Dear Sensualist,
What if the burnout isn’t from work, but from a life that doesn’t nourish you?
I kept hearing these whispers for months;
Slow down, my love. You’ll burn your wings.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. So I burned them, my wings.
Until I couldn’t feel them anymore.
And then…
Everything turned grey.
Life lost its glow.
My senses dimmed.
My skin, my lips, my fingertips—numb to touch.
Food tasted dull.
And everywhere I looked, I saw the same thing:
Concrete. Noise. Fast-moving people in cheap fabrics.
The sheen of social media and the glare of a world that prizes productivity over presence.
Ugliness became the default.
Was it burnout? Depression?
Or simply what happens when the soul is starved of beauty?
Before my mind could name it, my body responded for me.
She softened. She curved. She slowed down.
She asked me to stop running.
She was asking—begging—to come back to life.
And so, I became a sensualist.
Not as escape, but as homecoming.
While the world numbs with pleasure, I chose to feel through it.
I reached for the things that felt alive: couture, perfumery, wine.
Artisanal worlds built on patience, mastery, heritage.
Not mass-produced distractions, but sensual rituals.
I didn’t just consume them. I studied them. I revered them.
Because somewhere deep in me, I knew:
I didn’t want to survive a dull life.
I wanted to be nourished by beauty.
But choosing that path here—in a fast, utilitarian culture—has often felt like swimming upstream.
Everything felt rushed. Disposable.
Finding real food, clothing made with intention, or a meal crafted by loving hands became harder and harder.
Even though I’ve lived in Canada most of my life, I’ve never fully felt at home here.
And recently, I stopped pretending.
My heart has always belonged somewhere else.
I began remembering what life used to feel like when I lived on and off in Europe a decade ago.
I remembered walking along the Rhône in Lyon, reading for hours while the late sun warmed my skin, and smelling the scent of bakeries just before closing.
Stepping into antique bookstores or family-run shops, where the person behind the counter wanted to tell you a story, not just make a sale.
Beauty wasn’t curated. It just… was.
And it fed me in ways I didn’t yet know how to name.
But now I do.
I don’t want to live in a country that only markets beauty.
I want to live in a place where it’s baked into the culture. Where it’s honored. Where it has weight and meaning.
This move to France isn’t a fantasy.
It’s a return.
To elegance. To embodiment. To sensuality.
To my senses.
To my softness.
To myself.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ve been malnourished too.
So let this be your reminder:
You are allowed to need beauty.
You are allowed to feel starved.
And you are allowed to choose to be fed.
With all my love,
Sabrina
Read The Latest Article
Sabrina Bawa