We're All Underf*cked from Our Own Overdependence

I recently had a moment. After watching the most orangey-pink sunset, I swayed my hips, wrapped in a cotton sarong, and walked barefoot, my feet still covered in Balinese sand, into an Italian restaurant. They sat me down on a red leather couch and handed me a rose even before handing me the menu. (No idea what the rose was for but it added to the vibe) Anyway, picture this: me, covered in sand, no makeup, salt in my hair, sitting in a restaurant lit solely by candles, with bookshelves full of second-hand books in every corner. In the background, soft music played—the kind that could easily belong on either a sex playlist or a soft, feminine energy playlist. As if the whole scene wasn’t already divine enough, they brought me my favorite food on earth as an appetizer—bread.with.olive.oil. There I was, one hand holding an English-Italian dictionary, the other holding a piece of ciabatta dripping with olive oil. And in that moment, I swear, it felt like I had sex with God.

For the longest time, I’ve been outsourcing pleasure—relying on strangers I met just days earlier on dating apps to bring this expansive feeling into my life. Thinking pleasure could only be found in sleeping with someone, or at the very least, feeling their tongue in my throat. In this moment, perhaps for the first time ever, I realized the cost of outsourcing pleasure is far too high. See, the problem is, when I outsource pleasure, I’ll never truly have enough of it. It’s weirdly addictive—the attention, the thrill, and then the starvation that follows. Although I personally don’t belief rejecting connection or intimacy with others is the solution, I want to make damn sure I have full agency over the joy, satisfaction, and fulfillment in my life before I allow anyone else to do the job for me. Because when my level of pleasure relies solely on external sources—on someone else's validation, attention, or approval—it becomes fragile, fleeting, and ultimately out of my control. I want pleasure that’s rooted in me, in my own choices, my own presence, my own power. I want to trust that I can create it, nurture it, and sustain it without needing anyone else to complete the picture. Every other source of pleasure can overflow my little cup of joy, but it should never replace what’s already within it. While looking up the word pleasure in Italian (it’s piacere), I decided I’m officially done with chasing external validation, and done treating pleasure like something to be earned through someone else’s approval. Instead, I’m going to give myself permission to bask in it unapologetically.

Women have long internalized the idea that we’re here to please others—to stay neat and composed, to avoid getting dirty, to skip the carbs at dinner, and to shrink ourselves to fit into someone else’s expectations. But as I sat on that leather couch, my sandy feet unapologetically propped under the table, indulging in ciabatta soaked in olive oil, I realized many women would’ve never experienced this moment of absolute deliciousness because they would’ve never allowed themselves to walk their dirty feet into the restaurant in the first place.

How often do we live on autopilot, rushing from one meeting to the next, buried in self-help books, scrolling endlessly through our For You pages, and denying ourselves the small pleasures in life because they seem frivolous or unimportant? Even unhealthy? Not worth the money, the calories, or the glucose spike. So consumed with becoming the best version of ourselves that we forget the best version is actually the juiciest version. The one that’s not achieved by being the most disciplined person on the planet but simply by being alive and savoring the deliciousness of this world. This version of you doesn’t see pleasure as something to earn or to depend on others for, but as something that’s always within reach—if only you’d allow it. It understands that life is nothing less than an a freaking all-you-can-eat-buffet of flavors to taste. Even though I try to remind myself every day, I still catch myself holding on to the belief that feeling pleasure is something distant—something waiting on the other side of sacrifice and grit. That we have to hustle harder, shrink smaller, or perfect ourselves to be worthy of it. That we have to find our 'other half' before we can truly experience it. I want to flip the damn script. I want to teach my daughter (and myself, lol) that pleasure isn’t some distant prize you’re lucky to find someday, only after earning the approval of the 'right' person. It’s something we can access at any given moment: reading a novel with dimmed lights (enchantment), waking up from a midday nap (oh, the deliciousness!), eating warm banana bread with chocolate chips (yummy AF), wearing your sexiest dress just to grab a coffee (main character energy), or treating yourself to a really soft towel like the ones in fancy hotels (ufff, perfection).

Pleasure isn’t selfish or frivolous; it’s the fuel that makes everything else worth it. And most importantly, it’s okay to make room for pleasure simply because it feels good—no justification needed.