Unzipped: What My Body Knows at 30,000 Feet

I always cry on planes. It doesn’t have anything to do with the altitude or a fear of flying. On a plane I can feel the things in the queue, waiting to be felt.

Sex and Style is written by Certified Sexologist and Somatic Sex Coach Sarah Ward. This is intended as general advice. If you’d like a personalized guidance, I’d be honored to connect in a discovery session.

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Photo by Alexander Isreb

I always cry on planes. Today is no different, seated in a row of women traveling alone to San Diego. It feels like surfacing after weeks of being underwater, taking hungry gulps of air. It feels like being alone even though I’m surrounded. 

I come to my senses and drop into my soma. I feel how resistant she is to opening today. I have a demanding schedule. I’m in two new certifications and at the time of writing, leading my first round of group coaching for women in The Pleasure Collective. 

I ask a lot from myself. I don’t always give from the excess. Sometimes I give from the marrow.

And today in this moment with my body, she shows me her soft underbelly: her limitations, the wear and tear of weeks without enough rest, meditation and tending. The tears come unbidden, hot on my skin. 

I see you, baby. I see you. 

I wipe the tears discreetly and notice the woman sitting in the window seat does too. I don’t know her, but I feel her. She’s carrying something too. For a moment, instead of feeling alone, I feel our shared humanity. 

Letting go of a life and a love brings more grief than I could have imagined. The cost of heartbreak is immense; it takes time to mend. My body can hold it. It feels like some combination of dying and being born; the labor pains are immense, so I breathe through it. 

With my new love, he’s patient as I release the residual grief. He stands vigil as I process. He holds space for me to melt into love. 

I am holding a lot for others and I want to be held. 

The balls I’m juggling (or clumsily fumbling) want to come down. 

Let them. 

Let the ice melt. 

Let the balls drop. 

Let the animal of your body rest. 

The first time I cried on a plane, I was traveling alone. It was a late flight and I was reading We are Only Taking What we Need by Stephanie Powell Watts in the dark. Her words stirred something in me. They unlocked a door that I didn’t know lived in me. 

The tears felt like solidarity. Like someone was writing what I hadn’t named for myself. 

They felt like being known, truly known. 

Since then, crying on a plane when I’m traveling solo is like muscle memory. 

It doesn’t have anything to do with the altitude or a fear of flying. On a plane I can feel the things. Disconnected from the social media drip feed, I unplug and catch up on the queue of all the things that have been yearning to be felt. 

It comes all at once. 

After my husband moved out, traveling alone cut deep. I saw elderly couples holding hands at the airport, couples that had weathered the storms together. It felt like a reminder that our relationship wouldn’t make it. I could barely watch. 

Photo by Alina Kurson

Yesterday would have been our anniversary

Today I’m at 30,000 feet charting a course to meet my love where he’ll put his hand on my heart and we’ll breathe together, grounding in each other’s energies. 

The first time he did this was on a crowded street in the middle of Art Walk Downtown. All of a sudden, I felt overwhelmed by the crowds and stimuli and the intensity of this newly discovered relationship. 

Unexpectedly, he put his hand over my heart and attuned to me. People parted on the sidewalk around us. The experience folded around us like a cocoon on that bustling night market.

Later he’ll put his hand on my lower heart, my yoni, and we’ll breathe some more, until we reach a melting point and dissolve into each other. 

It’s all I want. 

Through orgasm I am remade. Like the caterpillar in the chrysalis that boils down to goop. That rises to what her source codes architected her to be. 

Photo by Ellie Burgin

Peak pleasure takes time because I am becoming someone new. 

Through sex, I am made alive. I am pure presence in my body, gazing into his eyes. 

I see, I am seen 

I love, I am loved. 

Things click back into place.

Everything makes sense. 

My cup is full once more. I am full to overflowing.

“Melt for me,” he coaxes as I round the bend. 

“Cum for me. Make me fall in love again.” This is the sweetest dirty talk from this writer love of mine. 

Just like a pleasure practice can rewire your nervous system, so too can conscious sex with a lover. 

These days, my approach to sex isn’t far off from meditation:

feel it all
embody it all
sound your surrender
receive the sacrament of sex

I always cry on planes, when the altitude lets me see behind the veil. Here in this liminal space between earth and sky, I feel everything, all at once. 

Sex and Style is written by Certified Sexologist, Somatic Sex and Style Coach, Sarah Ward. She has spent the last 20 years studying human sexuality and minted it in 2021, certifying in the VITA™ Methodology with Layla Martin, and as an Erotic Blueprints™ Coach with Jaiya. For a personalized path to pleasure, schedule a free call with Sarah.

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