, sex, our erotic senses are powerful. As you move into this connection with yourself you will be more intuitive. Unfortunately, our sexuality is layered with shame, trauma and self-abandonment. We deny our body. So fully in some cases we can hardly feel, hardly taste, hardly see.

This also prevents us from fully loving. Our inability to connect with our own pleasure prevents us from revealing it to others. We wall up, we hide and we protect ourselves from love.

Become aware of your body. Breathe in slowly through your nose and fill your chest, now your belly, now your gut, into your reproductive organs. You are alive and your body wants to feel alive. Ask yourself where you are hiding from yourself and others. Where are you rushing through this moment or protecting yourself from its beauty.

Our challenge is to reconnect and ground ourselves as so much of our world seeks to pull us away from ourselves.

My somatic challenge for you today is to be alone, turn on a sensual playlist, something that makes you feel alive. This is my favorite right now. Stretch, touch your body, sink into a hot tub, touch yourself. Your challenge is to find pleasure in your body. Massage your own neck, sink into a stretch in your hips, make yourself moan, breathe.

<3 Always, Felicia

I am finally back. It has been a long year full of learning and I am excited to share it with you.

To kick us off, as promised and promised, I finally gather the courage to express my feelings about plastic surgery and my sub fascial breast augmentation.

I hope that what I learned can guide you if you are making a similar choice or battling some of the same questions in your head.

I dive into my journey from perky boobs of my youth through nursing, losing volume, and wanting to feel more at home in my body again. The decision to get implants. The consults.

And what happened after.

The physical sensations. The complications. The exhaustion of holding something in your body that doesn’t feel right. The emotional weight of navigating that while raising kids, working, and moving through a divorce.

About what happens when women make intimate decisions about their bodies inside systems that don’t always slow down, listen, or account for the full reality of our experience.

And what it costs to override your own knowing.

Most relationships aren’t starved for sex—they’re starved for attunement. In this kickoff, we unpack why “I don’t want sex” often means “I don’t feel safely, slowly, specifically known.” The episode opens with a real call from a friend questioning divorce, then moves through safety rituals, curiosity as foreplay, and “mother-grade noticing” you can practice tonight. “I’m not into sex” often means: I don’t feel safe, seen, or specifically known. We address why we need to connect first and why it’s not asking for a lot. Want to know me! Don’t ask me to open my body before you open my mind.

What you’ll learn

Why “I don’t want sex” often means “I don’t feel safely, slowly, specifically known.”

Performance vs presence: date-night checkboxes vs reading the body.

Consent as architecture (negotiate → check-ins → aftercare).

“Mother spidey senses” for everyone: notice need before words.

Self-knowledge first: the Gesture Glossary + a 60-sec self-scan.

Try one of these tonightOne slow kiss (no goal)

• One real question you don’t know the answer to

• One sensory upgrade (light/music/scent)

• Ask: “What helped your body breathe?”

Pull quotes

“We’re not asking for more performance. We’re asking for attunement.”

“Safety didn’t kill the thrill—it made the risk taste like freedom.”

“Curiosity is foreplay.”

“Know your tells to read theirs.”

Felicia traces the quiet deaths we live through—leaving a home, shedding an identity, choosing motherhood and self at once. From fallen leaves to umbilical cords, she explores how change asks us to release control, face pain, and tell the truth about who we are becoming.

Key Themes:

Micro-deaths: identity, place, and roles

Change as nature’s law (trees, decomposition, renewal)

The umbilical cord as a metaphor for attachment and release

Pain as a necessary passage—not a bypassable step

Christ as exemplar vs. outsourced savior

Integrity as daily practice: tiny honest moves

Listener Takeaways:

Notice where you’re clinging; name one cord you can loosen today

Choose one small act of integrity and do it before the day ends

Reframe pain as the doorway to alignment, not a detour

Felicia explores the everyday altar of motherhood—where care becomes love when it’s shared, not hoarded. Through a Dark Goddess lens (Dancing in the Flames), she reframes “self-sacrifice” as a broken cauldron and argues for boundaries, shared labor, and the courage to receive as prerequisites for giving. Pop-culture moments (a “Gatsby gala,” The Hunger Games, and “They were careless people”) help teach our kids what not to emulate—and what to build instead.

What you’ll hear:

Children as initiations, not nuisances

The altar vs. the martyr: why love requires reciprocity

Grief, regret, and the tenderness of shared care

The Dark Goddess as a guide to wholeness (laundry-room altars, Baba Yaga questions)

Why boundaries, rest, and pleasure keep the “cauldron” from cracking

Teaching discernment in a spectacle-driven culture

References & resources:

Marion Woodman & Elinor Dickson, Dancing in the Flames: The Dark Goddess in the Transformation of Consciousness

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (“They were careless people…”)

Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (the Capitol as spectacle)

Takeaways:

Caring is love’s teacher—but only when it’s shared.

You can’t pour from an empty body; you also can’t pour if you never receive.

Ordinary rooms can be altars; ordinary tasks can be rituals.

Our magic isn’t gone—it’s waiting for a stronger pot.

If this moved you, share it with one friend who’s carrying too much—and subscribe on Substack for essays, early drops, and members-only conversations.

Felicia reflects on the question, “Why did you get divorced?” and traces an answer through embodied pleasure, the deadness she refused, and the ways women’s sexuality is outsourced and commodified. An intimate meditation on erotic aliveness, consent, and coming home to the Divinity inside our cells.

Key Takeaways

Self-pleasure can be a practice of presence, not performance.

Women’s sexuality is often commodified and policed; liberation must be self-owned, not traded.

Erotic aliveness counters numbness and “deadness,” reconnecting imagination, emotion, and sensation.

Safety is the precondition for opening; the body tells the truth first.

Halloween, divorce, and the everyday test of wills. In this tender solo, Felicia invites us into the messy middle—the school parade you weren’t ready for, the “you’re so strong” comments that land sideways, and the private moments where the storm threatens to rip you to pieces. This is an episode about soul-holding: tiny acts that keep us human when the to-do list stretches to infinity. Not a bypass. Not grit theatre. Practice.

We talk about: letting pain move so it doesn’t poison you; why one small action unlocks big ones; how to “do what I can and let go of what I can’t”; and the quiet grace of being held—by a brother’s “I got you, sis,” by a hug, by your own steady breath.

If you’re walking through something hard today, come sit with this one.

Felicia traces a lineage of women who never rested grandmother, mother, herself—and the moment she burned down a “perfect” life to make space for truth. This is a tender, feral meditation on rest, eros, and the inner girl who only appears when she’s loved. A rebel’s theology of transformation, usable, embodied, a little dangerous.

Episode Highlights

The women who never sat down: inherited hustle, tender pride, and the cost of being “good.”

The pedestal and the cage: how “perfect wife/mother” scripts sanctify our exhaustion.

On virgin myths and hidden bodies: why purity culture tries to sterilize the erotic.

The fire moment: choosing truth over optics and watching the old house burn.

Meeting the inner fairy: rescuing the malnourished self from the cave.

Rest as resistance: moving from self-betrayal to self-belonging.

Boundaries as mercy; desire as compass; devotion as daily, embodied practice.

Mary Magdalene’s subversive gospel: the treasure is within; rules without love are cages.

Learning to be seen without apologizing—and the holy art of posting, deleting, and trying again.

What it means to mother four souls while re-mothering yourself.

Who this episode is for

Women who are tired of being the exhibit of “having it all,” mothers who feel guilty for wanting more, ex-good girls, and anyone ready to trade performance for presence.

Listener Takeaways

A simple reframe: “I don’t need to be better; I need to belong to myself.”

A mini-practice for rest you’ll actually do (bath, sun, nap, movement, kiss, post, delete, try again).

One permission slip: Your desire isn’t the problem, it’s the map.

Today’s devotional wrestles with where—or if—God lives, and why the body was my first church. I talk about hiding from “knowing” with busy perfection, getting brought to my knees, and the strange alchemy where the pain of alignment expands our capacity for joy. If “up-there God” never worked for you, this one’s for you.

Timestamps

Coffee + confession: “I don’t believe in an up-there God.”

The gendered God problem; why a half-God can’t hold a whole life

The body as the beginning: tight, trapped, spinning wheels

How I hid from knowing (babies, birthdays, busy)

Letting myself out: color floods back, but so does shadow

Pain as teacher: brought to my knees until I listened

The equation: capacity to hold pain = capacity to receive joy

If prayer never fit, try presence: “God as the love I house”