Hi, I’m Brigid. I practice somatic sex education on a little island in the Salish Sea, where the dating pool is… let’s say, charmingly limited. As a single mother who works for herself, I’ve had to become intentional about tending my own erotic well-being. Waiting for the “right partner” isn’t an option when I want a sex life that actually nourishes me.

This is where mindful erotic practice comes in. It’s something I share with clients, sometimes with lovers, and something I rely on in a very real way in my own home. If you’re single, busy, or wanting a deeper relationship with your own body, I’d love to introduce it to you.

What is mindful erotic practice?

Mindful erotic practice is relational self-pleasure. Many of us were taught that masturbation is something you do quickly and quietly: lie down, race to orgasm, feel the release, get dressed, move on. That fast, hidden rhythm becomes a pattern in the body.

Mindful erotic practice slows that down. It deconstructs the rush and creates a new way of being with yourself. A new way of meeting your body. I use it as a tool to actually know myself, not just discharge energy.

It’s not about chasing climax but about building an ongoing connection with your erotic self. It is presence, breath, movement, choice, and curiosity. It’s noticing what feels good when nobody is watching. It’s listening to what arises instead of performing what you think should happen. It’s letting your erotic self lead, the part of you with her own timing, language, and instincts.

This practice has helped me understand my arousal patterns, unwind shame around sexual expression, feel more at home in my body, and keep my erotic self alive and well-tended whether I’m partnered or not. 

What does/can it look like in action?

Recently I began filming myself during this practice. Not in a performative way, or to create content, but to simply witness myself. I’ll record a session and revisit the video days later with curiosity. Watching myself has helped me love myself. The way I look. The way I move. The way my body knows what it wants. It has softened old shame and revealed new desires I might not have noticed otherwise. It has become somewhat of an oracle, a way of receiving information directly from my body.

I have curated thirty-minute playlists, candles ready to be lit, and a drawer of textures, toys, and scents. I can drop in when I feel the energy rise or when I’ve scheduled a session into my day - because let’s be honest, sometimes this is exactly what life requires.

When I begin, I start with grounding. Breath. Intention. A moment to arrive. Then I acknowledge the deep, instinctive part of me I’m practicing with. I let her know she’s safe, welcome, and free to express however she needs to.

I start with subtle movements. A shift of the hips. A small sound. Breath dropping lower. The music builds slowly. My body wakes up. I add touch, slow and exploratory. I let go.

None of this is pretty. I’m not performing. Sometimes I move like a creature returning to wild space after being held captive. Sometimes I’m slow and soft, barely moving at all. Sometimes I’m loud. Sometimes I whisper. Sometimes it’s weird! Sometimes I’m half bent over my bed, watching my body in the mirror, completely absorbed in sensation and awe. 

I allow my erotic self to take over and exist fully. This practice is for her.

Around the twenty-six-minute mark, my playlist drops into four minutes of silence. That silence is the anchor for me. In mindful erotic practice, orgasm is not the goal. When the silence arrives, I stop. I let everything settle. I breathe. I let my body land gently and I savour.

Then a final song comes on, something to help me remember the truth of who I am. Then I move into the rest of my day more in touch with myself. More alive.

Mindful erotic practice gives me a sex life even when I’m not dating. It keeps my erotic self from going dormant. It lets this part of me know she is important and welcome in my daily life. It nourishes my work, my creativity, my mothering, and my sense of inner authority.

It taught me that my erotic aliveness is not dependent on a partner. It is my responsibility, like every other part of my well-being, and there is great freedom in that. This part of me is mine. She thrives when I meet her regularly and without agenda. She always has essential information to share.

You don’t need a partner to have a thriving sex life. You do need a relationship with yourself.

This work lives within a lineage. I am grateful to my teachers Corinne Diachuk, Captain Snowdon, and Katie Spataro of the Institute for the Study of Somatic Sex Education, whose teachings, presence, and care have shaped how I practice and share this work.