feel good while not feeling great
staying soft when your instinct is to shatter
This past year cracked me open.
My father died.
I became the kind of adult who handled hospice paperwork in the morning and tried to remember to drink water in the afternoon.
I still don’t have the words for all of it.
But what I do know is this: when everything else felt out of reach, small pleasures were the only things that tethered me to my body.
When I wrote my book, the central thesis was:
How does someone come back to pleasure within themselves?
How can we go from the inside out to navigate everything the world throws at us?
I wrote from the perspective of a capital-F, capital-G Fat Girl with an unrelenting self-esteem issue that made even the simplest pleasures—like a soft bath towel—feel like too much for me.
It took years.
A lot of therapy.
Way too many crop tops.
[I finally figured out my style and it is absolutely not crop tops.]
But eventually I understood: I don’t have to settle.
I do get to work on myself in the way that feels right for me.
I do get to feel good in this body.
And that’s final.
Before that? I felt too much.
So I made my existence, my opportunities, my comforts... non-existent.
All to avoid taking up space.
And I’m not talking about the big sexy pleasures here—
The double-penetrative orgasms.
The lovers ready to go down on you at a moment’s notice.
The spontaneous trip to Italy.
I’m talking about the quiet, slow, nothing-to-prove pleasures.
The ones that whisper, You’re still here. You deserve softness.
Even when you’re hurting.
Maybe especially then.
It’s wild that we don’t believe that.
Or maybe never learned it.
But the more I look around, the more I see:
We were not taught we’re allowed to feel good.
This newsletter has always been a bit of a diary, with a few tips and tricks sprinkled in. Like—as if I’m going to lie and say I didn’t want to be plus-size Carrie Bradshaw.
I did.
I do.
Just without the Manolos (I can barely walk in flats).
And now, I want to offer you a few things:
Something to reach for when the brain demons tell you you’re not good enough.
Something to ground you.
Something that reminds you of your own aliveness.
You deserve to sway in your kitchen again.
To take a shower that feels luxurious.
To reach for the vibrator that might flicker you back to life—or lull you into the deepest, most delicious sleep.
Here are some simple practices to help you stay close to your sensual self—even just for a moment.
Even if you're not ready for joy.
This is about feeling.
Not fixing.
Let’s begin.
Art And What Happens When You Let It Be Ugly
I really believe in art as a practice that evens things out. But so many of us have art fear—that invisible wall that stops us from making anything at all. I used to feel it all the time. Honestly, sometimes I still do.
But when you slow down and just make something—anything—without worrying if it’s good or worth sharing, the act of creating itself can shift something inside you. Even the tiniest gesture can bring a little joy.
You never run out of creativity. The more you make, the more creative you feel. That scary feeling of “what if I can’t?” starts to slip away.
I have a mixed media notebook I use for color pulls. It’s nothing fancy—just blobs of paint smeared around with a plastic ruler. The point is to make a habit out of making.
It doesn’t have to be good. It just has to exist.
Here are a few of my first ones.
If a tree is nature, and the flowers are nature, and the sky is nature—then so are you.
And we don’t get mad at a tree for not growing fast enough.
We don’t shame a flower for not blooming yet.
We don’t yell at the sky when it’s not the exact color we want.
Everything in nature takes the time it needs. You’re the same.
Things are shifting, even if you can’t see it yet.
This not-great feeling? It’s not forever.
It’ll pass through. Just stay with yourself until it does. You’re not doing it wrong. You’re just moving at your own pace.
A note: I know I sound a bit woo. Good. Loving the woo for me. Life if both devastating and beautiful. I have seen it be devastating. I have been devastating by it. So all I can do is run towards the beauty.
For When You Feel Invisible, or Unfuckable
Lately, I’ve been reading Thich Nhat Hanh’s books on meditation. There’s something so real about the way he speaks to suffering.
Not in a “get over it” way, but in a “sit with it gently” way.
I’ve started practicing what he calls conscious breathing in moments when I feel especially untethered, or when I catch myself thinking, you look like a gargoyle today, or no one is thinking about you at all, and that’s probably for the best.
It’s nothing fancy. Just:
Breathing in, I know I am alive.
Breathing out, I return to this body.
Breathing in, I arrive.
Breathing out, I soften.
It slows everything down. But also try:
🪞 A sensual mirror ritual
No affirmations. No pressure. Just light a candle. Stand in front of the mirror. Witness yourself. Trace your collarbone with oil. Notice the curve of your hip, the line of your mouth. Just look. Not for improvement. Just for presence.
Think of it like exposure therapy. If we don’t see ourselves in the world, how do we know we exist? Our brains—bless them—can’t always be trusted. They want to trick us into invisibility, into shame, into thinking we’re too much and not enough at the same time. So showing up to your own reflection—softly, regularly—is a way to say: I’m here. You are real. You are valid. And sometimes, yeah, external validation is helpful. But this? This is you validating you. Over and over again, until your brain catches up.
🎨 Using body and/or skincare as an art practice
Not for a date. Not for a selfie. Just because your skin is thirsty. Just because rolling your hair is an art. Just because you want to luxuriate in your own damn palace of oils and creams with the exact music or YouTube rabbit hole your heart desires.
Let this be your studio. Your gallery. A space where you are the masterpiece and the maker. Apply lotion like you're painting a canvas. Massage your scalp like you're sculpting a crown. Light incense, line up your products like pigments, and treat your body like a gorgeous muse—because it is. Because you are.
And here’s the thing: do this when you feel amazing. Give yourself the full experience. The ritual. The time. The awe.
That way, when the heavy days hit—and they will—you’ve already built the muscle memory. The brush will still glide. The scent will still bloom. The routine becomes your anchor, calling you back to yourself when you’ve drifted too far out to sea.
🫦 Masturbating with your hand, then looking at your face
Not rushing. Not treating orgasm like a task. Just skin on skin. Breath and pulse. Being with yourself in the most literal way.
Masturbation isn't just about pleasure (though yes, it should feel amazing). It's about connection. It's about reminding yourself that your body belongs to you. That you can bring yourself joy. That your hands can spark a chain reaction of love and response across your whole body. It's not selfish. It's sacred.
And it’s also information. The more you touch yourself, the more you know yourself. If there’s a new bump, a strange irritation, a twinge of pain—you’ll catch it. You’ll notice. You won’t be afraid of your own vessel. This is how we become less alien to ourselves.
And when it’s over—look. Go to the mirror. See the flush in your cheeks, the fullness of your lips, the sparkle in your eyes. You did that. You gave yourself that glow. That softness. That aliveness.
You are not just desiring—you are desired. Even (and especially) by yourself.
Follow @heylauraheyyy for more
Art Direction by Lauren O’Connell