The Heart That Remembers: On Belonging, Unchosen Timelines, and Coming Home to Yourself

There are moments in life that feel like a hand placed gently on your chest.

Soft.

Certain.

Unmistakably telling the truth.

France was that hand for me.

I had flown across the world for time that felt long overdue. Time with the people who know me better than anyone. People who saw me when my body was still changing, when my confidence was uneven, when all of us thought adulthood would look far cleaner than it turned out to be.

Being with them felt less like travelling back and more like stepping sideways into a life that had never stopped.

There was no catching up.

Just remembering.

We laughed in the way only old friends can.

The kind of laughter that comes from deep inside the stomach.

The kind that crumples you, warms you, and somehow makes you feel fifteen again.

We told stories that made us blush.

We uncovered memories that time had folded away.

And strangely, it softened something in me that I did not know had been bracing.

I played with their kids, wandered their homes, witnessed the subtle ways life had shaped them. Rooms rearranged. New colours on the walls. Children running in circles with that wild, unfiltered joy we forget too easily. Every moment felt like a door opening into another timeline. One I did not choose, but one I love from the outside.

And underneath all of it, something inside me loosened.

Because somewhere along the way, I had carried a quiet ache.

Not constant. Not dramatic.

Just a question tucked under the skin.

Would I ever be a mum?

For years the answer felt like a wound that had to stay covered.

Not because I was ashamed of it, but because I believed there was a path I was supposed to follow. That good women moved through life in a sequence. Study. Career. Partner. Children. A house. A shape of belonging that fit neatly into a photo frame.

If I had stayed in France, I might have lived that life.

I might be an engineer now. Married to my university sweetheart.

I might have little ones tugging at my clothes, demanding snacks and cuddles, calling me home in a way nothing else can.

But life asked something different of me.

And I said yes.

Standing there in France, surrounded by my oldest friends and their expanding families, a new understanding flickered awake.

I mother all the time.

Not through a child, but through presence.

Through the way I hold.

Through the way I guide, nourish, soften, protect, and love.

Through the work I do with men who come into my space with tight chests, guarded hearts, and nervous systems that have forgotten how to exhale.

There is a kind of mothering that happens when a man realises he does not need to perform to be held.

When his body melts under warm lotion and slow intentional touch.

When he discovers that safety does not come from control, but from letting someone meet him without agenda. Most importantly, I mother myself all the time. Licking my wounds, loving myself unconditionally, “mistakes” and all.

There is mothering in that.

Just not the kind society teaches us to count.

And what surprised me most was the way my friends mothered me too.

Not literally.

But in the way they witnessed me.

The way they celebrated my path even though it did not resemble theirs.

The way they trusted that my life was full even without marriage or children.

When I hugged them goodbye, something dissolved. A belief I had unknowingly packed in my luggage.

The belief that life must follow a specific timeline to be meaningful.

It does not.

Belonging is not a checklist.

It is a felt sense.

A tenderness that sits in the centre of the chest.

A remembering.

Too many men come into my sessions carrying the weight of timelines.

A certain age by which they should be partnered.

A certain amount of money by now.

A certain level of confidence.

A certain sexual skill set.

A certain emotional strength.

And underneath all those expectations is a very old, very tired story.

I am behind.

I am failing.

I should be somewhere else by now.

The body feels this story long before the mind does.

It shows up in tight shoulders.

In a jaw that never unclenches.

In difficulty staying present with a partner.

In touch that tries to prove something instead of feel something.

In constant pressure to perform in intimacy rather than experience pleasure.

Men often believe they are alone in this.

But I see the same pattern every week.

The truth is this:

Your body is not waiting for you to catch up.

Your body is waiting for you to arrive.

When a man comes into a tantra massage session with me here in Perth, he often thinks he needs to get something right. He worries about whether he will respond physically. Whether he will last. Whether he will disappoint me. Whether he will disappoint himself.

But when warm lotion meets skin, when breath slows, when the room softens around him, he realises something surprising.

There is no timeline here.

No expectation. No performance.

Only presence.

What if your life was allowed to feel more like that?

What if you stopped trying to meet a story that never belonged to you?

What if you learned to listen to your own body the way I listen to it during a session?

This is something you can practise at home.

A small invitation:

Sit somewhere quiet.

Place one hand on your chest and one on your belly.

Breathe gently until your breath lands lower.

Ask yourself:

Where am I trying to catch up?

And who told me I needed to?

Usually it was never your voice to begin with.

In my private practice, I see men soften when they finally let themselves be human instead of heroic. When they allow longing to be longing. When they allow exhaustion to be exhaustion. When they allow desire to be innocent instead of pressure filled.

This is one of the quiet gifts of tantra massage.

Not the erotic imagery people associate with it. But the return to authenticity.

The return to feeling.

The return to one’s own pace.

This work reminds men that tenderness is not weakness.

Slowness is not failure.

And timelines are optional.

Maybe you are not behind.

Maybe you are simply arriving in your life in your own way.

The same way I arrived in France and found that nothing was missing.

The same way I arrive in each session with a man who thinks he needs to prove something and slowly realises he does not.

I mother because I hold people in the truth of who they are.

Not who they were told to be.

And maybe you need a little of that in your life too.

Not the traditional kind of mothering.

But the kind that reminds you:

You are allowed to be soft.

You are allowed to not have everything figured out.

You are allowed to follow the path that feels right in your bones.

Your belonging is not ahead of you.

It is already here.

In the heart that remembers.

If that pulls at you, even quietly, I would love to work with you.

With love,

Kali 💛