I Used to Fetishize Myself, Now I’m Talking to My Houseplants

I used to know exactly what kind of beautiful I was. Not the sweet, wholesome kind. Not the kind that feels safe to hold, lest you upset your equilibrium—the kind that made men ache a little. Part femme fatale, part philosopher queen, glowing under the gaze I had learned to both resent and rely on. Boys fell at my feet like devoted house pets, making bold and syrupy declarations like, “You consume me.”

Sure, pal. You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.

I moved through the world like a carefully edited portrait—always the prettiest, most enigmatic one in the room. Though small in stature, I held myself like a dancer performing perfect pirouettes, as if she hadn’t been training her whole life for it.

I understood my power, and I knew how to wield it. What else do you do but play the cards you’ve been dealt? I could weaponize a glance. I thrived in the tension between intellect and allure, between snark and seduction. But desire wasn’t something I chased; it just seemed to follow me around like smoke. Simpler days, back then.

Now I’m here, a couple of days shy of 38, carrying soft flesh atop a collection of unmet needs—however buried. My body is run ragged, my mind slightly unhinged from sleep deprivation—talking to my houseplants like they’re old friends who remember who I used to be. Every so often, I find fragments of a more distant self in those curated portraits from the past. I read words from old journals just to see if I can ignite a spark of familiarity.

Most days I wake up, one boob out, and try to reconcile the simmering person I see on the outside with the one still burning on the inside. I don’t long for the aesthetic vacancy of the past, but I don’t want to shrink into nothingness either. I’m constantly trying to catch myself, to tend to myself like a garden growing more beautiful and wild with every season. But it’s hard to water yourself when you’re watering everything and everyone else. And as I nurture the life around me, I wonder what kind of example I’m setting for my baby daughter.

But I don’t let myself shrink in front of her. I resist telling her fairy tales about princes and stone towers. I tell her to look around at everything, eyes wide open. I don’t want her to be landlocked to a passive dream. I want her to fully claim herself before anyone else can. I don’t want her to dim herself under the fickle glow of stage lights. I will do my best to remind her that it’s not just about being seen, but about seeking, too.

There’s something so authentic about this second stage of motherhood. There’s a freedom here. I don’t have to be on anymore. I can be a little more rough-cut and not have to atone for it. If anything, motherhood didn’t make me soft; it made me sharp. And I’m not interested in pretending it’s some myth of sacred domestic bliss. There’s nothing delicate about dragging yourself through another day with a body that’s been split open and stitched into something new. There’s nothing dainty about shaping tiny humans while trying not to disappear yourself.

And yet, there’s this strange, volcanic sensuality here. Not performative, not gentle, not always aesthetically pleasing. More like: I am tending to things with intention, with thick thighs and wide eyes and not caring as much about what that looks like to anyone on the outside. The kind of sexy that doesn’t ask permission. That doesn’t perform or give out tickets to the show. Now she doesn’t need an audience.