Today, I celebrated my granddaughterβs third birthday.
There were roller skates, unicorn horns, frosting on fingers, glitter in the carpet, and the beautiful chaos of all the people I love gathered in one place β children squealing, music thumping, disco ball lights bouncing off the walls like they had somewhere to be.
And at the center of it all: Luna.
Three years old today.
Fierce.
Wild.
Tender.
Radiant.
The kind of child who looks you dead in the eye when she wants something. Who climbs on counters without fear. Who dances like her body hasnβt been taught to second-guess itself. Who laughs with her whole face and doesnβt care whoβs watching.
Watching her today, something cracked open in me.
I saw her fly across the roller rink β sometimes upright, sometimes tumbling β and all I could think was:
God, donβt let the world take this from her.
Donβt let it tell her to shrink.
Donβt let it convince her that joy is something she has to earn.
Donβt let her learn that her power is too much, or her softness is not enough.
Because I remember what it was like to be her age.
And I remember the moment it started to change.
When I was little, I loved the quiet. I needed it.
Not because I was afraid of the noise, but because that was where God met me.
Where my thoughts gathered. Where I could breathe.
I didnβt need wine or weed or performance to feel worthy β I just was.
Until the world started teaching otherwise.
Little by little, I learned the subtle scripts:
Be a good girl. Be nice. Be quiet. Be pleasing.
Donβt take up too much space.
Donβt want too much.
And whatever you do β
donβt ask for more than youβre offered.
By the time I was a young woman, I was already skilled at self-abandonment.
I could disappear inside a room full of people.
Smile and entertain while dying inside.
Give more than I had β to my kids, my partner, my community β and call it strength.
Burn myself out to prove I was worthy of love, partnership, success, sex, intimacy.
And even in all of that exhaustion, I would still feel guilty taking time to rest.
I know Iβm not alone in this.
But today⦠watching Luna, something holy stirred in my chest.
This child doesnβt hustle for joy.
She doesnβt perform to be liked.
She doesnβt apologize for needing space, or help, or more sprinkles.
She just asks.
She expects to be seen.
She expects to be loved.
She expects the world to make room for her.
And maybe thatβs what this moment in my life is really about:
Reclaiming the parts of me that expected goodness before the world taught me to earn it.
Remembering the girl I used to be, before the programming.
Before the trauma.
Before I believed that intimacy needed alcohol, that sex needed performance, that womanhood meant exhaustion.
We talk a lot about healing, but sometimes we forget:
Joy is a form of resistance.
Play is a form of protest.
Laughter, presence, innocence β these things undo the damage in real-time.
And today, my family gathered in one beautiful mess of skates and squeals and chaos and we healed a little more than we even realized.
Three generations of women.
Babies. Mamas. Grandmas.
All of us carrying something. All of us shedding something.
And all of us orbiting around one little girl in glitter, reminding us what it looks like to live with our hearts all the way open.
This musing isnβt about sex or trauma or motherhood or even healing.
Itβs about the thread that runs through all of it β the part that gets buried, but never dies.
The part of us that still knows how to laugh with frosting on our chin.
The part of us that still knows how to fall down and get back up again.
The part of us that trusts that love is our default setting, not something we have to earn.
That part never left.
She just got quiet.
And today, Luna reminded me:
Sheβs still here.
Sheβs still ready.
She still knows the way back.
Maybe this is what Sober Sex is really about.
Not just intimacy without substances, but connection without performance.
Presence without apology.
Pleasure without guilt.
Touch without distortion.
Maybe itβs about coming home to the part of ourselves that never needed to be fixed, only remembered.
The part that still lives in our bones, in our laughter, in our rest, in our pleasure, in our freedom.
The part that was never broken β just braced.
Never lost β just buried.
Never gone β just waiting.
So today, I light a candle for Luna.
And I whisper a prayer for all our daughters and granddaughters:
May the world never steal their softness.
May the noise never drown out their knowing.
May their bodies always feel like home.
And I whisper one more for us:
May we remember who we were before the world told us we werenβt enough.
May we reclaim the joy we were told was frivolous.
May we become the women our inner girl needed.
And may we keep coming home β again and again β to the truth of who we are.
Because she still lives in there.
And today⦠I saw her on roller skates, wearing a unicorn crown, covered in cake.
And I remembered.
If this stirred something in you, let me know.
What has your inner girl been trying to say lately?
What joy are you letting yourself feel again?
You can comment here or message me privately.
And if you want more reflections like this, join me this week as I prepare to launch a book that was born from the same remembering:
Sober Sex β coming July 1.
No more performing.
No more numbing.
Just presence.
Just truth.
Just you β coming home.
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: Kizkopop On Unsplash
