Your Longing is Not a Problem. It's Holy.

Hello, Friend.

Longing. It lives deep in the womb of our human existence—
In the beat of our hearts, the roil in our bellies, the swell of our tears.

Longing can feel both acute and elusive: a pungent, poignant ache—but for what, exactly?

Sometimes our longing points to something concrete: love, belonging, purpose, truth. But just as often, it pulls us past the nameable to a place more subtle than words—a familiarity so old as to be ancient, a remembrance. 

This longing is Eros.

Not the eros that’s been reduced to sex or seduction, but Eros as the primal, divine force of life that, in its purest form, is the soul remembering where it came from. The echo of God-Source humming through the finite chamber of our flesh, calling us home. The incantation of desire that ignites all creation. The breath of consciousness reaching for form.

This is Eros, and its sacred song is longing.

But longing can be hard to hold. Longing can  feel nearly unbearable. Longing can feel like an absence so  cavernous—when what we desire is a  presence so luminous—that to be with it, to fully feel it, risks  despair.

When longing is hard to hold, it’s easy to confuse it for a symptom of wounding instead of the call of our soul’s expansion. When we allow ourselves to fully feel our longing, its sheer force can feel like evidence of something gone wrong.

I felt this recently in the wake of a beautiful, intimate connection with a man who clearly entered my life for a reason—to summon my surrender, to fuel my passion, to call me more deeply into my power, to gift me transmissions about the truth of human existence—but who wasn’t meant to stay. I knew, upon saying yes to our brief exchange (spiritual, physical, emotional) that I would encounter the ache of longing on the other side; our synergy was transportive (at times, otherworldly), but our lives aren’t aligned for union.

Knowing ahead of time, as I did, that what we shared would come to an end didn’t stop me from being all-in. It did not diminish my openness, my willingness to connect, to give, to surrender, to receive.

And nor did my knowing soften the ache I felt when we said our goodbyes.

I wanted to run from this feeling. It was pungent—a heaviness in my womb so strong that I had to lie down and hold myself in silence.  All kinds of self-recrimination moved through my mind: had this been a mistake? If what I want is nothing less than Sacred Union, was this self-sabotage?

But instead of indulging these thoughts, I observed them. I dropped into my body and sank beneath the story to the sensation itself. I breathed, over and over—long, slow breaths. With each exhale my body softened. And as I softened, my resistance (wanting to distract myself from feeling, the stories of sabotage, the self-questioning) shifted to deep, unhurried presence. I noticed the chorus of birds outside the window. I felt the warmth of the sun streaming through the palm fronds onto my skin. I noticed how held I felt by the bed, by the foundation beneath the bed, by the earth beneath the foundation.

And in this opening I saw clearly my ache in its essence, its truth—not wounding, but longing. A holy, sacred, bone-deep longing for the rapture of Oneness, the ecstasy we feel in the arms of Love as we re-member the truth of who we are and where we come from. A longing ignited and amplified by this man and our delicious togetherness, but that pointed also beyond him.

This seeing freed me. And in this liberation I saw that  longing is not a flaw, but an invitation.

To be fully human is to feel this longing—not just for a lover, a home, or a purpose, but for something we can’t quite name—because in doing so we  feel the distance, and therefore the meeting, between the divine and the human, the infinite and the embodied.

When we repress our longing, we numb ourselves—not just to pain, but to pleasure. We become afraid of wanting too much. We associate longing with lack. We try to fix it, fill it, solve it.

But Eros does not want to be solved. It wants to be felt.

What if the ache is not a problem to heal, but a holy sensation to welcome?
What if your longing is the flame of your life force asking to be seen, heard, touched?

There is power in letting longing live in the body without rushing to resolve it.

When we do so, we become spacious enough to feel the full current of Eros—not just arousal, but awe. Not just need, but presence. Not just lust, but rapture.

Every deep longing points beyond itself…

The longing for touch is the longing to feel met.
The longing for beauty is the longing to remember our divinity.
The longing for a lover may be the longing to return to the ecstatic union from which we came—the oneness with Source, with the Great Mother, with the cosmic beloved.

This is not metaphor. It is mystical truth encoded in our cells.

Eros is not here just to titillate or entertain us. She is here to awaken us—to stretch the boundaries of our skin until we remember we are made of stardust and blood and longing and light.

So how do we live with longing , without collapsing into despair or addiction?

We let it open us. Soften us. Embolden us.

We let it inform our art, our prayers, our lovemaking, our presence. We sit with it as we would sit with a beloved—curious, tender, reverent. We trace it back to its root, and we discover that at the base of all longing is a yearning for union—with Self, with Earth, with the Divine.

To live erotically is to live in devotion to what we long for—without needing to possess it. To let that longing shape how we move, touch, speak, and create. Not from lack. But from love.