Closer to My Season
I didn't want young hands.
Nothing against the twenty-somethings — they're trained, enthusiastic, eager to do things right. But they don't live in a body like mine. Not yet.
They don't know what it's like to have a hip that stiffens by noon, or skin that's thinned in places no one sees, or joints that sometimes just... sigh. They don't know the feeling of having a body that's been lived in, stretched out by time, softened by years of care and loss and learning.
I didn't want a spa script.
I didn't want someone asking, "How's that pressure?" every five minutes while thinking about their next client.
I didn't want a performance.
I wanted presence.
I wanted maturity.
I wanted someone who didn't need me to explain why my left side carries more or why I hold tension in my chest when I'm not even stressed.
I wanted someone closer to my season.
And yes — I wanted that someone to be a man.
Not in a romantic way. Not in a rescuing way.
In a
steady, grounded, seen kind of way.
There's something about being cared for by a man who isn't trying to impress you. Who isn't distracted. Who doesn't look past your body or through it — but meets it with skill, ease, and quiet respect.
That's what I found here.
I didn't have to explain the importance of stillness.
I didn't have to apologize for the way my body has changed.
I didn't have to soften myself to be palatable.
He just understood — in the way only someone who's been around the sun enough times can understand.
There was no flattery. No fixing. No performance.
Just a man in his sixties, offering care with presence — as if my body, in this season of life, was fully worthy of his attention.
And that felt rare.
It still does.