Dear Sensualist,
I realized recently that the topic of women and cravings has been following us for generations.
I stumbled upon archival footage from the early 1920s teaching women how to diet, how to shrink, how to disappear. It was all there, plain as day: instructions passed down through generations, disguised as advice, warning women not to want too much, not to eat too much, not to be too much.
And I thought: maybe we’ve always been hungry for something we can’t name. Maybe food was simply the most acceptable way to reach for it.
Something in me began to ache for an answer.
What are we truly lacking?
What is it that we’ve been missing for so long, and as a result, crave so desperately?
We reach for food. For affection. For even the faintest trace of attention—hoping, just for a moment, to fill the void.
Some call it emptiness. I’ve come to call it the feminine void.
You feel it too, don’t you? The ache. The sense that it’s never quite enough?
Isn’t it true that all we’ve ever wanted was to stop feeling so starved — not just in the stomach, but in the heart?
Sadly, the world tends to reward women for starving. Physically. Emotionally. Sensually.
But just like the growl in your stomach when you’ve gone too long without eating, the body sends signals when you’ve gone too long without beauty, without softness, without soul. Exhaustion. Restlessness. Doomscrolling. Addictive patterns. Numbness.
I ignored those signs for far too long. And slowly, I began to morph into a bitter woman. A dulled, unsatisfied version of myself...
Until I touched silk crêpe for the first time.
And suddenly, I knew: this was never really about food.
I understood right then and there that there’s a kind of beauty that feeds you. And once you taste it, you stop settling for crumbs.
I had been starving myself of pleasure in the subtlest of ways:
Settling for the clearance-bin lip liner.
Wearing scratchy fabrics because they were on sale.
Stretching the last drops of a perfume sample instead of allowing myself the full bottle.
Yes, these are small things. But the message behind them was loud: I am not worth the good version.
And yet, when I began to prioritize my senses intentionally, something shifted. Even the scent of a single rosemary sprig could fill me in a way no lover or pastry ever had.
It wasn’t about consumption. It was about communion.
Take that, feminine void.
I’ve come to believe that becoming a sensualist — a woman who chooses beauty, presence, and pleasure as her compass — can begin to fill that void, even if just a little.
And when that ache returns (as it sometimes does) I don’t run from it.
I sit at my vanity, switch on the warm light, press play on Catherine Russell, sweep on my lipstick, smooth my hair, and roll perfume oil along my wrists and the hollow between my breasts.
It’s a small ritual. But it reminds me: I am no longer starving. And I never will be again.
Whatever draws you back to your body — cooking a slow, sensual meal, a warm bath, painting, a quiet glass of wine alone, or even a moment of conscious self-pleasure — feeds you too.
It is nourishment.
And you deserve to be full.
So if you’ve ever longed to see the world in color again, to taste more deeply, to come home to yourself through your senses; you’re not alone.
Wishing you a beautiful day ahead.
I’ll meet you again tomorrow.
With all my love, always,
Sabrina
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Sabrina