What If Aliveness Was Allowed to Come and Go?
There's a kind of exhaustion that has nothing to do with sleep.
It's the tiredness that comes from performing. From showing up. From pretending you feel things you don't feel, or hiding the things you do.
Maybe you've noticed it in intimate moments. The way part of you watches from a distance while another part goes through the motions. The way warmth that should flow naturally... doesn't.
Or maybe it's more diffuse than that. A general numbness. A sense that the pilot light went out somewhere along the way, and you can't quite remember when, or why, or how to relight it.
This Isn't About What You Think It's About
Here's what I want to say carefully, because you've probably heard enough unhelpful messages about this already:
This is not about performance.
Not about frequency. Not about what you should want or how you should respond or what a "healthy" person looks like in this department.
It's about something much simpler and much harder.
It's about aliveness.
The feeling of being in your body rather than observing it from a safe distance. The warmth that should rise naturally when you feel safe and connected and present. The exuberance that children have and that most of us slowly lose.
Some of us never had it. Some of us had it and lost it. Some of us put it away in a locked room years ago because it wasn't safe to feel that alive.
All of those are real. All of those make sense.
The Shutdown That Saved You
If you've been through experiences that taught your body it wasn't safe to feel—
If someone took what wasn't theirs to take—
If you learned early that your pleasure wasn't yours, that your body was for others' purposes, that wanting was dangerous—
Then the numbness isn't a malfunction. It's not broken sexuality. It's not frigidity or low drive or any of those clinical labels that make it sound like you're the problem.
It's protection.
The wisest part of you knew that feeling everything wasn't survivable in that context. So it built walls. Created distance. Turned down the volume on sensation so you could keep going.
That shutdown may have saved your life. It certainly preserved something essential in you.
But what protects you at one point can imprison you later.
And maybe you're at the point where the walls that kept you safe are now keeping out what you actually want.
The Flower That Blooms Without Apology
Let me tell you about a flower that knows something about this.
Red Hibiscus blooms huge—dinner-plate sized flowers, some of the largest of any plant in its range. Vivid crimson. Impossible to ignore.
But here's the thing: each bloom lasts only one day.
One day of full, unapologetic expression. Then it closes. Falls away. And the next day, a new bloom opens.
Open. Close. Open. Close.
Not a failure. Not a problem to fix. A rhythm.
The plant doesn't apologize for closing. Doesn't try to force yesterday's bloom to stay open. Doesn't worry that tomorrow's bloom might not come.
It trusts the rhythm.
What the Hibiscus Knows
Here's the teaching I see in this flower, and I want to offer it carefully because I think it matters:
What if your aliveness is rhythmic, not constant?
We're sold this story—especially as women—that we should be perpetually available. Always warm. Always responsive. Ready at all times.
And when we're not, we pathologize ourselves. Something must be wrong. We're broken. Frigid. Damaged.
But hibiscus says something different.
It says: there are times for opening and times for closing. Times for full expression and times for rest. The rhythm itself is the vitality—not the forced maintenance of constant bloom.
You're not supposed to be always-on.
Nobody is.
The Both/And of This
Here's what I think Red Hibiscus might offer, and I'm saying "might" because I believe in being honest about uncertainty:
Both the body has wisdom in shutting down and it might be ready to open again.
Both what happened to you was real and damaging and you are not permanently broken by it.
Both sexuality is complex and layered and your own business and some gentle support might be welcome.
Both you can honor the rhythm of closing and you can welcome the rhythm of opening when it comes.
The shame says you have to be one thing. Broken or healed. Available or damaged. Over it or still stuck.
But you're human, and humans are more complicated than that.
Both things can be true.
What This Flower Does Differently
The hibiscus doesn't just bloom big. It blooms from a dark center.
The petals—vivid, warm, alive—radiate outward from a deep burgundy heart. Light emerging from shadow. Beauty and darkness held together.
This is the flower's signature: integration, not transcendence. Not rising above the darkness but blooming from it.
The mucilage in hibiscus plants—that slippery, soothing substance in the leaves and roots—has been used for centuries to calm inflammation. Herbalists used it for irritated tissues, for burning, for rawness.
The essence works similarly, but on a different kind of inflammation.
The burning of shame. The rawness of old wounds. The irritation of being asked to be something you're not.
It soothes.
What This Won't Do (And What It Might)
Red Hibiscus won't erase what happened to you. It won't bypass grief or trauma work. It won't replace therapy if therapy is what you need.
But here's what it might do—what people tell me it does:
Create a little more space. A little more warmth. A little more permission to feel what you actually feel, at your own rhythm, without forcing anything.
Like a gentle hand on your back, reminding you that coming back to yourself is possible.
Why This Moment Matters
Here's something I want to say directly, because it's true:
You've been protecting yourself for good reason. Maybe for years. Maybe for so long that the walls feel like part of you.
And here's something worth noticing: something brought you here, now. Not last year. Not next year. Now.
Maybe it's a relationship that's asking more of you than your old patterns can give. Maybe your body is signaling—through restlessness, through longing, through a quiet grief you can't name—that something wants to shift.
Maybe you're just tired of waiting for a perfect moment that keeps not arriving.
The hibiscus doesn't plan when to bloom. It senses when conditions are right—enough warmth, enough light, enough readiness—and it opens.
You're reading this now. That's the signal.
For the Aliveness You Thought Was Gone
Maybe you're here because something in you recognized itself.
Maybe you've been numb for so long you forgot what it felt like to actually feel.
Maybe you're healing from something specific. Maybe you're navigating a life transition—menopause, relationship changes, identity shifts. Maybe you're just tired of feeling like you're watching your life from behind glass.
Whatever brought you here: the fact that you're still reading suggests something in you is ready.
Not to be fixed. Not to perform healing for anyone else's benefit.
Just to check: Is it safe to bloom again?
Both/And: The Close
Here's what's true, and what I want you to hold as you decide:
Both you can wait until you feel completely ready and complete readiness almost never arrives on its own.
Both this is entirely your choice, no pressure and choosing is itself a form of honoring yourself.
Both a flower essence is a small thing and small things can be exactly what helps larger things shift.
You've been patient with yourself. That patience was necessary. It might still be necessary.
But if something in you just recognized that patience has done its work—that now might be the time for a different kind of gentleness—trust that.
The next step is simple: one bottle arrives in a few days. You take a few drops when it feels right. And you let your body teach you what it needs.
That's it. That's the whole invitation.
Red Hibiscus flower essence is made with care and intention. It's not medicine, doesn't treat any condition, and makes no promises about outcomes. What it offers is a relationship—between you and a flower that knows something about blooming fully for just one day, then letting go without apology. That's the rhythm. Maybe it's yours too.
This is a 1 fl oz stock strength bottle.
All of our essences use brandy as a preservative. For more information regarding the brandy as well as alternatives, click here.
