The Fully Fed Woman

He’s at a work event somewhere across the city, probably half-listening to conversations, already thinking about what he’s going to bring me home. He texts me like it’s nothing, like it’s easy. What do you want?

And I swear there’s a version of me that still freezes at that question.

Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone would notice. Just a slight pause in my body. A soft tightening in my chest. Like something old quietly sits up and says, be careful.

Because for a long time, wanting came with consequence. Not in a loud, punishing way—but in the subtle math of childhood. My sister’s medical bills stacking quietly in the background. The unspoken tension around money. The way you learn to read a room before anyone says a word.

So I became fluent in less.

Less expensive.
Less inconvenient.
Less desire.

I became the girl who could scan a menu and already know what she was allowed to want. The one who chose the cheaper option before anyone had to ask. The one who made herself easy to take care of.

And the thing about patterns like that is they don’t announce themselves when they follow you into adulthood. They don’t say, hi, I’m your scarcity wound, I’ll be choosing your dinner tonight.

They just slip in quietly.

Like tonight.

I’m staring at the menu on my phone, and I can feel it happening in real time. My fingers hovering over the appetizer section. My brain already justifying it. You don’t need a full meal. That’s enough. Be chill.

And what’s wild is how convincing it still is. How it dresses itself up as logic. As humility. As being “low maintenance.”

But my body knows the difference now.

There’s a very specific feeling when you’re about to abandon yourself. It’s subtle, but it’s there. A slight contraction. A dimming. Like something in you is quietly being negotiated down.

And then there’s the other feeling.

The one that’s a little more alive. A little more direct. A little less polite.

I want the butternut squash ravioli.

Not because it’s the most impressive thing on the menu. Not because it proves anything. Just because it’s what I actually want. The warm, rich, slightly sweet kind of meal that feels like being taken care of.

So I pause.

Right there, in the middle of the pattern. That exact moment where your past reaches for the wheel… and your present self notices.

And instead of overriding it with another mindset trick, or turning it into a whole healing project, I just choose.

I text him the ravioli.

No explanation. No softening. No if that’s okay. Just desire, stated clean.

And it feels almost embarrassingly simple.

Which is usually how you know it’s real.

Because we love to make healing this big, ceremonial thing. The perfect practice. The right modality. The breakthrough moment that changes everything at once.

But most of the time, it looks like this.

A quiet Tuesday night decision.
A menu.
A text message.

A woman catching herself in the act of becoming smaller… and deciding not to.

This is where patterns actually live.

In the micro-moments. In what you order when no one’s watching. In what you ask for when it would be easier not to. In the split second where you either default… or choose.

And this is also where they unravel.

Not always through doing more but through noticing. Through trusting that the years of work, the layers you’ve moved through, the ways you’ve met yourself… actually did something.

That they built a woman who can feel the old story rise up and not mistake it for truth.

There was a time when I would have called this “not a big deal.”

Just dinner. Just food.

But it’s never just the thing.

It’s the identity underneath it.

The woman who takes up the space of her own desires.
The woman who doesn’t edit herself down to be more palatable.
The woman who doesn’t confuse self-abandonment with being easy to love.

And that woman is built in moments like this.

Not perfectly. Not permanently.

But consistently.

Because the ravioli isn’t just dinner.

It’s desire without apology.

And when you start paying attention, you realize how deeply women have been taught to mistrust their appetite—in every form. To second-guess it. To dress it up as “balance,” or “being low maintenance,” or “not too much.” Hunger becomes something to manage instead of something to follow.

But hunger and vitality are the same current, just expressed differently.

A woman who lets herself be hungry is a woman who is available for life. She’s responsive, turned on, participatory. Not controlled. Not numbed out. Not negotiating herself down to be digestible.

You see it everywhere.

In food—choosing the smaller portion, the “good” option.
In money—undercharging, overgiving, hesitating to ask for more.
In relationships—minimizing needs, being the “easy” partner, not wanting to be a burden.
In life itself—dulling desire, calling it unrealistic, learning to want less so you’re never disappointed.

None of this is accidental.

It’s a socialization of containment.

It reminds me of Gone Girl—the “cool girl” monologue. A manifesto on suppressed appetite. The woman who eats burgers and drinks beer but never gains weight. Who wants everything a man wants, but never too much. It’s hunger performed, not actually lived.

COOL GIRL MONOLOGUE (IN THE MOVIE) The way Rosamund Pike says “I waxed my pussy raw” is enough reason to watch the delivery of this monologue. But here’s a picture below of the monologue if you want to read :)

Because a woman who is fully in touch with her hunger is harder to control.

She takes up space. She makes choices that aren’t always convenient. She disrupts systems that rely on her being agreeable, self-sacrificing, or small.

So of course we were taught to mistrust it.

And then the reclamation becomes almost seductively simple:

What if your hunger isn’t the problem—but the compass?

What if the work isn’t to regulate it down, but to build the capacity to hold it?

To trust that wanting more doesn’t make you greedy, dramatic, or high maintenance.

It makes you alive.

This is something I’ve witnessed again and again after years of working with hundreds of women and tending to the female nervous system. One of my favorite moments is watching a woman start to celebrate her own aliveness.

The way she becomes turned on by her life again. By music. By her body. By choosing what she actually wants off the menu. By creating the business she desires. By claiming the kind of relationship she once thought was too much to ask for.

And it doesn’t stop at desire.

It deepens into being fully fed.

Because a satiated woman is a powerful woman.

And inside my spaces, this is something we practice not as theory, but as lived experience. I’ve guided women through somatic work that helps them access the feeling of being fully fed, fully resourced, fully available for their lives.

And I want to start sharing more of that here.

This space is becoming something deeper than just writing. It’s a place for somatic practices, feminine leadership, and everything Eros and Honey coded. Not just content but devotion. A kind of membership into your own body.

When you upgrade your subscription, you step into a deeper layer of this world.

You’ll receive:
– Exclusive essays that go beyond what I share publicly
– Somatic practices designed to rewire your relationship to desire, money, and your body
– “Honey drips” — short, potent transmissions you can return to daily
– Occasional coaching and guidance woven directly into this space

It’s a place to practice being a fully fed woman.

And if something in you is already leaning in… trust that.

So consider this the first drip.

Ps. I recommend listening with this playlist in the background.

LISTEN TO ME

PPS. I’d love to hear your thoughts after you do the practice comment your feedback below. <3

xo ally