When Julie came to me, she had one question: "Why do I resist pleasure?"
See, for Julie, pleasure felt unproductive. She enjoyed sex. Her husband of 25 years was attentive and generous, always putting her first. But every time he initiated, she felt like she could be doing something more useful. Even though, she admitted, she felt more energized and productive after sex.
So how could she reconcile these contradictions?
Julie's dilemma is a familiar one. And it's the antithesis of eros.
British psychoanalyst Adam Philips once said, "We glorify efficiency and fail to recognize that the erotic space is a radiant interlude in which we luxuriate, indifferent to demands of productivity; pleasure is the only goal."
In an American culture where "what gets measured gets managed," it's hard to grasp–let alone value–something that can't be quantified.
As I got to know Julie better, and, later, her husband Patrick, we uncovered other dynamics that needed tending. Namely, communication and sharing the emotional load in a household with five kids.
For years, Patrick had struggled to ask for help or check in emotionally, but he began shifting. The more he stepped up, the more Julie softened in response.
But there was something else that softened her too: mindfulness.
Back in the 1970s, an American professor called Jon Kabat-Zinn recontextualized Buddhist meditation for medical patients with chronic pain who had tried it all, to no avail. Rather than fighting the pain, he asked: what if you simply accepted it? What if you observed the sensations without judgment?
The results were groundbreaking: patients reported less pain, fewer symptoms, and better moods—results, when comparing actual numbers, more powerful than many pharmaceutical trials.
Years later, Dr. Lori Brotto applied this same approach to women experiencing sexual difficulties. Specifically, gynecological cancer survivors who reported "feeling nothing" during sex—despite their bodies showing arousal in the lab.
Through mindfulness training, they learned to reconnect with sensation. Desire and pleasure increased, distress decreased, and satisfaction grew.
Dr. Brotto eventually expanded this training to women who were not cancer patients, but who had low sexual desire, as well as those with pain during sex. The results were just as successful.
This research was pivotal in my own training as a sexologist, and I now guide clients through the very protocol Dr. Brotto developed. It's an eight-week program of meditations, body scans, and reflective exercises that gradually build awareness and embodiment.
By week five, Julie emailed me in between sessions to share a few breakthroughs her and her husband had in their relationship. She had been carrying sadness about a family matter when Patrick approached her one morning. He wanted to pleasure her, and wanted nothing in return.
Normally, she would have turned him down, focusing instead on her to-do list or wondering how he could even suggest such a thing when she wasn't "in the mood."
But this time she chose differently. She said yes.
She let him pleasure her. And in doing so, she felt cared for at an especially tender moment in her life.
"What I realized later is that I was open to the sensation of pleasure even though I was feeling bad. I don't think I would have been open to that experience previously and I know in a felt sense that I can hold and experience both sadness, grief and pleasure at the same time.
That feels like a big deal and I think it's because of our work together with sensations, mindfulness and being curious about the body's response. Thank you for guiding me through this," writes Julie.
Since then, Julie and Patrick have begun relating to each other in new ways. Not just toggling between "parents" and "lovers," but meeting as playmates—through sensual exercises and deeper conversations.
"For me, it feels so nourishing to be known in this way and is becoming a foundation for building a stronger sexual and intimate connection."
Even Patrick has changed. Instead of shutting down when Julie is upset, he now approaches her with curiosity. And she, in turn, feels warmer and more accepting of him.
Healing, I remind her, happens at the speed of trust.
At a time when so many couples feel underwater with endless responsibilities, Julie's story is a reminder that intimacy is about presence. It's about relearning how to intentionally slow down to notice sensation, to listen, to play.
At its core, my work is about permission. Permission to feel, to experiment, to let pleasure coexist with everything else life brings. My role is to guide people back to that place of possibility.
"I just wanted you to know that working with you has impacted me in both subtle and powerful ways and it's making a positive difference in my quality of life and my primary, intimate relationship. I have more hope for Patrick and I to continue to grow our relationship. I'm experimenting with the mantra, 'Patrick is safe for me to play with.' It may sound simple, but it feels big for me."
