I want to start with an apology. I haven’t been as present here as I wanted to be. The last few months have been heavy in ways that are difficult to summarize: personal struggles, challenges at home, and a depression that has made even ordinary things feel harder than they should. Writing has often happened in fragments, between moments of exhaustion and survival. But even when I’ve been quiet, I’ve been thinking. One idea in particular has refused to leave me alone, circling back again and again until it demanded to be written down.

The timeline planned for our lives was never neutral. Western society teaches adulthood as a sequence: date, partner, marry, buy property, have children, advance at work, stay productive, stay healthy, stay cisgender, stay grateful, and never fall behind. But the shame people carry about being “behind” is not a personal failure. It is social before it becomes personal. People feel behind because they have been measured against a life script built for straight, cisgender, able-bodied, financially stable people with access to safety, whiteness, property, institutional approval, and uninterrupted selfhood.

Compulsory heterosexuality, heteronormativity, ciscentrism, ableism, productivism, and white supremacy work together to create the “approved” adult: straight or straight-passing, cisgender or cis-passing, partnered, productive, financially independent, able-bodied or performing able-bodiedness, and respectable under white social norms. But not everyone started with the same safety, body, resources, rights, family support, racial access, healthcare, or freedom to know themselves. Some people spent years surviving. Some people did not have language for their gender or desire until adulthood. Some people had to choose safety before authenticity. Some people are not late. They were delayed by systems that benefited from their silence. The life script says there is one correct path into adulthood, but what if the path was built to exclude us?

I’m publishing an expanded five-part series on the paid tier for those who want the full exploration, but I wanted to share the heart of it here too.

Compulsory heterosexuality, ciscentrism, ableism, white supremacy, productivism, and the lie of the “correct” life timeline.

The timeline planned for our lives was never neutral.

By thirty, you are supposed to know.

By thirty-five, you are supposed to have chosen.

By forty, you are supposed to have evidence.

A spouse. A mortgage. Children, or at least a clear answer about children. Career growth. Financial stability. A body that works on command. A gender other people find easy to categorize. A relationship structure other people recognize. A life that looks successful from the outside.

Western society is obsessed with the idea that adulthood should arrive on schedule. We are taught that life has a sequence, and every respectable adult should move through that sequence at the expected pace.

Grow up.
Date.
Partner.
Marry.
Buy property.
Have children.
Advance at work.
Stay productive.
Stay healthy.
Stay attractive.
Stay cisgender.
Stay grateful.
Do not fall behind.

You are not behind.

You are queer. Trans. Nonbinary. Disabled. Neurodivergent. Poor. Grieving. Deconstructing. Healing. Racialized. Caregiving. Divorced. Estranged. Starting over. Coming out late. Changing your names. Relearning desire. Rebuilding after trauma. Choosing a life that doesn't look like the one they were handed.

The shame people carry about being “behind” is often treated as a personal self-esteem issue. It is framed as insecurity, comparison, low confidence, or lack of motivation.

But shame is social before it becomes personal.

People feel behind because they have been measured against a life script built for straight, cisgender, able-bodied, financially stable people with access to safety, whiteness, property, institutional approval, and uninterrupted selfhood.

That timeline was never neutral.

It was built from multiple systems working together.

Compulsory heterosexuality teaches people to treat heterosexuality as the default path, whether or not it reflects their actual desire. It trains people to confuse approval with attraction, safety with love, and compliance with identity.

Heteronormativity treats cisgender heterosexual couplehood as the expected center of adult life. It assumes that dating, sex, romance, marriage, parenting, and family should follow a straight, gendered script.

Ciscentrism treats cisgender identity as the norm and trans, nonbinary, genderfluid, and gender-expansive identities as deviations from the expected path. It assumes everyone will identify with the gender assigned to them at birth, move through life under that label, and become an adult in a way others read as properly masculine or feminine.

Compulsory able-bodiedness treats able-bodiedness as the expected and preferred state. It assumes the adult body should work consistently, produce consistently, recover quickly, and avoid needing too much care, rest, adaptation, or accommodation.

Compulsory productivism teaches that worth depends on output. You prove adulthood through labor, efficiency, career progress, financial independence, discipline, and constant improvement. Rest becomes suspicious. Disability becomes failure. Care needs become burdens. A nonlinear life becomes a moral problem.

White supremacy shapes the script by deciding which lives are treated as respectable, mature, safe, desirable, professional, moral, and worthy of protection. It has long organized family, gender, labor, property, sexuality, and citizenship around whiteness as the standard. It rewards proximity to white, middle-class, Christian, cisheteronormative respectability. It punishes people whose families, bodies, cultures, kinship structures, labor, gender expressions, and survival strategies fall outside that standard.

These systems do not operate separately.

They braid together.

Heteronormativity tells you what kind of relationship makes you legitimate.

Compulsory heterosexuality tells you what kind of desire is acceptable.

Ciscentrism tells you what kind of gender makes you believable.

Compulsory able-bodiedness tells you what kind of body deserves respect.

Compulsory productivism tells you what kind of pace makes you valuable.

White supremacy tells you whose adulthood is recognized as civilized, responsible, beautiful, safe, and worthy.

Together, they create the approved adult.

Straight or straight-passing.
Cisgender or cis-passing.
Monogamously partnered.
Married or marriage-bound.
Parenting or planning to parent.
Employed in a recognizable way.
Financially independent.
Able-bodied or performing able-bodiedness.
Gender-conforming enough to avoid discomfort.
Respectable under white social norms.
Always progressing.

The timeline is not a neutral checklist.

It is a sorting system.

It tells people whether their bodies, relationships, genders, families, desires, homes, work, and pace count as adult.

And when people do not fit, the system rarely questions itself.

It asks the person, “Why are you not there yet?”

That question assumes everyone started from the same place, with the same body, safety, resources, rights, identity freedom, racial access, family support, and self-knowledge.

They did not.

Some people spent years surviving homes, churches, schools, medical systems, workplaces, and communities that taught them to disappear.

Some people did not have language for their gender until adulthood.

Some people did not know their desire because desire had been buried under fear, doctrine, violence, or expectation.

Some people had to choose safety before authenticity.

Some people had to care for others before they had space to know themselves.

Some people were never given the option of being soft, rested, protected, believed, or free.

Some people’s bodies changed the plan.

Some people’s families rejected them.

Some people never had generational wealth, housing stability, healthcare access, or a safety net.

Some people are not late.

They were delayed by systems that benefited from their silence.

The life script says there is one correct path into adulthood.

But what if the path was built to exclude us?

What if the shame was never proof of failure?

What if the panic of being behind is what happens when a person starts to wake up inside a timeline that was never designed for their life?

This ended up being a really long essay when I was writing it so I'm breaking it up into five parts, yes five, I have a lot to say, so stay tuned for part two.

There will also be conversations about books in here at some point, because obviously.

Watching queer and trans rights get stripped away in real time while companies slap rainbows on products every June feels impossible to ignore now.

Across the US, lawmakers have introduced hundreds of anti-LGBTQ bills in recent years, many targeting trans people directly through healthcare bans, ID restrictions, education censorship, bathroom laws, sports bans, and efforts to erase legal recognition of trans existence. The ACLU tracked hundreds of anti-LGBTQ bills in state legislatures, many specifically targeting trans people.

This isn't an abstract policy debate. These laws impact access to healthcare, employment, housing, education, safety, and public life. Researchers, legal scholars, and genocide prevention experts have publicly raised alarms about the pattern and scale of these coordinated attacks.

The Lemkin Institute for Genocide Prevention issued multiple “Red Flag Alerts” warning about what they describe as an escalating genocidal process against trans people in the United States. Former presidents of the International Association of Genocide Scholars have also publicly warned that the rhetoric and legislation targeting trans people match early stages of genocidal processes historically seen before mass atrocity crimes.

Even legal scholars who debate whether the current moment fits the strict international legal definition of genocide still describe the harm, erasure, and targeted legislation against trans people as severe and systematic.

So yeah, people are angry.

While queer and trans people are fighting for basic safety, dignity, healthcare, and survival, some companies still decide Pride Month is the perfect time to platform authors who openly align themselves with administrations and public figures actively fueling anti-queer and anti-trans rhetoric.

You do not get to profit from queer readers during Pride while uplifting people who publicly support the political machine working to erase us.

And dedicating a book to a public figure who has openly and vocally spread hatred toward queer and trans communities is not “neutral.” It is a choice. Public support is political. Dedications are intentional. Silence is intentional, too.

And I hear a certain company is deleting comments.

Book spaces love to talk about community until accountability enters the room.

Queer and trans readers are not overreacting for refusing to financially support people who celebrate those helping dismantle our rights. We are responding rationally to a climate where lawmakers debate our existence daily, while violence against trans people continues rising, and access to care disappears state by state.

Pride started as resistance. Not branding. Not rainbow capitalism. Not “both sides.”

If your business wants queer money, queer trust, and queer community support, people are going to ask where you stand when queer and trans lives are under attack.

Instead, let's go ahead and support businesses who make it known that they align with our identities. Bindery for one, and I'm truly not biased, it has been a joy to see so many queer books published, and majority sapphic too!

There are so many other book boxes out there doing the work year round to demonstrate their allyship.

In my last post, I came to the defense of romance novels with research about how beneficial they are for relationship health based on what we can learn from them. I find that on tikotk the conversation about romance novels often starts in the wrong place.

It starts with a claim that these books are harmful. That they create unrealistic expectations. They they are damaging relationships.

That framing keeps the focus narrow. It treats readers as passive recipients of influence instead of active participants in meaning-making. It also misses what’s happening on a deeper level.

Romance is not only entertainment. It is a space where people practice identity.

People often rehearse parts of themselves in fiction before they claim them in real life. I talk about this often in my practice. Literature, especially romance books are a place where people can explore identity from a distance. Clients will describe a character, a dynamic, or a storyline with curiosity. They will explain what they love, what they want, what feels safe or unsafe. They often do this long before they can speak about those same needs directly.

That distance from reality matters.

Fiction provides a layer of separation that reduces risk. When something is framed as a story, you aren’t required to take ownership of it. You can engage, react, and reflect without feeling exposed. This creates a low-pressure environment for exploration, especially in areas shaped by shame, silence, or rigid expectations.

Romance, in particular, offers a structured space to explore gender roles, power, and desire.

Within the boundaries of a story, you can examine what it feels like to want something without having to act on it. You can observe different expressions of intimacy, communication, and conflict. You can witness power dynamics play out in ways that are negotiated, challenged, or redefined. You can see what mutual desire looks like when it is explicitly acknowledged.

These experiences don’t remain within the pages of books.

They create reference points.

When someone reads a scene where boundaries are respected, where communication is direct, or where desire is treated as valid, they are not only following a plot. They are absorbing a model. That model becomes something they can compare against their own experiences.

For individuals who were raised in environments that limited or distorted conversations about desire, this kind of exposure is significant. Many people were not given language for what they feel. They were taught what was acceptable, what was expected, and what should be avoided. Romance introduces variation. It presents alternatives.

This is where fantasy plays a critical role.

Fantasy creates distance from shame. It allows readers to engage with desire without immediately attaching judgment to it. Instead of asking “is this allowed,” the question shifts to “does this resonate.”

That shift changes the entire process.

Resonance invites curiosity. It encourages readers to notice their reactions rather than suppress them. Over time, this builds awareness. Patterns begin to emerge. Certain dynamics feel compelling, and others feel uncomfortable. Some interactions create a sense of safety, while others don’t.

This isn’t random.

It reflects internal values, needs, and boundaries that may not yet be fully articulated. Romance becomes a tool for identifying those patterns.

For marginalized readers, this function becomes even more critical.

Traditional narratives have historically centered a narrow definition of desirability. Whiteness, thinness, cisgender identity, and heteronormativity have often been positioned as the default. Within those constraints, many readers have not seen themselves reflected as the subject of desire or as central to a romantic narrative.

When readers encounter stories that center identities like their own, the impact extends beyond representation.

They are seeing themselves placed in roles that affirm their worth. They are witnessing characters who are desired, who have agency, and who navigate relationships on their own terms. This challenges internalized beliefs about who is allowed to be seen, wanted, and prioritized.

It also expands possibility.

If you have never seen a dynamic modeled, it’s difficult to imagine it as an option for your own life. Romance provides those models. It shows a range of relational structures, communication styles, and expressions of intimacy that may not have been available in a reader’s immediate environment.

This isn’t about replacing reality with fiction.

It is about creating a space where new ideas can be considered without immediate consequence.

The process is gradual. A reader notices what draws them in. They begin to understand why certain dynamics resonate. They develop language for their preferences, boundaries, and desires. Over time, this awareness can translate into real-life communication and decision-making.

In this way, romance supports identity formation.

It offers a space where exploration is possible without pressure. It allows readers to engage with complex aspects of themselves in a way that feels contained and manageable. It provides examples that can be evaluated, accepted, or rejected.

The value lies in that process of engagement.

When readers approach romance with attention and reflection, they aren’t consuming passively. They are interacting with the material. They are gathering information about themselves. They are testing ideas in a context that allows for flexibility and change.

This is particularly relevant in conversations about desire.

Desire is often framed as something that needs to be controlled or corrected. In many cultural contexts, it is associated with risk, judgment, or moral evaluation. Romance shifts that framing. It treats desire as something that can be explored, understood, and communicated.

That shift has implications.

When people have access to language and models for their experiences, they are better equipped to navigate relationships. They can identify what they want. They can articulate boundaries. They can recognize when something feels misaligned.

These are foundational skills for relational health.

They are’nt developed in isolation. They are shaped by the narratives people engage with, the examples they observe, and the spaces where they feel safe enough to reflect.

Romance, at its best, contributes to that process.

It creates a space where readers can encounter parts of themselves indirectly. It allows them to engage with those parts without immediate pressure to define or defend them. It supports a movement from reaction to recognition.

A useful place to begin is with a simple question.

What parts of yourself did you meet in fiction before you could name them out loud?

Tell me in the comments! I'll start, one of the first times I saw a nonbinary character on page was in I Kissed Shara Wheeler. There was a secondary character asking a tertiary character how they knew they were nonbinary, and as that character described the experience of knowing it, it felt like they were telling my story. I just knew, yes, that's me. And I suddenly had language I previously did not.

This isn't even remotely related to bookish content, but it's been on my mind and ties in with yesterday's post. Being upset about an interaction that didn't go the way you wanted is valid; however, we rarely, if ever, have all the facts about an interaction, because we cannot know everyone's perspective.

So we have this interaction, feel something, and our brain tells us it must be true. That belief drives much of our emotional suffering.

From a Cognitive Behavioral Therapy lens, there's an important distinction that changes how we relate to our internal world.

All emotions are valid. Not all emotions are accurate.

This difference matters because it shapes how we respond to ourselves in moments of distress. If we treat every emotion as proof of reality, we react to our thoughts as facts. And one thing I always tell my clients: "Thoughts aren't facts."

If we dismiss our emotions, we lose useful information about our needs and patterns. CBT offers a middle path. We take our emotions seriously without assuming they're telling us the full truth.

Let's start with what validity means.

An emotion is valid when it makes sense based on our internal experience. Our brain processes a situation, generates a thought, and produces a feeling. That sequence happens quickly and often outside of awareness. The feeling that follows isn't random. It's a direct response to how we interpreted what happened. Our perception of events.

If we feel anxious after someone doesn't respond to a message, that anxiety is valid. Our mind may have linked the silence to rejection. If we feel shame after making a mistake, that shame is valid. Our mind may have linked the mistake to our sense of worth.

Validation does not mean agreement. It means acknowledging that our emotional response has a cause.

Accuracy is a separate question.

An emotion is accurate when the thought driving it reflects the full context of the situation. In CBT, thoughts are evaluated for distortions. These include mind reading, catastrophizing, overgeneralizing, personalization, and more. When a thought is distorted, the emotion that follows feels intense and convincing, but it may not match reality.

Here's an example of a common experience we have.

You send a message and don't get a reply.

Your automatic thought might be, “They are ignoring me. I did something wrong.”

The emotion that follows is anxiety or rejection.

That emotion is valid. It follows the thought.

Now examine the thought.

What evidence supports the idea that you're being ignored?
What evidence suggests other explanations?
Have there been times when this person responded late for neutral reasons?

When you step back, you often see that you don't have enough information to confirm the original belief.

You try a reframe.

“They might be busy. I don't know why they haven't responded yet.”

The emotional shift is immediate. Anxiety decreases. Curiosity or mild concern replaces it.

The first emotion was valid. The second emotional response is more accurate because the thought aligns better with available evidence.

This is the core of perspective taking.

Perspective-taking expands the frame beyond our initial interpretation. It asks us to consider multiple explanations, not only the one that feels most emotionally charged. This doesn't invalidate our experience. It updates it.

Another example shows how this plays out with self-evaluation.

You make a mistake at work.

Your automatic thought is, “I'm incompetent.”

The emotion is shame.

That shame is valid. It reflects the meaning you assigned to the mistake.

Now challenge the thought.

Does one mistake define your overall ability?
What is the actual impact of this error?
What would you say to a colleague in the same situation?

A more balanced thought might be, “I made a mistake. I can correct it and learn from it.”

The emotional response shifts to disappointment or accountability. These emotions are still uncomfortable, but they're proportionate to the situation and more useful for problem-solving.

The distinction between valid and accurate emotions becomes especially important in relationships.

When someone cancels plans, we might feel hurt and think, “They don't care about me.” The hurt is valid, but the conclusion may not be accurate. Without examining the thought, we risk reacting in a way that damages the relationship. With perspective-taking, we create space to respond rather than react.

This approach changes how we treat ourselves.

Instead of saying, “I shouldn't feel this way,” we say, “It makes sense that I feel this way, given what I'm telling myself.” That reduces shame around the emotion. Then we ask, “Is my thought the only explanation, or the most accurate one?” That invites flexibility.

The goal is not to eliminate emotion. The goal is to align our emotional responses with reality as closely as possible.

In practice, this means slowing the process down.

Identify the situation.
Notice the thought that came up.
Name the emotion that followed.

Then examine the thought.

What am I assuming?
What evidence supports this?
What evidence does not?
What are alternative explanations?

When the thought shifts, the emotional experience shifts with it. This is not about forcing yourself to feel better. It is about responding to a more complete picture.

You don't have to choose between honoring your emotions and staying grounded in reality. You can do both.

I've been thinking about what happened at Book Con with Tracy Deonn and how that correlates to what happened last summer at Sinners and Stardust in Boston. These two things have one thing in common that is both simple and complex. Parasocial relationships. As we ramp up book convention season here are some things to think about.

When a reader walks into a convention space, their behavior often shifts faster than they expect or realize. Social psychology explains this phenomenon well. Environments shape norms. Norms shape behavior.

Researchers like Philip Zimbardo showed how quickly people adjust to roles based on context. In convention settings, the cues are clear. Costumes, fandom language, themed spaces, and shared identity all signal that this is not everyday life. The result is a temporary suspension of usual social boundaries. This is often called deindividuation, a concept studied by psychologist Leon Festinger. I have been to many conventions in the last five years, and I have witnessed this time and again, and I have started to call it convention liberation. When people feel less tied to their individual identity, they rely more on group norms. At conventions, the group norm leans toward openness, intensity, and emotional expression.

That shift can feel freeing. Many attendees report a sense of permission. They speak more openly, flirt more directly, and express admiration with fewer filters. Sociologist Erving Goffman described social life as a performance. Conventions function like a stage where the “front stage” rules change. You are no longer bound to your usual script.

At the same time, another process is happening. Parasocial relationships are activated and intensified. The term was first defined by Donald Horton and R. Richard Wohl. These are one-sided relationships in which a person feels emotional closeness toward a public figure who does not know them. Media exposure builds familiarity. Repeated exposure builds perceived intimacy. As a reader, many of these authors share tidbits about their lives with their readers online, and coupled with reading their books, which gives the reader what feels like a peek into the soul of the author, this gives the reader the sense that they deeply know these authors.

At a convention, that perceived intimacy meets physical proximity.

That combination creates a mismatch. The attendee feels like they are meeting someone they already know. The person behind the table is meeting a stranger while trying to do their job. This gap drives a sense of entitlement. Research on parasocial bonds shows that people often overestimate reciprocity. They expect warmth, time, emotional engagement, or even physical closeness because the relationship feels real on their side.

You see this in behavior. People interrupt conversations. They push for personal details. They expect extended interactions beyond what the setting allows. Some cross physical boundaries, as we saw at Sinner and Stardust. Others treat access as a right rather than a limited resource.

There is also a structural factor. Conventions blur lines between access and labor. Writers, actors, and artists are marketed as approachable. The setting encourages connection. Yet these individuals are working. They are managing time, energy, and often large crowds. The labor includes emotional regulation. They are expected to be kind, engaged, and responsive even when faced with invasive behavior. They often have to perform overly exaggerated positivity, which can be tremendously draining.

This creates a tension between two sets of norms. Attendees operate under a temporary norm of liberation. Workers operate under professional norms and constraints.

The result is predictable. Boundary violations increase in environments where norms are unclear or shifting. Studies on norm ambiguity show that when expectations are not explicit, people rely on internal desires or group cues. At conventions, those cues often prioritize enthusiasm over restraint.

Clear boundaries reduce this problem. When expectations are stated and enforced, behavior shifts quickly. People follow norms when they are visible and reinforced. This aligns with decades of research on social conformity.

So what is happening is not random. It is patterned.

A high stimulation environment lowers inhibition. Group identity increases emotional expression. Parasocial bonds create a sense of closeness. Structural ambiguity around roles creates entitlement.

All of these factors converge in one space. The result feels like freedom for some people. For others, especially those working the event, it feels like constant boundary management.

Understanding this helps reframe the issue. The behavior is not about individual morality alone. It is about context shaping perception, expectation, and action.

If you want that moment to feel meaningful without crossing a line, focus on intention and respect.

Pause before you step up. Remind yourself this is a brief, shared interaction, not a personal relationship. That small mental reset changes how you show up.

Keep your words specific and contained. Share one sentence about what their work meant to you. For example, “Your book helped me feel less alone during a hard time.” That lands. It doesn't require a long response or emotional labor.

Watch for cues. If the line is moving, keep it moving. If the person shifts their body, looks to the next attendee, or shortens responses, that is your signal to wrap up.

Ask before you extend the interaction. A quick “Is it okay if I ask one more thing?” gives them control. If they hesitate, let it go.

Respect physical space. Do not assume touch is welcome. A simple “Can I get a photo?” or “Is a hug okay?” keeps consent clear.

Avoid personal or intrusive questions. You are there to appreciate their work, not access their private life.

Decide your boundary ahead of time. Go in knowing you will keep it brief, kind, and grounded.

Meaning does not come from how long the interaction lasts. It comes from clarity, respect, and presence in a short moment.

When I lived in Alaska, I became a foster parent. I had not planned for it. A colleague said, “you have an extra bedroom and room in your heart, what are you waiting for?” Soon after, I met my first foster daughter at a shelter for unhoused youth. That moment shifted the direction of my life. I cared for seven daughters over the next few years. I also had to confront how little I had done to challenge my own thinking. I learned there is a huge difference between knowing racism is wrong and doing the ongoing work of antiracism.

One moment still sits with me. I was in a meeting, speaking, and a Tlingit grandmother told me to stop. She said, “we don’t need the opinion of a white woman. If we want to hear from you, we will ask.” I felt the discomfort immediately. But I also knew I needed to listen.

That moment forced me to face a gap between what I believed about myself and how I was showing up. I had named social justice as a value. As a social worker, I knew it sat at the core of the National Association of Social Workers Code of Ethics. Still, I had not done the deeper work. I had not examined how white supremacy shaped my assumptions, my reactions, and my sense of authority.

I started reading with intention. I learned about what colonizers did to the Tlingit people and Haida people. I read Black scholars and applied those frameworks to my work with Indigenous youth and families. I began to understand that antiracism is not about holding the right beliefs. It is about changing how you think, how you listen, and how you act.

That work requires unlearning. It requires decolonizing your thinking. White supremacy teaches you to center yourself, to assume expertise, to move quickly, to speak first. Decolonizing asks you to pause, to listen, to question where your thoughts come from, and to notice when you are reinforcing harm.

This is daily work. It does not end after reading one book. It does not hold steady when you are tired. Burnout makes it easier to slip back into default thinking. For me, that default comes from being raised white in a system built on white supremacy. I have to interrupt that pattern over and over again.

Reading plays a role in that interruption. Not as a checklist. Not as a way to feel accomplished. Reading diversely is part of antiracism because stories shape how you see the world. If most of what you read centers cisgender, heterosexual, white characters, those narratives start to feel neutral and universal. They are not. They are limited.

When you read stories by Indigenous authors, by Black authors, by queer authors, you shift what feels familiar. You build a different baseline. You begin to notice whose voices are missing and whose stories are treated as optional. You start to question why.

Reading diversely is not about exposure. It is about accountability. It is about refusing to let white supremacy define your imagination. It is about choosing to engage with perspectives that challenge your assumptions and expand your understanding of community, identity, and power.

For me, that shift changed how I show up in my work and in my life. It continues to change me.

Knowing that backstory, I’m always on the hunt for sapphic Indigenous romances and I found one, and it not only didn’t disappoint, I was blown away by how beautiful it was!

The Ways We Converge by Collins Fox is a book settles into you and stays there.

Synopsis: Juniper Banks has spent the last decade running her mom’s powwow food truck—a life far from the dreams she once had. But while serving frybread and iced tea, she’s quietly built something her Tribe’s thriving food sovereignty program. Now, with an official budget and a coveted office in the new Tribal administrative building, she’s ready to reclaim her narrative and help shape her community’s future.

Rowan Birdsong, a rising star in environmental law, never thought she’d return to the Reservation she once called home. But when her father’s health declines, Rowan steps away from her high-profile career to work as a Tribal advisor and take care of him. The last thing she expects is to cross paths with her first love—Juniper. Or maybe, deep down, it’s exactly who she hopes to see.

It’s been fifteen years since Rowan left Juniper behind, shattering their bond without explanation. Now, fate thrusts them together once more to collaborate on expanding the Tribal gardens Juniper worked so hard to establish. Juniper is furious—why is Rowan back now, and why does she have to ruin her carefully constructed plans for redemption?

At first, Juniper resolves to keep their partnership strictly professional. But as old tensions flare into fresh sparks and the truth behind Rowan’s sudden departure begins to surface, both women must decide whether they can rewrite their past—and if their paths are destined to converge after all.

The Ways We Converge is a second-chance, forced-proximity sapphic romance featuring two Indigenous leads, with plus-size and gender non-conforming representation, climate justice, food sovereignty, powwow food truck chaos, and nerds… who really like to bang (a lot, everywhere).

My Thoughts:

The first thing that stands out to me was how deeply Indigenous culture shaped every part of the story. The reader got community, responsibility, history, and daily life woven into each scene. Juniper’s work with food sovereignty grounds the narrative in something real and urgent. You see how food connects to land, identity, and survival. The story treated that connection with care and precision.

Sapphic romance rarely centers Indigenous characters, and here it was not a side note. It drove the plot. It shaped the tension. It informed how Juniper and Rowan moved through the world and how they moved toward each other. You felt the weight of being seen in a genre that often overlooks this perspective.

The environmental thread adds another layer. The focus on land stewardship and climate justice didn’t feel like a lesson. It felt lived in. The work Juniper builds and the work Rowan returns to support was central to their identities. Their professional collaboration created a layer of friction that pushed the romance forward instead of slowing it down.

There was also a powerful throughline around hair and mourning. The story spoke to the cultural significance of hair for Indigenous people and the act of cutting it as a response to grief. Rowan’s relationship to her hair mirrored her relationship to herself. She was mourning the version of herself who did not feel worthy, who could not love who she was. Leaving the Reservation became part of that process. She had to step away to understand herself, and that journey added depth to her return and to the choices she made in the present.

It had been 15 years since Juniper and Rowan had last seen each other, and the second chance arc hits with jus the right level of animosity and trepidation. There was a lot of hurt to work through from Rowan leaving so abruptly.

When the truth behind Rowan’s departure starts to unfold, the emotional payoff lands because the story took time to build it. And girl does the romance deliver. The tension, the intensity and these ladies LOVE to bang. More importantly, the spice matches the emotional depth instead of overpowring it. You get connection, desire, and vulnerability all working together.

This is a five star read I’ll think about for a long time. 

Every few months, a new conservative book influencer circulates the claim that romance novels, especially the “spicy” ones, are to blame for unrealistic expectations, dissatisfaction, and even the slow erosion of real relationships.

It sounds convincing. They pull information for a study here and a doctor there. They show a book in their post that looks like a valuable resource. But … it also falls apart under scrutiny.

There is no strong body of empirical research showing that reading erotic or sexually explicit romance harms relationships, and there is no strong body of evidence to show that pornography is an actual addiction. What does exist tells a different story, one grounded in therapy, sexual health research, and decades of work in bibliotherapy.

The panic says one thing, but the evidence says another.

There Is No Evidence That Romance Novels Damage Relationships

If erotic romance were actively harmful, you would expect to see consistent, peer-reviewed findings linking it to decreased relationship satisfaction or dysfunction.

That research does NOT exist.

Instead, what we have are cultural assumptions. Critics often rely on anecdotal claims or borrow concerns from adjacent research on pornography. Even in those areas, findings are mixed and shaped by context, communication, and individual biases.

Romance novels, specifically, remain largely unstudied in terms of harm. That absence matters. In research, lack of evidence is not proof of harm. It signals that a claim has not been demonstrated.

What the Research Actually Shows About Reading and Sexual Health

When researchers have studied reading in the context of sexual functioning, the results point in a different direction.

Bibliotherapy, the use of reading as a therapeutic tool, is already an established intervention in psychology. It is low-cost, accessible, and often used in sexual health treatment.

In a controlled study published in Sexual and Relationship Therapy, researchers compared erotic fiction to sexual self-help reading for women experiencing low desire. Both groups showed measurable improvement.

Participants experienced “statistically significant gains” in desire, arousal, satisfaction, orgasm, and overall sexual functioning.

The findings weren't short-lived. Follow-up data showed that improvements were maintained over time, including increases in satisfaction and reductions in pain. 

Another study on bibliotherapy found that women who engaged in structured reading interventions showed “greater gains over time” in sexual desire, arousal, and satisfaction compared to control groups. 

This isn't fringe research. It reflects a growing body of work showing that reading, including erotic material, can function as a legitimate intervention for sexual concerns.

Erotic Fiction Is Already Used in Clinical Practice

Therapists have been using erotic material for decades as part of treatment. I’ve been using it since I started private practice.

In fact, clinical literature notes that when addressing low sexual desire, “a significant number of clinicians include exercises designed to stimulate the erotic imagination,” often through reading. And in real therapy spaces, I have on occasion recommended a round or two of solo or partnered sex to my clients as “homework”.

That detail matters, not the homework, the other parts.

Erotic romance is not an outlier behavior that needs to be corrected. It's a tool already embedded in evidence-based approaches to sexual health.

Why This Works, From a Therapy Lens

When you look at this through a clinical framework, the benefits make sense.

Reading erotic romance creates space for exploration without pressure. It allows you to engage with desire privately, at your own pace, without performance anxiety.

It also gives language to something many people were never taught how to articulate.

Sexual script theory explains that people learn what sex is supposed to look like through narratives. For many, those narratives are limited, shame-based, or nonexistent. Erotic romance expands that range.

It introduces variation. It models communication. It normalizes desire.

For clients who struggle with shame, this matters. Shame reduction is strongly linked to improved sexual satisfaction and relational connection.

Reading also supports what therapists call arousal literacy. It helps people recognize what they respond to, what they enjoy, and what they want to communicate to a partner.

That kind of clarity strengthens relationships. It doesn’t weaken them.

The Relationship Impact Is Often Positive

The idea that erotic romance replaces real connection misinterprets how desire works.

Desire isn’t diminished by imagination. It’s often activated by it.

Research shows that sexual well-being is tied to overall relationship satisfaction. When desire, communication, and comfort increase, relationships tend to improve alongside them. 

Erotic reading supports that process in practical ways:

It gives couples something to talk about. It provides a shared reference point for fantasies and preferences. It reduces avoidance around sexual topics. It encourages curiosity rather than routine.

These are all markers of healthier relational dynamics, not signs of damage.

So, Why Does the Panic Persist?

The backlash against romance, especially romance written for and consumed by women, is not new.

Media that centers female desire often gets framed as excessive, unrealistic, or dangerous. The same concerns rarely appear with male-centered sexual media in the same way.

There’s also discomfort with the distinction between fantasy and expectation. Reading about something doesn’t mean demanding it in real life. People engage with fiction across genres without assuming it sets a standard for their lived experience. I mean, we aren’t jacking off minotaurs in real life, nor do any of us actually want to.

No one argues that crime novels create criminals. Romance, however, is treated differently.

That difference isn't rooted in evidence. It’s rooted in misogyny, patriarchy, and white supremacy.

What Actually Harms Relationships?

In therapy, the drivers of relationship strain are consistent.

• Communication breakdown.

• Unresolved conflict.

• Avoidance.

• Shame.

• Trauma.

Reading habits rarely show up on that list.

More often, reading becomes a resource. It helps clients reconnect with desire, understand themselves, and approach conversations with more clarity.

Erotic romance is not a threat to relationships. It is a tool. Like any tool, its impact depends on how it is used.

When approached with reflection, curiosity, and communication, it supports self-exploration and relational growth.

The research doesn't support the claim that it causes harm.

It does suggest that, for many people, it does the opposite.