Queer Abundance & the Courage to Disappoint

Turning 40 without shrinking

Hi, I’m Aria. And two days ago, I turned 40.

If there’s a headline for this next decade of my life, it’s this:
Way more gay. Way less shrinking.

I celebrated my 40th at Esalen Institute last weekend—my body soaking in hot springs, my heart soaking in clarity.

The last ten years have been about shedding everything I was taught to be: the good girl, the helpful partner, the woman who smiles sweetly while slowly disappearing. And now? I want everything I used to tell myself was too much to ask for—especially the kind of queer love that feels like abundance beyond imagination.

Before I turned thirty, three different men asked me to consider marriage.

Only one of them gave me a ring, but all three offered futures that required me to contort myself into something smaller. Something safer. Something more convenient.

The first was the son of a Pentecostal preacher. He proposed in his grandparents’ garden during undergrad, and I said yes because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. His grandfather baptized me in a Jacuzzi tub on the Oregon coast, speaking in tongues while holding me underwater as the family clapped around us. I came up gasping, soaked in modest tank top and shorts, trying to believe that maybe this kind of love could save me.

But I was a closeted bisexual woman trying to play the role of a straight Christian wife. It was never going to work.

The second came from a Colombian man I met while working as a travel writer in Ecuador. He followed me back to New York, talking about marriage and futures in the cloud forest—and maybe also a green card. There wasn’t love between us. Just his longing to stay and my temptation to be the one who helped. But something in me knew: I didn’t want to be someone’s escape plan. I wanted to be free.

The third “proposal” was purely transactional. My Israeli manager at the tapas restaurant I worked at during my first magazine internship (yes, everyone thought I said topless restaurant) offered me $10,000 to marry him so he could stay in the U.S. He was charming, vaguely desperate, and I’m fairly certain I wasn’t the first employee to receive this offer. I considered it for a moment—late nights pouring wine and carrying plates of patatas bravas didn’t exactly cover my bills. And still, I knew: it was never going to be enough.

Eventually, I did say yes. But not to a man who wanted me to disappear inside his life. I said yes to another closeted queer person—someone who, like me, was ready to unravel the scripts we were handed. Together, Skye and I stepped into non-monogamy as a process of remembering who we really are. Plant medicine helped. Tenderness helped. Therapy helped. So did rage, honesty, and unlearning.

Earlier this month, Skye and I went to Esalen to celebrate my 40th—a place that, in my dreams, had always felt like a sacred threshold for transformation. On a plant walk through the gardens, we met a pair of stunning gay twins from Austin, also turning 40. Their shared birthday prayer? To take up more space—proudly queer, shame-free and unapologetically.

Another couple on the walk—two women, the only visible lesbian pair we saw on site—joined us for lunch and shared their love story. One of them had left her husband after finally admitting what she had always quietly known: that the love she felt for this woman wasn’t just real, it was hers to claim. In a culture that pushes compulsory heterosexuality at every turn, their love felt like a radical act of choosing truth.

I was moved to tears by both couples. Their courage, their devotion, their joy. It reminded me that queer love is not just beautiful—it’s brave. It’s world-building. It’s what happens when we stop asking for permission and start writing new stories.

I left Esalen meditating on how I want to show up in this next decade. And I made myself a quiet promise: Next time I return to Esalen, it’ll be with a woman.

When I told Skye this, he gifted me a rainbow pin to wear proudly. I love the way this human supports my blossoming.

Want to hear more about our journey? Skye and I were recently featured on the cover of Making Happy Couples. (Flip to page 10 to read our story.) In this article, we open up about our daily rituals and why we believe love is an art form—meant to be practiced, played with, and reimagined.

What I’ve come to understand over the last 12 years of exploring non-monogamy in many forms is that it really only works if we’re radically honest about our desires—even if that honesty risks disappointing people we care about.

And that includes telling the truth to yourself first.

The first time someone asked me what I liked in the bedroom, I had no idea how to answer.

Surely I had preferences—but I’d never really been asked. I was so used to reading the room, attuning to other people’s needs, and shaping myself to be desirable that I never actually paused to ask: Wait… what do I want?

For so many women—especially those socialized to be pleasing, accommodating, and selfless—desire becomes something we suppress or outsource. We become experts at managing other people’s emotions and completely disconnected from our own.

I’ve stayed too quiet, and I’ve spoken too soon.
I’ve waited for someone else’s comfort to catch up with my needs, hoping that if I just stayed easygoing enough, I wouldn’t be left behind.

But I’ve learned: Shrinking doesn’t create safety. Shrinking creates resentment.

This last decade has been a practice in doing the opposite of shrinking—and instead, giving myself permission to ask for more. (Which, some days, I still struggle with.)

More reassurance. More time. More intimacy. More presence. More queer joy.

And not everyone could meet me there.

Some stepped back. Some told me I was too much. In the past, I have softened my edges, repackaged my needs, made myself easier to hold.

But 40 has a different energy. This decade, I’m letting people have their reactions—and I’m letting myself have my needs.

Even when it means disappointing others.

This used to make me feel guilty. Now, I see it as a deeper kind of love. The kind that starts with me.

For those of us raised and socialized as women in Western culture, this is radical. We’ve been taught to earn belonging through self-erasure. To make ourselves agreeable. To be easy to love.

But I’m no longer interested in being easy to love. I want to be fully seen.

What I’ve been practicing is called differentiation. It’s the soulwork of becoming who you are without abandoning connection. One of my mentors, Martha Kauppi—author of my most-recommended books on polyamory—teaches that it comes in three parts:

1. Looking inward to know what you feel, believe, and need—separate from what others want from you.

2. Communicating your truth, even when it’s hard, even when your voice shakes.

3. Staying present and open when someone else shares a truth that’s hard for you to hear.

It’s not easy work. It’s sacred work. And it’s what non-monogamy has invited me into again and again.

And now, as I step into this new decade, I want to name something else I’ve been reclaiming: my queerness.

I realized recently that while it feels totally normal to have two AMAB sweeties, the thought of dating two women at the same time still feels like some kind of decadent, untouchable dream. Like queer love is so sacred and rare, I could only ever access it in small, reverent doses.

But what I’m realizing is that’s a scarcity mindset I didn’t consent to.

So here’s my prayer for 40 and beyond:
May it be gayer.
May it be fuller.
May I stop gatekeeping my own abundance.

This decade, I’m dreaming bigger and queerer.
This decade, I’m honoring my truth.
And no to being digestible—for anyone.

So here’s to turning 40.

To queer abundance.
To sacred disappointment.
To truth-telling that is gentle but doesn’t flinch.
To the people who stay when you stop performing.

With love,
Aria 💫

In the meditation room at Esalen, April 2025.