It was one of those conversations that stops you in your tracks — not because it was unexpected, but because it hit a nerve so deep that it made me question everything I thought I had reconciled within myself.

My son came home from school and told me that another boy had said to him, “I saw explicit photos of your mom online. It was weird.”

I remember sitting there, trying to process the weight of those words. My first instinct, of course, was to protect him. I wanted to wrap him in my arms, shield him from cruelty, and somehow make the sting of that comment disappear. But underneath the maternal instinct was another wave — anger, guilt, and a flicker of shame — not because I had done anything wrong, but because my choice to live authentically had just collided with the complicated reality of raising children in a world that often misunderstands women like me.

When I began sharing my work online about 3 years ago — my sensual embodiment practice, my teachings on feminine energy, my creative expression through dance and movement — I knew there might be whispers. I live in a small town, and people talk. They project. They judge. It’s inevitable. But I did it anyway because something inside me knew that shrinking myself to fit someone else’s idea of “appropriate” would slowly kill my spirit.

What I didn’t fully prepare for was the moment when my authenticity would ripple out and land in my child’s world — when the boldness of my work would become a topic on a school playground.

I asked him gently, “Are you embarrassed of me?”

He wouldn’t answer, looking me directly in the eyes with those dark, mysterious soulful eyes of his.

“Did you feel embarrassed?”

He finally nodded and said it wasn’t me — it was the situation. He felt embarrassed to be put on the spot like that. And that distinction mattered deeply to me.

I immediately asked myself: What does this boy think he saw? What does “explicit” even mean to him? Because by definition, explicit means pornographic — and nothing I share online is that. My work is sensual. It’s embodied. It’s artful. It’s deeply rooted in helping women reconnect to their bodies, reclaim their pleasure, and release shame.

I sat down with my son and explained that. I showed him my Instagram account. “This is what I do,” I told him. “This is sensual dance. This is embodiment. This is part of my work and who I am.” I explained the difference between sexualization and sensuality, between empowerment and exploitation, between agency and objectification. And I reminded him that the internet can twist things — that people will often project their own discomfort onto others.

My children have always known that I teach sensual embodiment. They’ve seen me live my values and build a business around them. But that day reminded me that living authentically doesn’t just mean being true to yourself — it also means helping those closest to you understand and navigate the impact of your truth in a world that might not be ready for it.

This incident also cracked open a bigger conversation — one that I’ve explored deeply in my work and writing. Society still struggles to hold space for women who embody their sensuality, especially when they’re mothers. We’re expected to nurture, but not seduce. To guide, but not gyrate. To love, but not long for more.

If a woman celebrates her body, explores pleasure, or teaches others how to connect to theirs, she’s often labeled — “too much,” “inappropriate,” or “explicit.” And if she happens to be a mother doing it? Then the scrutiny doubles.

We rarely stop to ask why. Why is a woman’s sensuality threatening? Why is embodiment — the act of living fully and unapologetically in one’s body — confused with pornography? And why do we shame mothers for daring to exist as whole, sensual beings?

That day, I had to do some inner work too. I had to meet the guilt and the shame that surfaced — not as evidence that I was doing something wrong, but as old conditioning that still lived in my body. I had to remind myself that living authentically was never supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be real. And real sometimes means uncomfortable.

I also had to remind myself of one of the greatest lessons I hope to teach my children: that the path to fulfillment isn’t paved by people-pleasing. It’s paved by integrity — by choosing who you are, even when the world misunderstands you.

I want my kids to witness that. I want them to see a mother who is unapologetically herself — not because she wants attention, but because she wants freedom. I want them to learn that being misunderstood isn’t a reason to shrink — it’s a reason to stand taller.

This experience opened my eyes to how desperately we need broader conversations about sensuality, embodiment, and feminine expression — especially in the age of social media. When a 12-year-old boy uses the word “explicit” to describe a fully clothed woman teaching embodiment practices, it’s a sign of how warped and narrow our cultural lens has become.

This is why I write. This is why I teach. This is why I share stories that make people uncomfortable — because discomfort is where deeper understanding begins. And this is why I’ll never apologize for the work I do. Because every time I guide a woman back to her body, I’m planting a seed for a world where our daughters — and our sons — will see sensuality not as shameful, but as sacred.

I still think about that conversation. I think about how it stirred up so many emotions in me — the protectiveness, the guilt, the frustration, and ultimately, the deep clarity that I’m on the right path.

Authenticity doesn’t mean perfection. It means choosing alignment over approval. It means walking a path that might be misunderstood — but is undeniably yours. And it means modeling that courage for the next generation, even when the world tries to make you feel small.

At the end of the day, I know my son isn’t embarrassed by me. He’s growing up, navigating the messy terrain of identity and peer perception just like we all did. And maybe, in time, he’ll realize that what I do — and who I am — is a reflection of something much bigger: a woman reclaiming her wholeness and showing the world that you can be a loving mother and a liberated woman at the same time.

💗 If this story resonated with you, you might also love my memoir I Was the One I Was Waiting For, where I explore these themes of authenticity, shame, sensuality, and healing on a much deeper level. I also dive into shame and sexuality in my book, The Roots of Pelvic Floor Yoga. Explore my books here.

And for a more intimate look behind the scenes — including the conversations I have as I process moments like this in real time — join me on Patreon for exclusive reflections and embodiment practices.