CATEGORY: Stories That Left Their Mark

The inspiration for today’s reflections came from the film Good Luck to You, Leo Grande (2022), directed by Sophie Hyde and starring Emma Thompson. It tells the story of a woman who, having lived through most of her life, decides to explore a part of herself that has remained undiscovered for years. What stayed with me was not so much her unusual decision, but her discomfort when faced with something we might expect to be self-evident: the right to recognize and express what she wants.

It made me think about how often we seek another person’s romantic or sexual interest, and how rarely we turn that same attention toward our inner world. These are two experiences that seem inseparable, yet they are not necessarily the same. We may long for a gaze that reassures us of our desirability without ever asking ourselves what we truly want to experience.

Being found attractive by someone has a particular power. It is not simply about physical attraction. It is the feeling that someone notices us among everyone else, that our presence moves them, that they spontaneously want to come closer. A glance, a gesture, a touch can remind us of a part of ourselves that may have become lost amid the responsibilities of everyday life. For a moment, we are not only partners, parents, professionals, or people who are constantly caring for others. We are also individuals capable of awakening romantic and sexual feelings in another person.

There is nothing unusual about this need. Another person’s interest can bring us joy and strengthen our sense of connection. It can help us feel comfortable in our bodies and remind us that attractiveness does not belong exclusively to youth. Particularly in middle age, when our appearance changes and old certainties begin to be challenged, an admiring gaze can take on an almost reassuring significance.

Yet there is a subtle shift that does not always go unnoticed. It happens when the pleasure of being attractive turns into a constant need to have our worth confirmed. Then the absence of an admiring glance may feel like rejection, a partner’s reduced sexual initiative may seem like proof that we are no longer desirable, and another person’s indifference may be experienced as a personal failure. Without realizing it, we begin to give other people’s interest the power to determine how we feel about ourselves.

And so, while trying to preserve the attraction we inspire, we may gradually lose touch with what we ourselves feel.

We learn to notice what pleases the other person, what moves them, what they expect from us. We try to be attractive, available, agreeable. Sometimes we adapt out of love, sometimes out of habit, and sometimes out of fear of losing their interest. Our attention becomes so focused outward that, at some point, we may struggle to distinguish our own needs from what we have learned to offer.

Perhaps this is why the phrase “I allow myself to desire” is more complex than it sounds. It is not simply about the freedom to express what we want. It is about being able to recognize it, to listen to it without immediately dismissing it, and to acknowledge its existence even when it conflicts with what we have grown accustomed to believing about ourselves.

How many people have spent years in a relationship knowing what pleases their partner, yet find it difficult to talk about what pleases them? How many have associated their sexual worth with their ability to inspire attraction, without paying equal attention to their own pleasure? And how many continue to participate in a sex life shaped by habit, without asking themselves whether it still reflects who they are?

The answers are not simple, because our relationship with sexuality does not develop independently of our personal history. We grow up in families, societies, and relationships that teach us, often without words, what we are allowed to want and what is better left unspoken. We learn when it is acceptable to show interest, who is expected to make the first move, which behaviors are considered normal, and which might invite criticism. Some of these beliefs are left behind as we grow older. Others remain so deeply rooted within us that we come to regard them as our own personal choices.

For a woman who has learned to wait to be chosen, recognizing her own needs may feel uncomfortable. For a man who has grown up believing that he must always be sexually available, admitting that he does not feel like having sex may seem to challenge his very identity. These are different experiences, yet they share something in common: our inner world struggles to find its voice when our first concern is living up to an image we believe we must maintain.

Middle age can make this conflict more visible. Not because such difficulties appear for the first time, but because time has already shaped habits, roles, and ways of living together. Someone may have spent decades trying to be a good partner, maintain harmony in their relationship, avoid conflict, and meet their family’s needs. Somewhere along the way, they may have stopped asking themselves what personally moves them.

And when that question arises again, it may take them by surprise.

It is not easy to discover that certain things we once took for granted no longer reflect who we are. Nor is it easy to admit that we want something different from the person with whom we share our life. Sometimes we fear that such an admission will disturb the relationship. At other times, we worry that we will hurt the other person or that they will interpret our different needs as rejection.

And so silence seems easier. But silence does not necessarily make our feelings disappear. It may simply teach us to stop paying attention to them.

There is, of course, an important distinction. Recognizing what we want does not mean that everything we desire must become reality. Nor does it mean that our personal needs are more important than those of another person. An intimate encounter requires two people who are free to express themselves, to agree or disagree, to come closer or step away without coercion.

Freedom also includes the possibility of refusal. Being able to say “I don’t want to” is just as important as being able to say “I want to.” Both require us to recognize that our needs have a place within a relationship, without assuming that the other person is obliged to satisfy them.

Perhaps this is one of the essential aspects of sexual maturity: being able to welcome another person’s interest as something beautiful without making it the sole measure of our worth. Enjoying being found attractive without losing touch with ourselves when that attraction is absent. Expressing what we feel without demanding that it be reciprocated, and listening to our partner without believing that we must always agree.

These two experiences do not compete with each other. On the contrary, they can come together in a way that leaves room for both people. It is beautiful to feel desired by someone we are attracted to. But it is equally important to know that our own feelings do not require their approval in order to be recognized as part of who we are.

I think again of the film’s protagonist. A woman who, having spent years living within certain roles, initially struggles to speak about what she wants. Her discomfort does not arise solely from the presence of an unfamiliar man. It also seems to come from encountering a part of herself that she had never allowed to find expression.

This is what gives her story a deeper meaning, beyond age, gender, or personal choices. It confronts us with a possibility that exists at every stage of life: discovering aspects of ourselves that have remained unknown, even when we believed we knew ourselves very well.

I wonder how many times we have looked in the mirror trying to imagine how others see us. Whether we are still attractive, whether our bodies can still inspire desire, whether we have lost some of the charm we once took for granted. And how rarely we stand before that same mirror to ask how we feel within our own bodies, what we need, what brings us pleasure, and what we might like to discover.

The most meaningful question is not whether we are still desirable. Other people’s perceptions change, just as people, relationships, and the different stages of our lives change. What once made us feel attractive may lose its significance over the years, while other aspects of ourselves, previously overlooked, may become more valuable.

And yet, we often continue to seek reassurance in the same places we always have. We wait for a glance, a touch, or a sexual advance to assure us that we have not lost our appeal. As though someone else must remind us that our bodies, despite their changes, still have a place in love and intimacy.

Within this search, however, lies the risk of neglecting something equally important: our own relationship with sexuality. Knowing what moves us, what brings us pleasure, what draws us closer to another person. Being able to express our feelings without shame, while also recognizing what we do not want without guilt. Not believing that age deprives us of the right to pleasure, nor that it obliges us to maintain a sex life that no longer reflects who we are.

Because freedom does not lie in proving that we are still desirable. It lies in no longer needing to prove anything in order to acknowledge what we feel.

Perhaps, then, there comes a moment when we need to change the direction of our gaze. Not because the other person should cease to matter, but because we should not lose ourselves in the effort to maintain their interest.

After all, we can spend an entire lifetime waiting to be chosen, approached, desired. And throughout that waiting, we may never have asked ourselves with the same honesty whom we want to approach, what we want to share, and how we wish to be loved.

I think of Nancy in the film’s final scene, standing alone before the mirror. There is no longer anyone there to look at her, admire her, or reassure her. And yet, the absence of another person’s gaze does not seem to take anything away from her.

What moves me about this scene is not simply that a woman accepts her body. It is that, perhaps for the first time, she no longer seems to expect anything from it. She does not ask it to be younger, more beautiful, or more attractive. She does not need it to prove that she deserves to be loved.

How different might our intimate lives be if we stopped treating every encounter as a small examination we had to pass?

If we could approach someone without constantly wondering what impression we were making. If we could set aside, even briefly, the anxiety of being liked, we might discover something we had overlooked.

That sometimes, what prevents us from enjoying an intimate encounter is not the absence of attraction, but the excessive effort we make to create it.

Nancy closes the door of the room having come to know a man. But what she takes with her is not the memory of the way he looked at her.

It is the ability to stand before the mirror without needing an audience anymore.