The Hunger to be Wanted

I’ve been wrestling with this feeling for a while now.

For as long as I can remember, there’s been something simmering under the surface—something strong, silent, and urgent. A pressure in my chest. A knowing that there’s something within me I need to face, but can never quite name. It comes and goes like a whisper, elusive and persistent, tugging at the edges of my awareness.

This inner dialogue, whatever it is, has haunted me for years. Teasing me. Tearing at me in quiet moments. Beckoning me to understand it.

And now, as I continue to peel back the layers through meditation, journaling, Reiki, and reflection, I’ve been more devoted than ever to meeting it. Looking it in the eye. Asking it to speak clearly.

Is it past-life grief? Childhood conditioning? Some ancient scar etched into my soul?

I don’t know.
I still don’t know.
And it keeps me up at night.

The closest I ever get to it is when life throws unexpected dynamics my way—particularly those that stir my heart. Something happens in those moments… emotions flare, attachments surface, and suddenly, I’m face to face with this unnamed force inside me again. Like some hidden part of me has been awakened. And that voice? It returns louder than ever.

Learn.
Listen.
Deal.
Heal.
Wake up.
But what is it?

Why can’t I see it clearly?
Why does it feel like it controls me from the shadows?

Facing the hunger within—without shame, without running.

Living here in the desert of Morocco for the past two months has offered more clarity than I expected—though not gently. The desert doesn’t whisper. It shakes you. It strips you raw and dares you to survive. It reveals everything you thought you had buried.

Here, nothing is easy.
There is no protection.
No stability.
No place to hide.

The elements are fierce. The wind slaps your face and screams truths you’ve been trying to ignore. The sand burrows into every crevice of your life. The sun scorches. The nights freeze. The earth itself seems to conspire with your soul to say: “Enough. Time to rise.”

This place is not the Caribbean comfort of soft waves and serenity. This is Mother Nature in her wrathful form—ruthless in her love. Not here to soothe, but to awaken.

And it’s working.

Because in the stillness between sandstorms, in the moments of quiet exhaustion, my heart split open just enough to let the light in. Not because I found an answer, but because I stopped running from the question. And then, life (as it often does when you’re paying attention) sent me a reflection—not through a dramatic story or a fairytale moment—but a subtle, unexpected encounter. A soul mirror. A reminder. A connection that caught me off guard and held up a light to the wound.

And it showed me something that I didn’t even know I needed see:

There is a hunger to be wanted.

In the stillness of the Sahara, I met the ache I’d been avoiding.

The Ache I Tried to Heal Away

There’s something so tender and so human about the desire to be wanted.
Not just liked.
Not just tolerated.
But deeply, magnetically wanted.

Seen through hungry eyes.
Chosen—not out of obligation, but out of craving.
Held—not just because I’m soft and safe to hold,
but because someone can’t help but reach for me.

There’s a difference between being loved and being desired.
And if I’m being honest…
lately, it’s the desire I’ve been aching for.

That primal pull.
That electric, skin-tingling sense of “I want you—not just anyone—you.”
Not for what I give.
Not for how good I am.
But simply because I exist.

I’ve spent so much of my life being the smart one.  The patient one.
The understanding one.
The emotionally generous one.
And I’m proud of my capacity to hold, to love, and to nurture.
But there’s a part of me now—wild and a little feral—
that doesn’t want to be the one always doing the holding.

She wants to be reached for.
To be yearned for.
To be whispered about in dark corners.
To feel like someone sees her fire and says,
“God, I want that. I want her.”

And it’s so easy to shame that desire.
To judge it as needy or egoic.
But I’m realizing—it’s neither of those things.  It’s sacred.
Wanting to be wanted is not a weakness.
It’s a birthright.

We are wired for connection.
For being witnessed and cherished.
And when that part of us goes untouched for too long,
it starts to ache in the bones.
Not because we’re broken.
But because we’re alive.

And what hurts the most
isn’t just the absence of being wanted—
it’s the effort we pour into trying to earn it.
Trying to be desirable enough.
Attractive enough.
Healed enough.
Low-maintenance enough.
So they’ll pick us.
So someone will look at us and say, “Yes. You.”

But what if you don’t have to become anything to be worthy of desire?

What if the pain isn’t something to fix, but something to honor?
What if the ache is a compass—
not to chase someone else’s gaze,
but to turn toward yourself
and finally say the words you’ve been waiting to hear:

“I want you, too. I’ve been waiting for you. And I choose you—again and again and again.”

There is nothing wrong with craving to be wanted.
It’s not too much.
It’s not shallow.
It’s not something to heal away.

But maybe the path home begins when we stop outsourcing that validation—
and begin meeting that longing within.
When we start to embody the desire we long for.
When we become our own flame,
so the right ones don’t just see the light—
they feel the warmth.

Let me be wanted, yes.
But first—let me want me.

Fully. Fiercely. And unapologetically.

The Moroccan desert stripped me raw—and gave me clarity I didn’t expect.

May I Choose Myself, Fully

Therein lies the question, however – How do I hunger for myself the way I’ve hungered for others?

Wanting myself isn’t just a cute affirmation or self-care trend.
It’s not just bubble baths and journaling (though those can help).
It’s a devotion.
A daily, often uncomfortable, intentional practice of turning back toward the parts of me I was taught to quiet, dim, or discard.

To want myself means…

I stop waiting for someone else to name my worth.
I stop shrinking in hopes I’ll be easier to hold.
I stop pretending I don’t feel deeply, want deeply, crave deeply.

It means I meet my own eyes in the mirror and whisper,
“I see you. You’re not too much. You’re not too sensitive. You’re not too loud. You’re not too soft. You’re just right.”

It means I become the one who reaches for me—
in the lonely moments, in the messy ones, and in the wildly radiant ones too.

To want myself is to:

• Take up space without apology.
• Speak the truth even when my voice shakes.
• Choose rest when my body whispers, “I’m tired,” instead of proving I’m strong.
• Wear what makes me feel like me, not what makes me more palatable.
• Create, dance, move, cry—without asking for permission.
• Touch my own skin like it’s sacred.
• Stand in the mirror and see my own fire, and say, “Damn. You’re it.”

Wanting myself means I become the love I’ve been chasing.    

It doesn’t mean I don’t still crave intimacy, connection, or being deeply desired by another.
Of course I do—I’m human.

But it means I’m no longer starving for it.
I’m not waiting to be chosen in order to feel whole.
Because I’ve already picked me.

And when I want me—all of me, not just the healed parts or the pleasing parts—
I set the standard for the love I allow in.

Reclaiming the fire within: I choose myself again and again.

Conclusion: The Flame Was Always Mine

So maybe that’s what this ache has been trying to tell me all along.

That the hunger to be wanted is not a flaw.
It’s an invitation.

Not to chase love—but to awaken it within.

To stop performing for crumbs of affection,
and instead become the feast I’ve always been craving.

To stop looking for someone else to light the fire,
and remember that the flame was always mine.

So yes, I want to be wanted.
But more than that…
I want to fall in love with me —so fully and so fiercely that anyone who steps into my world knows:

This is a woman who has chosen herself.
Not once.
But every single day.

And that kind of wanting?

That kind of radiant, rooted self-desire?

That’s what changes everything.