When Your Soul Won't Stop Knocking: How My 40's Taught Me to Live an Erotic Life
What happens when you finally stop asking "Is this it?" and start asking "How can I live a life that feels full and turned on?"
The morning after my 40th birthday, I woke up in a new apartment with a visceral feeling I can only describe as death. Not thoughts about death, or wanting to die, but an actual feeling in and around me. I thought it was the hangover talking. I thought it was the anxiety of just moving. I thought it was the stress of building a new business.
But even after the alcohol cleared my system, after my boxes were unpacked and my life arranged neatly in its new cabinets and drawers, the weight remained. It lingered like an unwanted smell on a humid day, following me everywhere I went.
Five-plus years later, I know with full certainty: the energy I felt—urgent and demanding—was my soul banging on the front door saying,
“Let me in. We need to talk.”
I kept the door closed, but that didn’t stop the conversation from happening.
The Uncomfortable Questions
Over the next several years, I found myself bombarded with relentless questions that felt like an interrogation. Except this wasn’t the good cop/bad cop routine—it was strictly bad cop:
What the fuck are you doing?
Not just today—but with this life.
When it’s all said and done, how will you look back on it?
What will you think of you?
What is your so-called future going to look like?
What are you doing for your future self?
Is this how you’re going to live your life?
I’ve often been told I’m too hard on myself. The truth is, I was living so far out of alignment with my core values and integrity—and I knew it. I also knew I wasn’t living up to my fullest potential.
The thing is, dear reader, I’m one of those who learns the hard way. I’ll avoid making the necessary changes and instead exhaust myself trying to rearrange the world around me.
This usually looks like a new man, a new workout, a new career, a new wardrobe, new friends, a new way to date, a new way to spend my time.
But this voice outside the door wouldn’t let me escape into my usual distractions. It followed me into every moment—sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly—knock-knock-knocking.
Finally, around 43, I reached a point of no return. I opened the door and took a long, honest look in the mirror.
That turning point was crucial. It was the first time I didn’t turn away from what I saw.
I looked at everything I had done that led me to this life.
To say I didn’t like what I saw would be the understatement of my lifetime. I gave myself the ick. I couldn’t see the yum. And frankly, I was out of excuses—and tired of my own bullshit.
I won’t go into details, but I’ll say this: the choices I made in my personal and business relationships made it painfully clear not only why others didn’t trust me—but why I didn’t trust myself. And why I was miserable.
The process was uncomfortable as hell. There’s a reason most of us avoid this kind of deep self-examination. It’s easier to stay busy, to keep moving, to assume we’ll figure it out later.
But 40 had other plans for me.
I was humbled beyond measure. And five years later, I can see it was the greatest gift I could’ve given myself.
The Slow Awakening
Through the regret, doubt, and fear—literally taking it one day at a time because that’s all I could handle—I came to understand something simple but profound:
This is life.
We are constantly seeing ourselves with new eyes, clearing out old stories to make room for what’s true now.
Rinse. Repeat.
Remember. Forget.
What life is not meant to be is a process of punishing ourselves—living in regret and guilt.
My forties gave me clarity on the questions I had avoided for decades:
What kind of person do I want to be?
How does my highest Self show up?
What would it look like to live a life I could shamelessly own?
What is my definition of a life well lived?
Who is my ideal Self?
“One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious,” our old friend Jung liked to say. —Caroline Elliott
These questions weren’t immediately answered, nor did I experience some grand enlightenment. And that’s okay. I’m not looking to be a saint. I’m just done living in secret.
There was a lot of “Who was she?”
And: “Who will I be after this process?”
But gradually, persistently, something shifted.
Around that time, I had been reading books like Pussy: A Reclamation, Moody Bitches, Goddesses Never Age, and Existential Kink—and was inspired to be in my body. Not necessarily sexually, but with presence, intentionality, and ritual.
The questions started to change.
What does it mean to be fully alive?
Who am I when I’m not performing or trying to meet expectations that aren’t mine?
How can I live a life that feels full and turned on?
That’s when I realized: the knocking had stopped.
I had opened the door—and I heard the answer.
I wanted to live an erotic life.
The Erotic Life
Now, before I lose you, let me define eroticism.
Eroticism is about desire as life force—the fundamental drive that makes us create, connect, and feel fully alive. It’s not confined to bedrooms; it’s about bringing that same intensity and presence to every aspect of life.
The unfortunate reality is that most of us spend decades not consciously living. We’re operating from a blueprint that’s been ingrained in us, rarely stopping to ask whether it actually serves us—or aligns with who we want to be.
No wonder we find ourselves acting out of integrity with our wholeness. We stay in jobs that drain us, relationships that shrink us, patterns that numb us—because they’re familiar. We tell ourselves it’s just how life is, or that we should be grateful. But beneath all that, something aches. Something whispers: This isn’t it.
Remember what I said about needing to learn the hard way? Most of us are surprisingly comfortable in familiar pain. It may not feel good, but at least we know how to navigate it. The pain of change, on the other hand, is unknown—and our brains are wired to choose the devil we know.
But eventually, the pain of staying the same becomes greater than the fear of change. And that’s often what wakes us up—shaking us into clarity, anchoring us in the here and now.
A place where all the roles and expectations fall away.
Where being is enough.
Where you want what you want—and that’s reason enough to go after it.
For me, living an erotic life means feeling into it all. As I write these words, I feel consumed with inspiration. When I venture outside for an evening stroll, I want to feel the stimulation of the city lights, the strangers with their energy and stories surrounding me. I want to feel the aliveness of my children’s words as I listen to them share their days with me. I want to feel the warmth of my coffee as I inhale its scent, truly tasting it.
Eroticism is experiencing it all—not mindlessly consuming.
I want to notice the light on my lover’s face in the morning and feel my body respond with genuine desire. I want to feel the cold air contrast with sweat on my neck when I run, my body fully engaged with the elements. I want to love my people so hard, so completely, that every interaction feels charged with meaning and presence.
This is an erotic life to me. This is my response to the awakening—living so fully present, so completely engaged with my senses and emotions, that every moment becomes an intentional choice rather than an unconscious habit.
The Science of Aliveness
There’s actually science behind this approach to living. When we’re operating from our most creative, inspired state—erotic energy—we’re accessing peak frequency. This isn’t just feel-good philosophy; it’s about optimizing how our brains and bodies function.
Sexual energy, even when not directed toward sexual activity, is the same energy that drives creativity, innovation, and deep connection. It’s the force that makes us want to create art, build businesses, nurture relationships, and push boundaries. When we learn to harness this energy intentionally, we become more alive to everything around us.
Redefining Everything
The decision to live erotically has changed how I approach everything. Work has become about passion and purpose rather than just paychecks. Relationships are about genuine connection rather than obligation. Even mundane tasks have become opportunities for presence and intention. (You know how I feel about caramelizing onions, y’all.)
When I finally stopped avoiding the knock at the door and started listening to the voice, I began asking different questions:
How can I bring more aliveness to this moment?
What would it look like to be fully present here?
How can I engage all my senses in this experience?
It meant slowing down enough to actually taste my food, to feel fabric against my skin, to notice the way light changes throughout the day. It meant having conversations that went beyond surface pleasantries to real connection. It meant pursuing work that genuinely excited me—not just paid the bills.
It meant doing what I wanted, not because I thought you might approve, but simply because it turned me on.
The Ripple Effect
Five years later, I can see how that uncomfortable awakening at 40 was the best thing that ever happened to me. It forced me to stop sleepwalking through my own life and start making conscious choices about how I wanted to show up in the world.
The questioning, the discomfort, the existential crisis—it was all preparation for this more intentional way of living. That midlife reckoning wasn’t a crisis to survive; it was an invitation to truly begin living.
The Invitation
Midlife has called me into something deeper. I’m not here to perform, perfect, or pretend I have it all figured out. I’m here to live—fully. To find the erotic in all of it.
To feel the aliveness in money, sex, motherhood, independence, pleasure, aging, reinvention—all the things we’re taught to whisper about or keep neatly compartmentalized. I’m not doing that anymore. And I want you to join me.
Because here’s what I know after five years of learning to live (imperfectly) with intention: we’re all thinking the same things.
We’re all navigating this wild, in-between place. We’re all quietly wondering if we’re doing it right, if we’re too late, if we’re allowed to want more.
The answer? Yes. Yes to all of it.
There’s still time. And midlife—with all its uncomfortable-ness and inconvenient truths—might just be the exact right time to begin.
What would an erotic life look like for you?
Where are you still sleepwalking?
And what might happen if you stopped?
RELATED:
Midlife is the exact, perfect time to begin an erotic life. I think the perspective we gain in our 40s - especially as women - is what drives this subtle but ever growing disquiet that ‘there has to be a better way’. That deep knowing can only come after a few decades of life experience and fuck ups. I firmly believe that this is the season of life where the real magic, the real consciousness, begins ✨
Yes! I love this. Beautifully written