I’m writing this from the passenger seat, somewhere between Toronto and a lake cottage tucked into trees and long summer quiet. Craig’s driving. And conversation drifts through the car, stories of times gone by, updates on family, ideas for the future. I’m barefoot with my legs curled under me, a bottle of sparkling water sweating in the cupholder. It’s warm today, but not too hot. The kind of day that doesn’t ask much of you. Just that you be here.
There’s something about the stillness of road trips that rewires me. I stop trying to force the clock forward. I stop trying to fix things that aren’t broken. I stop trying, period.
And that’s when the good stuff comes.
Not because I earned it. But because I stopped resisting it.
This week has been a blur in the best possible way. The book is live. The house is under contract. The trip we talked about for months is finally here. And while part of me is still in motion; launching, organizing, planning — another part of me is being slowly unraveled by the grace of not needing to rush.
I used to think pleasure was something you had to chase.
Or worse, perform.
Wear the right dress. Have the right attitude. Show up just polished enough to be palatable.
I used to think the wine had to be poured first. That the tension had to be softened. That I had to shrink myself just enough to be “sexy.” But that was never pleasure. That was survival dressed up in perfume and high heels.
What I know now is different.
Pleasure isn’t loud. It doesn’t bang on your door and demand your attention. It waits, patiently, until you slow down enough to notice it.
It’s in the stretch of your backseat nap. The way your lover’s hand rests on your thigh at the stoplight. The glass of wine you sip not to forget, but to savor.
I said it in Sober Sex and I’ll say it again: I’m not anti-wine, anti-weed, anti-whatever. I’m pro-honesty. Pro-truth. Pro-pleasure that doesn’t demand your abandonment as the price of entry.
There is a difference between pouring a glass to enjoy the notes of summer fruit on your tongue and pouring one because you’re afraid of saying no.
Afraid of being too much.
Afraid of not wanting what they want.
I used to drink to disappear.
Now I drink (when I do) for the warmth, for the celebration, for the ceremony.
And most of the time, not at all.
Because pleasure without performance… is peace.
And peace, when you finally feel it, is the sexiest thing in the world.
I had a conversation the other day before this trip with a client — one of those brave, sharp-witted women who’s doing the work, untangling the patterns, rewriting her relationship to love and presence.
She said, “I can’t tell if I want the glass of wine or if I just want what I think the wine gives me, permission to relax.”
I nodded, because I’ve lived that.
I’ve reached for the glass, not out of celebration, but to blur the edges of my truth.
To soften the no I didn’t know how to say.
To make myself easier to love.
But what if we didn’t need the glass for that?
What if presence was the real aphrodisiac?
What if slowness, honesty, and unapologetic desire were the foreplay we’ve all been craving?
Right now, we’re winding past neighborhoods and lake roads, old towns and new ones. Craig’s dad and him, talking softly. There’s a comfort in it, that rhythm of family and familiarity. And all I keep thinking is: this is it.
This is what it feels like to live inside your life instead of managing it.
To not perform your pleasure for anyone.
To not post it for proof.
To not sedate your joy with a half-smile and a mimosa you didn’t really want.
This is the part where the body catches up with the soul.
Where presence becomes pleasure.
Where truth becomes a language between you and the wind.
Where nothing is demanded and everything is received.
So many women I know are still untangling themselves from the “cool girl” lie.
The one that says:
Don’t be too emotional.
Don’t ask for too much.
Just pour the wine, smile through it, and call it empowerment.
But the truth is — real empowerment lives in choice.
In feeling your yes.
In honoring your no.
In being in your body with no agenda but truth.
And that’s what I want this trip to be.
Not just a vacation.
But a communion.
With myself. With the earth. With the man I love. With the wild permission to be fully here.
Tonight, we’ll be on a dock, the sky deepening above us. Maybe we’ll swim before dinner. Maybe we’ll pour a glass. Maybe we won’t. But whatever we do, it’ll be in choice. In honesty. In our own pace and our own presence.
And if you’re reading this somewhere between your own departures and arrivals, your own rush and pause. May I whisper something to your tired heart?
You don’t have to earn your way into peace.
You don’t have to deserve this joy.
Just let it find you.
Let pleasure find you.
As always loving you from here,
Rene’ Schooler
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Rene’ Schooler(Author)
