If you’re new here, on July 7, I had surgery to remove a polyp from my uterus. They take those out because, if they don’t, they can turn into cancer. On a stretcher in an operating room 4,000 miles from my family in the U.S., I reacted negatively to anesthesia, which is normal for me. After the needle went in, it felt like fire was spreading up my veins. I fell asleep shortly thereafter.

When I woke up (still wearing the blue, full-body napkin gown), my doctor told me the polyp was bigger than expected. Standard practice was to biopsy it, and I’d have to wait weeks for the results.

At home in recovery in the weeks post-surgery, I bled and spotted for weeks. It stopped. Then, out of the blue, one morning I woke up bleeding. I use a medical concierge to navigate the Portuguese system and help with translations to English. I called the nurse. They told me to go to the emergency room immediately. So there I am, bleeding, standing in the ER, panicked and scared, as a doctor explains to me, in Portuguese, that he can’t help me. The nurse reminds him: English. Turns out that particular facility doesn’t have ob/gyn emergency services, so I have to travel to the other end of town.

Urgência, Triagem, Admissões, Sala de Tratamentos, Aguarde a sua vez, Tire uma senha.

I’m an American navigating all of this on my own, in Portuguese with English translations sprinkled in. Mind you, I still hadn’t gotten biopsy results back. So, in that moment, my brain is already on overload, trying to physically navigate the hospital’s space in another language and culture, while bleeding. And I’m considering the fact that I could have cancer.

From the polyp’s discovery and removal, to getting the news that its biopsy came back clean, I was flooded with emotion. I hadn’t realized how much stress and worry I was carrying until I felt its release when I got the good news.

Friends old and new, near and far, showed up with support, prayers, Uber Eats, and by driving me to the surgery, making sure I got home okay, and sitting with me at the house.

People who care about me actively reach for me, especially when I need help.

Even folks I didn’t know very well, and strangers commenting online, extended an overwhelming amount of kindness. I’m grateful for all of it.

As we age, should we be so lucky, it strikes me that “health” is a topic that will likely come up for all of us. Like, hypothetically, I’d have to tell someone I’m dating that I bled through my clothes at 11 a.m. and stood alone in a foreign emergency room not knowing if I had cancer.

But, I know how to have tough conversations, because I’ve already been having them around sex.

A Different Kind of Negotiation

Ooh, I like these kinds of conversations.

📸 Me, circa 2004, as Catwoman for Halloween. 🐈‍⬛

After reading a recent love letter about managing conflict, a friend sent me the following question:

Do you ever negotiate how to have a [difficult] conversation the way a person can negotiate a sex or kink scene? Not everyone is open to negotiation, but I could see that being helpful in some situations.” — [Redacted]

Fascinating. Because here’s the thing:

Good sex is a conversation.

It’s often about desire, needs, pleasure, boundaries, and limits. That’s true whether that conversation is discussed verbally, demonstrated physically, or both.

Sex and kink communities can be much better at having those kinds of conversations and, by extension, at having sex.

Because even if pleasurable, two medium-sized people getting it on missionary, able-bodied, vanilla, cis-het style requires less creativity, ingenuity, and imagination. Often, the assumption is that a cis-het man’s penis is going in a woman’s vagina, and the woman doesn’t have a penis.

In fact, what I’ve just described is so ubiquitous that almost anything else gets called a little spicy, or kink.

Because BDSM is usually more unscripted, you actually have to talk about what you want to happen.

Okay, so are you into open or closed relationships? Monogamy or non-monogamy? Oh, okay, so you’re only down with just the two of us having sex? Do you want other people to watch? Do you like being blindfolded? Yeah, okay, the whole time or only parts? Do you want to put the blindfold on yourself? Is there anything that would make you feel unsafe while blindfolded?

All of this stuff gets negotiated in advance.

And, it’s pleasurable and fun.

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In workshops, I often give folks resources to help make sex conversations hotter and easier, especially when they’re entering a new relationship.

So, let’s assume someone wants to have sex (or an emotionally difficult conversation) with me. This takes me back to the question my friend asked me about negotiating a conversation the same way I’d negotiate a sex scene.

When I think about it that way, I’ve been doing it all along. It’s just been piecemeal. The steps I’d take to negotiate a scene are the same ones to negotiate a conversation. Here’s what it looks like if I put it all together.

Ground Zero: Mutual Interest and Willingness

People do stuff out of guilt, pressure, fear, and expectations about what’s the “right” thing to do, all the time. With an emotionally charged conversation, it’s totally okay to say: not this, not right now, not with you, not here, or not in front of the kids.

That’s different from “no.”

If I ask my partner,

“Do you want to talk about ___?”

And their answer is “no,” that’s a full sentence.

But what if I need to talk about something, and my partner is uninterested, unable, or unwilling? I used to chalk it up to: Fine, fuck ‘em. If he can’t be bothered to care about my needs, I can’t be bothered to stay with him.

Growing, instead, I’m learning to practice saying:

“I’d like to better understand what you consider hard things to talk about, and what makes it feel difficult for you.”

Because we should both feel good about participating in the whole process.

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Level 1: Timing

Spontaneity can be good. I’ve had my fair share of boyfriend fun in public pools, a department store dressing room, and elsewhere. That said, there’s probably never a “best” time to unexpectedly tell someone: I had a polyp removed, and I’m in that scary window where I don’t know if it’s cancer.

I’m an oversharer. I told everyone.

Because when I feel surprised, scared, or uncertain, my reflex is to laugh or blurt something out immediately. Then, my brain starts racing.

But, for tough conversations, I’m learning it’s good to take a beat to consider if either me or my partner is exhausted, dysregulated, tipsy, sleep-deprived, or otherwise ill-equipped to show up with clarity.

Level 2: What’s On the Table, and What’s Not

Assuming we both want to talk, and it’s a good time, this next question is: What, specifically, is the conversation about, and how are we each participating in it?

• Hard limits: Off the table, no exceptions. (Or, alternatively, non-negotiable. Must be included.)

• Soft limits: Stuff either of us is open to. Maybe yes, maybe no, or just plain maybe.

Heads up: there’s a difference between “secrecy” and “privacy.”

My childhood belongs to me, and I own my experiences. If my partner wants to know more, I can refuse to discuss any part of it. It’s private. The degree to which I open up about it with them is directly proportionate to how much I trust them.

If my partner wants to know about my relationship with fidelity, current STI/STD status, or other topics (that directly affect their own body, health, or decisions about being in a relationship with me), keeping that information from them is a form of secrecy.

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Level 3: Safewords

Broadly speaking, picking a specific word or phrase that means “I need to stop right now” is a genuinely valuable tool. Because, even once a conversation’s underway, either person might need to pause or exit, for any reason.

I haven’t needed a safeword or phrase for conversations yet, but I’m thinking of adopting “I need to breathe” as a verbal signal that it would help my nervous system if we slowed down.

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Level 4: Duration

No conversation is endless. Knowing whether something is a quick 20-minute check-in lands differently than knowing it’s an hours-long conversation about something very painful. So it can be helpful to signal, in advance, roughly how long you think the conversation will take.

Either way, it’s likely to run short or long.

So, if it’s a serious conversation, it can be helpful to agree in advance what happens if you run out of time (or just out of steam or will to continue!). For example, it took me multiple rounds to fully open up about how terrified I felt sitting in that ER.

Level 5: The Scene

Everything before this is about what’s going to happen. This is about what you do, and how you check in with each other, while it’s actually happening.

• Are we still okay to keep going?

• How are you feeling right now?

• Didn’t expect this to come up. How do we want to handle it?

• Is this too much?

This isn’t about something or someone being “wrong.” It’s about making sure everything and everyone still feels “right” about how things are going while it’s happening. It’s the equivalent of talking someone through it.

Level 6: Privacy

Good to discuss in advance. But, of course, things will also come up mid-conversation that nobody could anticipate. So it’s also worth discussing after as well. For example, “who gets to know” isn’t the same question as “who gets to know everything”. Is there anything you shared with your partner that you’d rather them not share with friends, family, or someone else?

Level 7: Aftercare

Immediate: This is about what happens right after the deed is done. For me, it depends on what happened.

• If the conversation ended with either of us raw or things feeling unresolved, I don’t want to be touched, and I might not want to touch my partner either. But, I’d still want to give & get reassurance that we’re okay.

• If the conversation ends on a high, I probably want to have sex with them because I don’t just want to feel “near” them. I want that specific closeness of having them inside me.

Of course there’s a lot in between “don’t touch me” and “let’s get naked.” Back rubs, hugs, kisses. Depends on how the conversation went.

Debrief: Separate from aftercare, days or weeks later, once we’ve both had time to process, this is about checking in about how the conversation went. What worked, what didn’t, what got skipped, what needs a repeat.

Debriefs are about improving the process for next time.

Aftercare is about showing up for your partner in that specific moment, right now.

Everyone Deserves A Happy Ending

I’m so incredibly thankful that the results came back clean.

We’re all so frail, and I know I sometimes certainly take life and health for granted. This whole experience reminded me to stop doing that.

Of course not every hard conversation, or biopsy, ends with clean results. So, the takeaway isn’t that everyone gets a happy ending, no matter how much we all might deserve them.

My point: Negotiating a hard conversation the way I’d negotiate a sex scene is about speaking my truth.

Because, at the end of the day, hard conversations happen because something is important to someone. And if it’s important, it matters. So talking about it can only bring us closer. Unless it pushes us further apart. Either way, the truth underneath the conversation is still there, whether it’s discussed or not.

So might as well get it out.

Tiny, Private Love Letter is written by Twanna A. Hines, an obsessed observer of how we love, learn, leave, and find our way through this world. When you subscribe or upgrade, you’re supporting independent writing and helping offset the cost to produce the work you’re currently reading.

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Twanna A. Hines, M.S. is an American entrepreneur and award-winning sexual health educator. She is founder of FUNKY BROWN CHICK, Inc., a social impact consultancy serving nonprofits, foundations, B-Corps, and international organizations. She has appeared in The Guardian, NBC News, Al Jazeera, Fast Company, and 25+ other outlets; she has been covered by The New York Times, CNN, Cosmopolitan, Essence, Vox, and 50+ additional media outlets. She has been called “a gifted storyteller” by The Washington Post. See more at: twannahines.com.

Call it ADHD, C-PTSD, or any other letters that you want to hang on it. For better or worse, it’s how I’m built. I see patterns before others do, before I can even name them for myself. When I see something, I have to say something.

📸 : Pre-show selfie from We’re All Going To Fucking Die!

Thoughts go from my brain to my lips without a filter.

While I cognitively understand that other people might have thoughts, feelings, and emotions that they don’t express out loud, I just don’t see how that doesn’t bug the shit out of them.

In particular, in my relationships with men, when I directly call out things that I’ve noticed (whether it’s something they said, or didn’t say, something they did, or didn’t do) they often clock it as an accusation, or tell me they feel like they’re being interrogated.

This happens more often than I’d like to admit.

They say or do something, and I say that I’ve noticed it. Only, they don’t actually address the thing I said or asked. To be clear, there’s no silence. No, that would be too obvious. Instead, maybe the guy answers an adjacent question, or volunteers tangentially relevant info that sidesteps the question entirely.

Or, maybe, he flips the script and turns it into a conversation about:

• How I asked the question. (”I don’t like it when you raise your voice.”)

• How the question made him feel. (”Are you testing me?”)

• What he thinks is “broken” in me such that I felt the need to ask in the first place. (“Do you think this has something to do with your childhood?”)

Either way: he doesn’t answer the question.

Having vs. Managing

I’ve started calling this the difference between having a conversation and managing one. When I’m having a conversation with a partner, words come out of both of us the way water flows out of a faucet: freely, in a straight line.

Questions → Answers.

By contrast, when I’m being managed, it feels like watching a dress rehearsal. If you’re into theater, you know exactly what I mean. Flubbed lines get repeated differently. That thing that malfunctioned gets rerun in a new manner that “works.”

In moments with my partner, not on stage, it looks and feels different. Maybe they’re inserting pauses between what they say, tracking my face to see how much more space or diversion they’ll need, or figuring out whether they should walk something back.

To be fair, of course, there are reasons why this happens.

• Managing: Chances are, the person managing the conversation already knows where it’s going. Answer: Straight to hell! They already know that, and you probably do, too. They don’t want it to derail, so they’re trying to figure out what’s the thing to say, or not say, to keep the conversation on track. So, it’s like a verbal jujitsu around avoidance.

• Having: Just say it, for crying out loud! And, honestly, the reason why the conversation might go off track is because neither person is actually doing the very hard, deep, emotional work around the thing that’s causing the conversation to derail in the first place. Real talk? That’s the conversation you should be having.

So, what happens in my relationships? When I ask a direct question and I don’t get a direct answer, at that exact moment, while it’s happening:

I stop breathing.

It’s like my body instinctively knows something’s up before my brain has caught up. It feels like everything is moving too fast for me to process it, let alone how I feel about it. Because there’s:

• the one thing I said, plus

• a minimum of two other things to consider: 1) the managed non-answer to it, and 2) no space in between my question and the managed answer. So I don’t get to actually sit with any of it before the next thing is already happening in the conversation.

It can feel like a tight, stiff, tiny knot forming. Basically, the opposite of the kind of flow that comes with having a conversation instead of managing one.

The longer something goes unaddressed, the bigger the knot gets. The more that conversations like that pile up, the more knots form. At some point, the emotional and physical labor of untying all the knots just stops being worth it, especially when it feels like I’m the only one doing the work to untie them.

That’s when I leave.

But, lately, I’ve been thinking about and growing into something else. Instead of immediately asking myself if I should leave, what if I start by staying in the moment without losing myself in it? That’s the hard shit, and here’s what I’m learning about that.

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Picture this: It’s 1998.

I’m a newly graduated, twenty-something woman living in London, working in fashion by day, bartending by night. Honestly, I was kind of pleased with myself for having found a way to actually live abroad. I mean, it’s not like I grew up with parents or other close relatives who grew up gallivanting around Europe.

I went there because, in 1998, the UK was the coolest place on the planet. Trainspotting. Britpop. Oasis. London’s emerging fashion scene. It was where everything seemed to be happening at once.

The World Cup was taking place across the English Channel in France, and matches were on television at my pub. Drunk people singing. Grown men crying. Flags from countries I’d never seen before. It was all so mesmerizing, and excitingly different for a small-town girl from Illinois.

One day at the pub, after watching South Africa lose, a drunk Brit looked at my brown face, smirked, elbowed me, and spoke louder than needed when he said:

I hadn’t said a word, but he’d already assumed he knew more than he actually did. I quickly, and oh-so-politely, spat back:

“I’m not South African. I’m American.”

I felt: Annoyed.

It’s like someone repeatedly calling you by the wrong name. It happens once, and you’d hardly notice it. Two different people do it on the same day, or it happens three days in a row, well then it starts to feel kind of odd. Absurd. Maybe even a little confusing. But, then it happens again. And again, from someone else, and another person. Then, one day, you find yourself snapping at a total stranger:

“NIGEL!! MY NAME IS NOT SARAH!! I have taken care to call you by your correct name. Why are you being too lazy to learn mine?”

Of course, I’d never automatically assume someone’s name was Nigel simply because he looked like the other Nigels I’d met. Likewise, you can’t really assume where anyone is “from” any place based on “how they look.” And, since we’re talking about the 90s, look at the Spice Girls. They were all so very very British and all looked and sounded and dressed so very very differently. “British” is not, nor has it ever been, just one face. Ditto for “American.”

He probably hadn’t met enough of us yet.

Remember, this was before smartphones, Obama, and probably most people in the pub had ever actually met an actual American apart from the ones they’d seen on TV (which is totally not representative). “Nigel” aside, what I remember most about that World Cup was how I became a “football” fan.

That summer, England fans who’d gone to France had behaved so ridiculously, and showed their assess so much, that Tony Blair went on national television and apologize to the French, en Français.

It was wild! Though I never showed my ass, I could understand how someone would. I’d gotten really swept up in the whole thing. The chants. Feeling like you want to change your nationality, or allegiance, or just travel to more countries because you’ve fallen in love with a team and/or their fans. How, for about 90 minutes, in every time zone, the entire world seems to be sitting, standing and singing (and this year ROWING) along at the exact same time as we’re watching the same damn thing.

It is, indeed, a beautiful game.

I’ve been watching soccer ever since.

FAST FORWARD

This year, here in Portugal, I watched the games in Praça do Comércio, while cheering for every country I’ve lived in (my native United States, plus The Netherlands, England, and of course Portugal).

I also support everyone from Africa.

And Norway. Because, how could anyone not? They’re so lovely! I even watched a match there with my Norwegian friend Thomas. 🇳🇴

I have good news if you’re reading this and:

• your team got kicked out of the World Cup sooner than you wanted them to, or

• you’re wondering “wait, what the hell did I even do with my Sunday nights before all of this happened?”

YOUR POST WORLD CUP STARTER PACK

You don’t have to wait for the next World Cup. Pick a team and support them. Seriously, that’s how you keep that World Cup Fever going all year round.

Premier League (🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿)

Every year, England’s top 20 teams (e.g. Manchester United, City, The Arsenal, Liverpool, etc.) play each other.

Between now and the next World Cup, you can watch your favorite play in the Premier League. Years ago, that’s exactly how I first got to know about Norway’s keeper Erling Haaland. He’s a City player.

• When to catch it: Runs roughly September through June, annually.

• Where’s the next final: There isn’t one! 😂 Whoever gets the most points throughout the season finishes top of the table and wins “the league.”

Champions League (🇪🇺)

Every year, the top clubs across Europe (e.g. Real Madrid, Manchester City, Bayern Munich, Atlético, etc.) play each other.

From 1998 until Sir Alex Ferguson retired, I was hardcore with Manchester United support, and I went to several games. Admittedly a fair-weather fan, I stopped watching when they started losing. But, when I did watch and attend games, that’s how I found out about (and saw!) Cristiano Ronaldo, David Beckham, Wayne Rooney, Ryan Giggs, Carrick, and others play.

Similarly, during the next World Cup, you’ll probably see players you’ll remember having seen play this year.

• When to catch it: Roughly same schedule as the Premier League.

• Where’s the next final: In Madrid on Saturday, June 5, 2027.

2027 FIFA Women’s World Cup

Every four years, the world’s women compete. I can’t speak for the other countries but, unlike the men, the U.S. women’s team actually knows how to win.

• When to catch it: Every four years, 1 year after the men’s tournament.

• Where’s the next final: Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. On Sunday, July 25, 2027.

2028 Euro Cup (🇪🇺)

Every four years, this is the World Cup, if only Europe could play in it.

• When to catch it: It, too, happens every four years, two years lagged behind the men’s World Cup. So, every other even-year summer, it’s either Euro or the men’s World Cup (i.e. 2024 Euro, 2026 World, 2028 Euro, 2030 World). Rinse. Repeat.

• Where’s the next final: Tournament takes place June 9–July 9, 2028, co-hosted by England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland. (My guess is that they left Northern Ireland off the list because most local fans will either be loyal to the Crown or the Republic, and hosting matches in Belfast would be highly likely to result in real violence.) Final takes place in London at Wembley Stadium on Sunday, July 9, 2028.

By the way, I’m not going to lie, when I first got into soccer, it was easy to get confused about which “leagues” and “cups” were what. Because the same players seemed to play in all of them. To help you keep things straight, let’s try this.

The Mbappe Matrix

He’s a French player on Real Madrid, which is in Spain’s La Liga. So:

❌ He does NOT play in the Premier League. Real Madrid is not in England.

✅ He does play in the Champions League. Real Madrid is a top European club.

✅ He does play in the Euro Cup. France is in Europe.

The Haaland Matrix

He’s a Norwegian player on Manchester City, which is in England.

✅ He does play in the Premier League. Manchester City is in England.
✅ He does play in the Champions League. Manchester City is a top European club.
❌ He does NOT play in the Euro Cup. Norway is in Europe, but Norway hasn’t qualified for the tournament. So, despite living in Europe, he’s never actually played in it.

2030 FIFA Men’s World Cup

Here we go! As much fun & dramatic as this year’s World Cup was, I’m even more excited for the next one. Not only is the World Cup coming back to Europe again, it’s coming here!

Portugal is co-hosting the 2030 World Cup, along with Spain and Morocco.

I’m so excited that I’m losing my shit. But, I promise it won’t be in a way that would require whoever is the U.S. president at the time to go on TV and apologize to the Portuguese people, em Português:

Lamentamos imenso que a nossa pequena e excêntrica rapariga morena seja uma louca. Ela está na meia-idade, na perimenopausa e tem TDAH, mas, na verdade, não sabemos o que se passa com ela!

Spain, Portugal, the EU, and FIFA all have real incentive to make this work.

And, I’m gonna guess most Europeans will outright refuse to pay prices folks were charged for tickets in the U.S. (or they’ll organize legitimate protests to apply pressure and make tickets more affordable).

So, four years from now, I hope to be standing in a stadium a few miles / kilometers from my apartment, in the country whose language I now speak, watching the biggest tournament on earth happen in the country where I actually live. I’m excited just thinking about it.

Now’s the time to plan ahead and come visit Portugal (or Spain or Morocco).

Tiny, Private Love Letter is written by Twanna A. Hines, an obsessed observer of how we love, learn, leave, and find our way through this world. When you subscribe or upgrade, you’re supporting independent writing and helping offset the cost to produce the work you’re currently reading.

Subscribe now

Twanna A. Hines, M.S. is an American entrepreneur and award-winning sexual health educator. She is founder of FUNKY BROWN CHICK, Inc., a social impact consultancy serving nonprofits, foundations, B-Corps, and international organizations. She has appeared in The Guardian, NBC News, Al Jazeera, Fast Company, and 25+ other outlets; she has been covered by The New York Times, CNN, Cosmopolitan, Essence, Vox, and 50+ additional media outlets. She has been called “a gifted storyteller” by The Washington Post. See more at: twannahines.com.

📸: Earlier photo from bloodwork.

Yesterday morning, per doctor’s and nurses’ orders, I was walking laps around my apartment to keep my blood circulating. I was also eating healthy, drinking lots of water, checking in with friends, and otherwise making sure that I’m taking care of myself.

That evening, a day after surgery, I put on real clothes, left the house, and met an Italian man. I took a Bolt to reduce any walking, and skipped alcohol because my body is healing.

Still taking care of myself, I figured, if I have to eat dinner anyway, might as well do it in the company of another person.

Nothing was at stake because nothing could go wrong.

This was our second “date,” if you can call it that. I’d already clocked that this guy was never going to be anything more than platonic.

Honestly, I went on the date because I don’t have as many straight male friends anymore. The married ones’ wives (and the dating ones’ girlfriends) don’t necessarily want their guys gaining a new woman as a bestie. The single ones sometimes confuse my kindness for interest, so I lean toward backing off.

So, this date was low-maintenance male company.

In the end, I paid for my own meal, then I went home early. The next day, today, we texted each other and agreed: We just didn’t click.

I’m healing well, by the way. No pain, no complications, and biopsy results should arrive in a couple of weeks. (I’m also staying home for the remainder of the week.) Just sharing the update, not because anyone needs the whole story. Just closing a loop.

Besides, I joke that 50s+ dating is just a bunch of old people scheduling dates around medical procedures. 😂 So, all of this has me thinking about men at my age in general.

Meeting Men at 50+

Newly over 50, I’m also somewhat newly discovering men at this age, too. Relationships with them, whether platonic or otherwise, have a different texture. Having likely already encountered marriage, divorce, or widowhood, there are often faint traces of another woman’s presence and absence in their aura. Sometimes the trace is literal: exes or children. Sometimes it’s figurative: the grief and emotional scars that arrive as a consequence of being human. Maybe they’re caring for an aging parent. Maybe they’re carrying something they haven’t named yet.

I know I’m certainly a different woman than I was in my 20s. My hair is greying, though you can’t tell because I color it. I weigh more. I’m less likely to wear makeup or fuss with myself too much. In the battle between heels and cobblestones, cobblestones win, so I almost always wear flats.

I’m literally and figuratively stripped down to the most natural version of myself, and that includes my preferences. I’m not going to disagree with a man about feminism, racism, my body, or pretty much anything else major. We’re either on the same page or we’re not, and I’m not interested in pulling anyone to my side or moving toward theirs. It’s called compatibility. I’ve been thinking deeply about the world for half a century. Chances are, they have, too.

Either way, men at my age tend to carry more into their friendships and relationships than just dating preferences. Which is exactly why I find them so interesting.

50 Questions for the 50+ Man in Your Life

I’m fascinated by people in general, including men. Whether it’s a new friend, your dad, a potential partner, yourself, or anyone else, here are 50 questions to help you get to know the 50+ man in your life a little better. Or, how about this: If you’re not yet 50, think about how you’d want to answer these questions when you reach that age, and what choices you’d need to make now to be comfortable with those answers then.

These questions are about tapping into levels of emotional awareness, self-reflection, and vulnerability. The goal is to stoke curiosity, not to freak anyone out.

Happiness

• What did fun look like for you before life got more complicated? What does it look like now, and how do you feel about the difference?

• What makes you laugh the hardest?

Physical connection

• How do you feel about your body and sexual functioning at this stage of life, and how does that affect how you show up with someone new?

• What does physical affection look like for you outside of sex?

• How important is sex to you in a relationship right now, and how does that show up?

Friends & social support

• Who do you call or text first when something good or bad happens?

• Who are your closest friends, and how often do you actually see them?

• Has your social circle changed a lot in the last 5–10 years?

Relationship past

• How did you contribute to your last relationship (or marriage) ending?

• What did you learn about yourself from your last relationship that surprised you?

• What’s something you wish you’d done differently in a past relationship?

• How’s your relationship with your ex(es)?

• Tell me more about one person in your past you feel like you can’t really let go of. What would it mean to you if you did?

Relationship future

• What does loneliness feel like for you these days?

• What do you actually want companionship to give you?

• At this point in your life, are you more interested in finding a partner, or more interested in not being alone? For you, what’s the difference?

• What do you know now about love that you didn’t know at 25?

• What are you no longer willing to tolerate, and why?

• What does a good partnership look like to you at this stage of life?

• What are you hoping your next relationship adds to your life that you’re not currently getting?

Family of origin

• What was your parents’ marriage like?

• What did you learn about relationships from watching your parents?

• Are you close with your family now?

Money & security

• How do you think about money? Are you a spender, saver, or something else?

• Has money ever been a source of conflict in any of your past relationships?

• What does financial security mean to you at this point?

Purpose & work identity

• Do you feel like you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing?

• What do you want the rest of your life to look like, generally speaking?

Fear & self-protection

• What would make you want to run from a relationship, even a good one?

• Which feels harder for you right now: opening up to someone new, or trusting that your next relationship will last as long as you’d like it to?

Emotional regulation & conflict

• What does a disagreement with a partner usually look like for you?

• Do you need space during conflict, or do you want to talk it through right away?

• Tell me about the last time you were really frustrated with someone. How did you handle it?

Communication & trust

• Do you find it easy or hard to trust people early on?

• When something’s bothering you about someone you’re dating, do you prefer to bring it up right away or sit with it until you feel comfortable?

Kids (if applicable)

• Do you have any children? (if “no” → “Did you ever?”)

• How do your kids factor into how you think about dating?

• What would it mean for you to introduce someone new into that part of your life?

*Note: I like this question verbatim. “Do you have any children?” tends to surface stepchildren, kids they’re raising as their own, and those who’ve passed away. Asking “How many children do you have?” can short circuit to a quick answer like “none.”

Life logistics

• What does your living situation look like right now?

• What does a normal week look like for you?

• What’s your relationship with alcohol and drugs?

Growth & self-awareness

• What does emotional maturity look like to you now, compared to when you were younger?

• What’s something a past partner said about you that stuck with you?

• Have you ever been to therapy or done any kind of self-reflection work?

• What do you still find yourself working on personally?

Time

• What matters most to you in how you spend your time these days?

• How much of your time is actually free for yourself, versus tied up with work, kids, or other obligations? Subtracting all of that, how much time do you realistically have for a relationship?

Identity & life stage

• Who are you now that you weren’t ten years ago?

• What matters to you now that didn’t used to?

• What are you hoping to build or experience in your next chapter, and how do you see a partner fitting into it?

Forward-looking

• If this doesn’t work out, what do you think you’d want to know earlier next time?

• What would you want someone to understand about where you’re starting from right now?

The Point

By the time we reach 50, we’ve lived (and known people!!) for multiple decades. Tread lightly. Grief and past relationships deserve space, and sometimes ongoing emotional healing. Ditto for teasing out the difference between someone being “lonely” and filling a void, versus “ready” and seeking a partner.

Don’t ask all fifty questions. Pick three to five and let the rest of the conversation unfold naturally from there.

In the end, the Italian didn’t matter. We didn’t even click on a platonic level, even though the right ingredients were in the mix. Physical and intellectual attraction can kindle on the surface, but depth is where the magic actually happens.

All of this leads me to a much less platonic corner of my life.

Truth be told, my heart and emotions are being tugged in a different direction. I’m feeling kinda into someone right now. It’s still early. Maybe it turns out to be something, maybe nothing. But this kind of connection doesn’t happen all the time & I like him. So, I’m feeling hopeful, excited, and enjoying the process.

Tiny, Private Love Letter is written by Twanna A. Hines, an obsessed observer of how we love, learn, leave, and find our way through this world. When you subscribe or upgrade, you’re supporting independent writing and helping offset the cost to produce the work you’re currently reading.

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Twanna A. Hines, M.S. is an American entrepreneur and award-winning sexual health educator. She is founder of FUNKY BROWN CHICK, Inc., a social impact consultancy serving nonprofits, foundations, B-Corps, and international organizations. She has appeared in The Guardian, NBC News, Al Jazeera, Fast Company, and 25+ other outlets; she has been covered by The New York Times, CNN, Cosmopolitan, Essence, Vox, and 50+ additional media outlets. She has been called “a gifted storyteller” by The Washington Post. See more at: twannahines.com.

On more than one occasion here, I’ve cried myself to sleep at night. Mostly, recently, it happened when my nephew and his new wife, plus longtime friends from Illinois, all wrapped their visits and left within days of each other.

Saying goodbye to people who live an ocean away, not knowing exactly when’s the next time I’ll see them again, made me feel sad, lonely, and abandoned. Yes, I have friends here. Yes, I like it. Doesn’t matter. It’s still sometimes hard being a single woman, without family nearby, living in a new country where English isn’t the dominant language.

All of that aside, my main point is that what I share publicly, even here in Tiny, Private Love Letter, is only a thread of the whole fabric of my life here. Today’s letter gives you a few more threads. These are a bit more jagged.

The Dress

Rewind. I’m looking at a gold dress.

I catch her from the side because she, the mannequin, faces folks already inside. Many walk past her after only glimpsing. Others stop and gawk. No one ignores her.

From where I’m standing, outside the exhibit, I can’t even tell what the fabric is made of, or what pattern is on it. Not even if I squint.

Her dress is part of the exhibit, Art & Fashion. It’s closing today. Sunday, June 21. I shouldn’t have put this visit off. I’ve come on the last day of the last weekend, so this is my last chance.

Because it’s moving on to its next stop, they didn’t extend the run. (I checked.)

If I want to see it, it has to be now.

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If you haven’t seen the documentary Sonic Highway, I highly recommend it. Directed by a member of the Foo Fighters of all people, it’s about how the culture, history, and regional differences of the United States live inside our music.

The Blues traveled with my family, up the highway from Mississippi to Illinois. A Great Migration family, when my great-great-uncle fled the American South, he sent for his sisters, cousins, and other relatives. That’s why my grandmother was born in Mississippi and spoke with a Mississippi accent, but my mom, sister, and I were part of the generation of people raised in Chicago. Music traveled with us. Think about it: Muddy Waters. There’s a reason why Chicago blues and Mississippi blues sound so similar. The music traveled through people who were traveling.

A recent experience reminded me that songs don’t just come from a place, they carry the place with it. Even as far as Portugal.

The Shift

My friend Giel has a show called The Shift. It’s popular, and rightfully so. It usually sells out the dimly lit, super crowded basement venue. You already know how I feel about cramped spaces. So, after supporting it once, I never went back.

But, when I found out she was collaborating with MOGA Festival to bring The Shift to the beach at sunset? Oh, I knew I was going to be there! And, I’m so very glad that I went.

I brought a friend that I call “the Dutch Ambassador to Portugal” with me. She calls me the Queen of Almada. Though neither is technically true, one of the things I love about being friends with her (and other Dutchies in Lisbon) is it emotionally connects to my current time living in Europe with my previous one. Together, the Dutchies and I do things like sing André Hazes at karaoke, go for long bike rides, and of course we speak Dutch with each other.

The Dutch Ambassador is one of my favorite people. Even thinking about her now, I can picture her smiling face, red lipstick, brown hair, and dance moves. It makes me so happy.

She brought those dance moves to the beach.

Waiting for The Shift to start, she and I sat barefoot in the sand as we watched the sunset. The sky turned pink and purple and blue and orange and all of the other colorful gifts the sun gives us before waving goodbye by dipping into the blue Atlantic.

There she is:

The show hadn’t started yet, so we were still just sitting there barefoot, people-watching & listening to the warm-up music.

Shazam told me the beach DJ was spinning Calling Out by Sophie Lloyd.

When I saw the singer’s face in the app, I felt oddly territorial.

Google taught me Sophie Lloyd is a DJ, guitarist, producer, slash slash. She’s from the UK, but her song took me back to some of the happier memories from childhood.

Back to those churches, with beautiful people with brown skin and matching robes singing in the choir. Those songs that made me feel at peace, like I could release every muscle in my body, because I was in a safe, sacred space. I felt this so viscerally, even though I was on a beach in Portugal, listening to a song made in England.

It also made me feel a little sad.

Call it saudade or heimwee, it made me miss my culture. I was a little homesick, and hadn’t exactly expected that to wash over me like waves.

The Dutch Ambassador and I spoke her language as we made our way from the sand into the indoor-outdoor co-working space slash burger joint slash music venue that was hosting The Shift.

Giel took the stage.

“Burger Queens! How y’all feel?!”

Music

Giel is from Miami. Drum and bass. I’m from Chicago. House music.

As the show wound down, a British kid (I think his name was Robert?) started beatboxing. That’s New York! Portuguese musicians kept playing, and Giel started singing Murder She Wrote in a slight Jamaican patois.

Because Miami knows the Caribbean well.

In fact, as people who hail from countries with large Caribbean communities, so many Americans & Brits in the joint kind of lost it. We all started dancing and singing. Our friend Kelvin, who’s actually from Jamaica but lives in Portugal was there, too! Giel moved closer toward him as she sang. I’ve grown up with that song in my bones during house parties since I was 15.

At a beach party with my Dutch Ambassador as a friend from Miami sang a Jamaican song to an international crowd, as a Brit beatboxed.

It was all so beautiful, and it took me back home.

Afterwards, in our shared Bolt ride to our respective homes, I tried to explain to the Ambassador what, exactly, had happened to me.

Yes, the warm-up song was technically European, and you could hear it in the techno-adjacent mix. But The Shift? That was so incredibly and beautifully American. All of our differences, cosmopolitanism, legibility across cultures. It’s the way we dance to Bad Bunny’s songs in Spanish, and how we share each other’s foods, tunes, references, and histories.

In that moment, I felt so very proud. I was so happy that was my culture, and that I got to experience it 4,000 miles from home, on a beach!

We’re all part of the same thing.

I’m grateful to Giel, to the Ambassador, and the music. That night, I hadn't gone looking for American culture or any kind of sense of home. Because, really, I didn’t even feel like I needed it.

But, it found me anyway. I'm grateful for that.

If you live in (or find yourself passing through) Lisbon, check out The Shift @ 8pm on Wednesdays at Badassery.

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Tiny, Private Love Letter is written by Twanna A. Hines, an award-winning sexual and reproductive health educator, and an obsessed observer of how we love, learn, leave, and find our way through this world. Subscribe or upgrade.

I’m in a room, and it’s pitch black. It’s the kind of dark where everyone smacks right into people directly in front of them because no one can see anything. Many people, including me, start aiming our cellphones’ flashlights at the floor, lighting the way in front of us.

The place isn’t that huge. It’s the size of a small, empty American movie theater without any seating. Leaving the center open, everyone sits along the perimeter, around the floor in disorganized clusters. We’re each cross-legged with our backs against the walls, or in front of the person sitting behind us.

Then, the film starts.

Blue light floods the place. Not from a screen in front of us, from everywhere: above, beside, and behind us. It’s nearly a 360-degree projection wrapping the entire space. Because the filmmaker, Maya de Almeida Araújo, is gifting us an experience.

We’re all underwater now.

It’s immersive the way IMAX is, but IMAX is loud, and this place is quiet. Because it’s always quiet when you’re underwater.

I’m at ONE, O Mar como nunca o sentiu (ONE, the Ocean as you never felt it). An Oceanário de Lisboa’s exhibition, it’s a film made up of almost entirely from two decades of underwater footage. Watermen. Waterwomen. It includes first-person voiceovers about the sea, what it feels like, and what it means to people who spend time inside it.

This was three years ago.

Most of the film was in Portuguese, which means I understood it as best I could at the time. But one clip was so sharp that it stuck with me. (So much so that I thought about it today, three years later.) Here’s the scene:

In silence, we watch a wetsuit-clad woman’s body sink slowly into the water. Descending. Her voice says, in English:

“This is my church.”

I don’t follow organized religions. But, as someone who grew up evangelical and left that stuff decades ago, oh I felt that.

Hidden Worlds

Flowers, lace & pearls on delicate little outfits of older women. Vacation Bible School. Paper fans with Bible verses and pictures of Martin Luther King Jr. on them. Matching choir robes on swaying bodies singing Gospel songs.

Raised southern Baptist, and in northern evangelical churches, religion is very familiar to me. Church wasn’t just something I did for an hour on Sundays. It was my community, morality, and how I oriented myself to others and the world.

When I went to college in my late teens, that changed.

Campus introduced me to people and ways of thinking that I’d mostly only ever encountered in movies and on TV. Remember: Rural Illinois and Mississippi. Both are large by US standards, 12 and 3 million respectively. Even still, I felt two things at the same time. On one hand, I felt so free. I could now do, see, go, think, and believe anything that I wanted. The world was much bigger than the one I’d been handed.

On the other hand, it also made me feel kind of provincial. I knew I was curious and smart, and I liked being both. So, I felt a little embarrassed back then. It was like waking up one day to discover there were 70,253 kinds of vegetables, 1,982 different kinds of meat, and 4,560 types of liquor I never knew existed, even though I’d been eating and drinking my whole life. So many other people already knew things that I didn’t. I wondered:

Leaving organized religion wasn’t an outright rejection. It was more like no longer being friends with your bestie from third grade. No need to create monsters, or villains. You can leave things you’ve loved and have now outgrown.

Here’s where I’ve landed for now: I’m not sure that Christians have all the answers. Neither do Muslims, Jews, nor Hindus. Nor atheists. About the latter, in a strange way, to me, the absolute certainty that there is no God resembles the same absolute certainty of those who believe there is one.

Certainty closes the door to the world’s possibilities.

When the World Feels Heavy

It’s June. We’re halfway through the year, and I have been trying so hard. Maybe you have been, too?

People lose children, get laid off, care for parents with dementia, divorce after long marriages, suffer through infertility, receive cancer diagnoses, and manage depression every day. Much of it’s invisible.

Plus, the world’s a mess. Perimenopause + ADHD + stress = multiple times a day, I can’t even remember where I put my keys. I just want the world to feel sane and stable and somewhat uneventful for once.

Not to mention, entrepreneurship can be heavy. I’ve been at it for more than 20 years. So I know, sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down.

Our current and past clients care about rights, especially supporting them for women and girls. This is certainly not an “up” time for the sector. Somewhat recently, two (both US-based nonprofits) went out of business. These were real organizations, putting real people in jobs, and doing important work for real communities. Now they’re gone. Don't even get me started on the fallout from USAID.

It’s a lot to manage. I strive to balance empathy, sadness, and anger about injustice with hope, optimism, and the unshakeable knowledge that every bad thing eventually ends.

Everyone handles stress differently. Me? I’m an oversharing American who likes to talk things out in therapy. I don’t have a therapist at the moment. They can’t practice outside their jurisdiction, so I lost mine when I left the US.

Perhaps you’re feeling the same way? Maybe you’ve been getting by in your current state, but you’re not sure you can last the rest of the year the same way. And, even if you can, you’re not sure you’d want to.

My spirit needs support. Where does a woman who doesn’t follow organized religion go to find it?

Portugal is Catholic, I am not.

It’s Not Sink or Swim. It’s Float.

Like I said, I saw ONE, O Mar como nunca o sentiu roughly three years ago. We all watched the woman in the wetsuit, sinking.

“This is my church.”

My faith doesn’t exist in a building, or in what other people tell me. It lives in surrendering to things much more ancient, and larger than my fears.

Water carries us. If you do absolutely nothing and just relax, it will hold your full weight and carry you forward. You don’t even have to know the chemistry of how it works. You just have to let go and trust that it does.

Faith is belief in things unseen and unknown.

Every day, people fall in love after feeling like they were ready to give up, hear their baby’s first laugh (or happily find out they’re not pregnant), get new jobs after applying for so many, and realize they’ve quietly become the person they needed when they were younger.

That’s what faith feels like to me right now. It’s not certainty, or “proof.” It’s doing all of the right things, or at least to the best of my abilities. Then, believing that the world will eventually reward those efforts in good measure.

It’s about finding a reason, and there may be more than one, to believe that the water will hold us, even if we don’t understand. Have faith. Even when we have no real reason to have it, and we can’t see what’s coming.

I wrote that, and I believe it.

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Tiny, Private Love Letter is written by Twanna A. Hines, an award-winning sexual & reproductive health educator, and an obsessed observer of how we love, learn, leave, and find our way through this world. Subscribe or upgrade.

Me: “I want you.”

Him: “You can have me. But, I also really want you.”

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Even better if the space was really quiet, so much so that I could hear my own breath. In stillness and darkness, there was nothing to drown it out.

No blood-curdling screams. No crashing dishes. No giant bodies with really deep voices making intrusions. No one using belts or fists to beat anyone’s bare flesh.

Shhhh! Just calmly inhaling and exhaling.

A few days ago, I was reminded of that feeling when, instead of getting out of bed, I pulled the covers over my head so I could only hear my own breath. I needed soothing.

Healing can be so gradual that you don’t even recognize it. It’s the same way old photographs make your face’s gradual changes immediately apparent in a way that wouldn’t otherwise be noticeable. Because you look at your face every day.

Living with myself daily, I don’t remember when things shifted on the contours of spaces I prefer.

As a child, I couldn’t control what came toward me, so Little Twanna loved making her world small enough to manage.

As an adult, I find confined spaces like dark corners, closets, and elevators suffocating and lonely. I prefer wide open spaces. Vast blue skies, rivers and ocean, parks, and anything in nature that expands in every direction for miles, as if it reaches eternity.

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People sitting in the grass on park blankets, or splashing around in the ocean’s waves? They’re all humans showing life unfold, because we’re all part of the same thing on this shared, spinning globe together.

Wide spaces show us what’s coming, without ambushes or surprises.

So, why did I pull the covers over my head this morning? Because that’s how trauma works.

Even when we don’t remember, our bodies do. Asthma. When I’m stressed, I stop breathing. Hard of hearing, none of my audiologists or ENTs can tell me exactly why my ears developed as they did.

My ability to hear very deep tones is almost nonexistent. Doctors have hinted the science is pretty clear about a few things. For starters, our ability to hear is controlled, in part, by our brains. Disabilities related to processing certain frequencies can be the result of childhood stress and other traumatic experiences encountered while our ears and brains were still developing.

Therapy has helped. I’ve stretched, laughed, wept, and smiled through so much of it. So the impulse to burrow this morning, though instinctual, was also brief.

The Garden

Once upon a time, there were two giant Buddhas.

One was 35 meters tall, the other 53. If they were American buildings, you’d call them 11 and 18 stories high, 115 and 174 feet respectively.

Standing tall in Afghanistan since 570 CE and 618 CE, they’d survived empires, plagues, and wars. By the time the Taliban arrived in 1998, the pair had already been solidly planted or more than a thousand years.

The world knows about the Taliban. Amid economic sanctions and civil war, UNESCO representatives stopped by to check in. The story goes, worried, they offered money to protect and restore. Local statues, not local children.

An Afghan envoy stated it plainly:

“In our religion, if anything is harmless, we just leave it. If money is going to statues while children are dying of malnutrition next door, then that makes it harmful, and we destroy it.”

The twins were so strong that it took explosives, anti-aircraft guns, and more than a month of sustained effort to bring them down. They succumbed to the Taliban in March 2001.

If you’re interested in the rest of this story, or the Portuguese art scene, read up on art collector José Manuel Rodrigues Berardo, featured in a New York Times article. Disgusted by the Buddhas’ destruction, he went to Asia, brought a bunch of Buddhist statues back, and built a garden where they could be protected. Buddha Eden Garden is located about 45 minutes outside of Lisbon. Over time, Berardo has added African and other cultures’ art, too, so all cultures can feel welcome and included.

Of course the place speaks to me.

In life and love, I’m drawn toward things that have survived destruction. Berardo didn’t “save” the Buddhas. It wasn’t his job to do so, and they were already gone anyway. Instead, he built a place for what survived. A place where the survivors could be held, protected.

The garden spreads across 86 acres of green land. The other day, when I woke up stressed out & pulled the covers over my head as if I was still a little girl in a dark closet, listening to her own breath? With my nervous system reverted to its default, that’s where my mind went. Back to the Buddha Garden.

I’ve already been once, and I know I’ll go again. Soon.

Turns out hiding in small spaces and roaming open spaces are different ways of solving the same equation. Both give me clarity about the shape of my surroundings, and provide a sense of being held by something much larger than I am.

My father had a deep voice, and my body decided it didn’t need to hear it anymore. Sometimes survival looks like a little girl hiding in a closet as she listens to her own breath. Sometimes it looks like a woman standing in a Portuguese garden, staring up at a Buddha so tall it makes her feel like a child.

Shhhh!

Either way, my lungs remind me: Can’t you hear it? There’s nothing here. It’s just you. You’re safe.

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That has always stuck with me.

Because it can go either way, right? Recognition could mean they’ve both done the work to heal and now recognize what that looks like. Or, it could mean neither party wants to be pushed, nor will they push, for healing. Because, recognizing the source of pain, they prefer to look away without challenging the other to grow.

Two very different forms of chemistry.

Before my 40s, my love life was ruled by the second kind. I can recognize it now but, at the time, I didn’t know or admit that I thought:

Even when I wasn’t opening myself up fully, I always offered love to my now-exes deeply and with my whole chest. Because I’m a nurturer by both nature and choice. On my phone’s notes, when we were together, I used to keep a list of one ex’s favorite vegetables so I’d remember to cook them in rotation.

I genuinely love opening others up and developing something meaningful and special with them. That’s never changed. What has changed is that recognition bit.

At this point in my life, when I get a whiff of Bad Romance, it literally turns me off. Why am I telling you this? Well, for starters, I’m dating again.

Not actively seeking, I’m also not closed off to the idea that I could meet, or already have met, someone. Weeks ago, when a guy in Lisbon asked me out, I was pleased to say yes. His follow through took longer than I expected. Not an immediate dealbreaker, but it definitely made me less interested in him. When he eventually reached out to follow up about meeting, I told him so, and said I was keeping a open mind for now and still down to meet to see where things might go.

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He responded by thanking me for the honesty and saying he thinks we should meet up.

I read the text twice before thinking: LOL. Motherfucker, what? You’ve asked me out twice. I’ve said yes twice. And, now, you’re responding by: asking me out a third time?

For a second, I second-guessed writing him off too quickly. But I’ve outgrown intense roller coaster rides of uncertainty, unspoken words, quiet emotional distance, and other forms of abandonment of self or others. That stuff felt familiar to the more unhealed version of myself. Now, if it rears its ugly head at all, my nervous system clocks it and screams: NO.

I took a breath.

I’ve done a lot of work since I turned 40. Therapy, journaling, editing and curating better friendships, picking better partners, breathwork, prayer/meditation, deep inner child examinations, and other ways of digging up pain from the root so the flowers of self-abandonment stop blooming. I’m proud of myself for doing so.

So, my answer to him was:

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The ocean has been here longer than humans. Salt, sand, rocks, sunshine, and water make me feel whole, comforted, and a bit more certain that everything in the world is going to be okay. No matter the uncertainty. As sure as the rugged Atlantic finds its way around the globe, everything else will find its way too. Including me.

Except, a couple of Fridays ago, there was a small hiccup.

I thought I saw The German.

Who Is The German?

You probably don’t know about him because I rarely write about my private love life anymore. Cut to the chase: He’s gorgeous. Randomly met him in 2021, days after my arrival. Though we didn’t have sex back then, we’d literally make out as if we were still horny teens discovering what kissing, boobs, and hardons feel like for the first time.

I liked him. A lot. These days, I rarely like men. I’m not choosing women; I’ve just been choosing the bear.

But he was different. Wickedly intelligent, anti-racist, fluent in calling out white supremacist nonsense, well travelled, and his eyes and mind were open to the whole world. I loved him, which I never told him. And I believed him when he told me he loved me. Then, after being in each other’s lives for a couple of years, he ghosted me. Again.

That was more than two years ago. I never knew what happened, but here’s the story I tell myself:

Ages ago, therapy taught me: even when something feels like it’s “out of the blue”, it rarely is. There are always signs. When we were together, even the times when I felt like he wasn’t fully choosing me, I stayed. Because the connection underneath it all felt genuine. Because when he was present, I felt like he was entirely present. And when he told me he loved me, I believed him.

I don’t think I ever allowed myself to grieve that.

Because grief requires honesty, and I’d have to face the fact that:

• I wanted him to love me.

• I believed him when he said he did.

• I waited.

• I made excuses.

• I forgave the forgotten dates.

• I genuinely thought there was something real, and we just hadn’t allowed ourselves to get to it yet.

And this is the hardest one: I know better.

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Even so, when he initially went silent, I reached out. Because I cared. Because I was worried about him, checking in on him, and making sure his family was okay. All the while, he was probably just at home feeding his cats, not thinking about me much at all.

That felt truly humiliating.

So, I did what I often do: I got mad, got over it, and moved on.

What I didn’t do is grieve.

Learning to Grieve

Grief requires acceptance. And while I’ve accepted that we’re not together, and I’ve made peace with that, I’d always been mad about something else, and hanging on to it.

Accepting that he got away with shitty behavior, faced no consequences, and just moved on with his life felt unfair. So, I didn’t accept that. The rejection could be felt in anger that lingered as a constant, silent, internal protest.

If I were to allow myself to grieve, that would require admitting that what happened was painful and unfair, and I still somehow accept it anyway. It felt like giving him a free pass, not only excusing the pain he caused me, but also opening the door for him to do the same to other women like me. He was getting away with it.

But the world doesn’t always deliver justice. And, learning to live with that? Well, that’s its own form of grief and injustice. Having compassion for both of us as flawed human beings? That would require that I admit and accept how lonely I felt in the specific moment when I realized he was really, just, gone. All of that leaves me very emotionally exposed.

Anger is stronger than pain. Anger protects us from drowning in how hurt we might feel in any particular moment.

Until it doesn’t.

Because, more than two years later, I thought I saw him while I was relaxing on the beach. More than mad, I was suddenly completely enraged. After all, I was at the beach for fuck’s sake. Damn him for invading my happy place. I thought:

“FUCK YOU FOR BEING HERE! Fuck you for hurting my feelings back then. I’d forgotten about you. So, really, seriously, fuck you for having the power to make me feel this mad all over again.”

I felt like I could walk up to him and punch him in the face. I’ve never punched anyone in the face in my life!

Why?! I was genuinely surprised by how intense the emotions felt, and I wanted to know why I got so incredibly angry.

The answer was: Grief.

Regardless of how it ended, by not allowing myself to grieve, I was blocking myself from a simple acceptance: Some people will receive all the love that I have to offer, and they may not match it in return. That’s not about me, it’s about finding my right match. Given who we both were at the time, The German and I were not a right match. And that’s okay.

I’m learning that grief doesn’t need an apology. It doesn’t need language at all. But I’m a writer. I’m more comfortable spilling emotions onto a page or a screen. I’m working on giving myself permission to just feel it. Without managing it. Without turning it into something “useful.”

Healing After Grief

Love. That’s the answer, and it’s everything. But, sometimes, skills that allowed us to survive as children block us from thriving as adults.

I’ve written, spoken, and performed one-woman theater shows about how I’m an adult survivor of horrific child abuse. It goes even deeper than the insults, beatings, and commands that I “shut up before I give you something to cry about.”

Two days ago, the little girl who learned that tears are something to be managed and held in finally, finally, let herself deeply cry about the fact that the boy she liked several years ago didn’t like her back. At least not the way she needed him to.

I’m not calling The German, or calling in a 2.0 version of him. In the years since things ended, I’ve actually done a lot of deep work and reflection on how I show up in the world, and I know exactly what I want and deserve in my love life.

That grief has gotten in the way of me actually receiving it.

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The Route Forward

Little Girl Twanna has been waiting for so long. Every time I’ve processed my emotions instead of allowing myself to truly feel and live in them, every time I’ve articulated my point of view instead of just allowing myself to fall apart publicly or privately, every time I turned private pain into therapyspeak and a desire to understand before feeling, I’ve blocked myself from grieving. But I’m ready to feel and express things more deeply.

I’ve written a private manifesto that very clearly articulates the life that I am moving toward. The life in my manifesto? That guy who is certain about me, and warm, and reads to me on Sunday mornings? The Blue Note? The Atlantic? All of it. I can’t fully receive it while I’m still locked behind walls of protection.

Emotional armor has kept me safe for most of my life. But I wrote, and regularly update, the manifesto. Which means part of me is ready to take it off. Maybe part of me actually already has.

In Portugal, people who know me well know that I cry easily when I feel any emotion, whether happy or sad. It’s funny because, back in the US, I was hellbent on not letting anyone see me cry, and I can probably count on one hand the people who have in recent years.

Little Twanna didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. Falling apart had consequences.

But I’m not her anymore. Things that were true then are not true now. Maybe I’ve finally felt safe enough to actually grieve. Maybe for the first time in a long time.

People who can’t handle my tears, needs, or pain don’t get to stay in my life anymore. That’s a good thing. Now, my nervous system just needs to catch up. It’s learning that it’s okay to feel hurt and to allow myself to show that to other people.

You know, after the ghosting, back then, for my own closure, I sent him a dignified and composed goodbye message. Little Twanna did her job perfectly. And then I carried that pain along for two years.

That’s the cost of applying childhood survival strategies to adult life. I can protect myself so effectively that nobody, not even the people who hurt me, ever really has to reckon with what they did. Because I’m already okay. Or maybe I was subconsciously fooling myself into thinking I was. It all looks the same from the outside anyway.

I survived. I’m safe. So, maybe I can lower my armor.

Support independent writers. Tiny, Private Love Letter is written by Twanna A. Hines. She is an award-winning sexual & reproductive health educator, and an obsessed observer of how we love, learn, leave, and find our way.

I missed my nephew’s wedding. When a long-term friend’s mother died, I sent hugs virtually. People I’ve known for much of my life have had babies, gotten married, survived cancer, organized bridal showers, broken up, started over, and done everything else that humans can do on this planet. I’ve missed most of it. Lives have moved on.

That’s the thing about being the people who left. We move for love. Careers. Personal growth. And, yet, we’re still “here” for friends and family back home, even from a distance.

This is my fifth year living in Portugal. And, I’m making a concerted effort to reconnect with people I haven’t talked to in a while. So far, when I do, the most common thing I hear most is:

Valid. I’ve never defined myself by work, so I rarely talk about it. But, the result is that people don’t always know how to help me, refer me, or send opportunities my way. Plus, honestly, some people are just curious and want to know what I do.

This love letter answers all of that, my loves.

But, first: three ways you can help me right now

If you take nothing else from this letter, here it goes:

1. Bring your team to Lisbon. If you work at a nonprofit, NGO, foundation, or mission-aligned organization, I’ll host your next leadership offsite retreat. Read more about that below, or just send me an email.

2. Send a nonprofit, foundation, or company my way. If you know an organization trying to grow its impact in a measurable way, connect us via a quick intro email. We work primarily with organizations based in the US or EU, including international entities like the UN and INGOs.

3. Connect me with orgs that help founder-led firms scale. I’m not going to live forever. So, I’m proactively looking for nonprofits and professional associations that offer operational support (e.g. accounting, legal, funding, etc.) on an equity-based pricing model, such as sliding scale or a pro bono basis. This work is too important to stop when I do, so I’m making room for the next generation. Everything below is the longer answer to why.

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What I do for work

📸 My speech placed 2nd at a Toastmasters competition to represent Portugal.

Back in 2005, when I started this firm, you know I kept things authentic, even if unconventional, from the start.

I like to keep things funky. My skin has always been brown, regardless of which country I’ve lived in or what language was used to describe my ethnicity. And I’m a chick. So I named the company FUNKY BROWN CHICK.

If you’ve been following me since then, you know it started with a blog. A magazine called Nerve noticed it, and hired me to write a column. Others followed. To date, I’ve contributed to three books and written for The Guardian, NBC News, Al Jazeera, Fast Company, Health Magazine, and more. Not too bad for a small-town midwestern girl, right? In fact, my first piece, an op-ed about why sports are good for girls, ran in my hometown newspaper while I was still in high school. I’ve been public for a long time.

What’s less visible is everything that kept the lights on while my freelance career was growing. A child of a single mother household, I’ve been working (at least one job at a time) since I was 15. After grad school (hell, even before then), I was also working full-time leading digital strategy, PR / marketing, and outreach at organizations that included Planned Parenthood, CHANGE, Land O’Lakes, and State Farm. That’s the invisible work that kept everything, and me, going.

Then in 2018, I stepped out on faith and took a risk. I quit working for other people. I added a second line of business and a team, and we decided to apply our skills to causes that we care about.

Today, FUNKY BROWN CHICK, Inc. is a woman-owned social impact consultancy with eleven team members across the US and Europe. We believe everyone (yes, everyone) deserves to live a joyful life, free of oppression. And sexual & reproductive health, rights, education, and justice are the core of that.

Refer a friend

Everything in life has its ups and downs. Nonprofits are facing tough funding environments, reductions in force, and other challenges. Businesses, too! But, we’ve been at this for a while, so I’ve seen the cycles. Besides, this is exactly the environment my work is designed to help, so I’m proud of that.

Here’s the plain-English version of what we actually do:

We help nonprofits, NGOs, foundations, and mission-aligned organizations grow their reach, their impact, and their internal capacity. We do this through social and behavioral change communication, data strategy and storytelling, rights-based programming, and genuine community co-design.

This part is important: To help make sure they can continue their impact without relying on us, we measure success by what they can continue to do after we’re gone.

Sharing a few numbers, because they matter in our business: Our campaigns have delivered 4x fundraising ROI. We’ve achieved newsletter open rates of 60–77%, against a 15–25% industry average. Donor acquisition costs have been more than 60% below sector benchmarks. We’ve collaborated with the UN Human Rights Council Special Rapporteur on the Right to Health. Our partners collectively manage $655M+ in budgets. And more.

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The Lisbon offer

Let’s talk about the offsite retreat a bit more. Because, let’s face it:

For more than two decades, across the United States, Europe, and Latin America, I’ve been writing, speaking, performing, facilitating workshops, and building curriculum to teach adults. Human behavior. It’s all about how to have more functional, healthy relationships. This is my space. And I know how to take a city, a table, or a room of smart people & turn it into something magical: actual knowledge uptake and behavior change. If your team needs that, bring them to me. Have someone from your team get in touch.

One More Thing

Okay, look, I know I’m not going to be here forever. So, I’ve been building the firm to outlast me: documented SOPs, distributed decision-making, formal mentorship, fellowship programs, and a flat leadership structure that distributes power across the firm.

Plus, I’m only one person. Doing the work of the firm, working together with the team, and building all of that stuff out is a lot for one person. Leadership can be as stressful as it is lonely.

That’s why I’m looking for organizations that can help small, founder-led firms like mine build that kind of infrastructure (e.g. accounting, legal, funding, etc.). If you know someone, send them my way.

So, that’s what I’m up to these days.

Thanks for sticking with me.

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Tiny, Private Love Letter is written by Twanna A. Hines, an award-winning sexual and reproductive health educator, and an obsessed observer of how we love, learn, leave, and find our way through this world. Subscribe or upgrade.

• A friend from high school.

• Family from Chicago.

• College friends.

• Friends from London, St. Louis…

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“This is the season when people of all faiths and cultures are pushing back against the planetary darkness. We string bulbs, ignite bonfires, and light candles. And we sing.”

— Anita Diamant

Whether you already celebrated or will celebrate Diwali, Eid, Hanukkah, Christmas, all of the holidays, or none at all, I wish you and your families plenty of peace and light.

I’m culturally Christian because I grew up that way. But, we don’t choose our countries of birth. Had I been born in India, Morocco, or elsewhere, I might’ve grown up with different religious traditions.

But the lights? They feel universal.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the above Diamant quote. Mainly because it feels like we were living through rising authoritarianism and planetary darkness. I say “were” because I’m hopeful. I feel like it’s still here, but it has peaked and people are fighting back.

This time of year, there’s something defiant about how we “string bulbs, ignite bonfires, and light candles.” It takes a joyful, hopeful heart to “sing.” Wishing folks “merry” Christmas and “happy” New Year feels positive. Even when the world feels heavy (maybe especially when it feels heavy) we insist on lighting our futures.

Something about it says: We refuse to succumb to the dark.

Enjoy a few photos, with love, from Lisbon.

Praça de D. Pedro IV, or what we call “Rossio”, is a main square in central Lisbon. Last year, I tried to pop by its Christmas Market on Christmas Eve, but they were closed. (It’s okay. I’ve been here for 5 holiday seasons, I’ve seen it before multiple times.)

Back then, a security guard working the area reminded me: The workers need holiday vacations, too, and they need to spend time with their families. I loved that. The American part of me, the part that’s used to stores wired for 24/7 capitalism, loves it that many parts of the world respect rest. And workers’ rights.

Each year, the market closes on or around December 21st, near the solitice. It’s the darkest day. From here on out, there will be more sun.

Speaking of the sun, here’s a waterfront, sunset view over the Rio Tejo. If you squint and look really closely, you can see my house on the south bank. 😉

Five years in, I still love this place. The ferry. The river. The slower pace. It’s still home. It still feels good.

Whatever you’re celebrating, or not celebrating, I hope you find your own version of light. Your own defiance against the dark.

And whether you’re celebrating or not, with a bunch of people or alone, I wish you plenty of peace and continued light.

It’s actually good news. Here’s what I understand.

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But Americans, like me, live here. We came with our clothes, pets, children, and strong ideas about celebrating holidays back home that are nonexistent here.

My first year, hav…

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I wanted peace and stability.

I gave myself a deadline: Leave the U.S by December 31st.

It’s been a little while since we’ve done this, so let’s update the pie charts.

My Years on the Planet (TOTAL)

No stranger to starting over, I’ve spent much of my life as an outsider, moving from place to place.

So, to make a rational decision about where to move next, I wrote down a list of things that were important to me. Working through it, I started researching countries that matched my priorities. Portugal kept popping up, topping lists for:

• warm weather,

• beaches,

• stable democracy,

• personal safety,

• and a warm and welcoming attitude toward foreigners.

I came here for all of that and more.

My Years on the Planet (ADULTHOOD ONLY)

I was ready to make a new home.

Whenever anyone asks where I’m from, I have no doubts. I’m from Chicago. That said, the lives we choose as adults can look very different from how we were born. For example, this Chicagoan has lived in New York more than twice as long as I did in Chicago. In fact, collectively, I spent about half of my adult life in New York and Washington, DC. I figuratively “grew up” professionally, politically, socially, and emotionally in the east coast corridor.

And, that’s just the U.S. After the UK, Netherlands, and now Portugal, I’ve now spent almost 20% of my adult life in Europe. So far.

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Most days in Portugal, I wake up knowing that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. But sometimes, I can feel the ground slipping away from me. It reminds me that there’s nothing truly solid in this world. Anywhere.

As they say, the only certainty is change.

📸 Typical November outfit. I love Portugal because, usually, this works.

It’s Thursday. But, it could be any day. I’m standing at a bus stop at Cais do Sodré, one of Lisbon’s major transit hubs. It’s like a smaller Times Square or Union Station. Except, this isn’t the U.S., and I’m not even sure how to get where I’m going. Though, I’ve been there before:

BADASSERY, Rua do sol ao rato, 71, Lisbon, Portugal 1250-249

Without a metro stop nearby, I’d usually walk. But, I’m underdressed. With bare arms and bare legs showing, I’m shivering more than usual because I’m American who hasn’t fully grasped what 17°C actually feels like on my bare skin.

It’s cold, and I hate being cold.

The Bus Incident

I’ll need to take a bus.

Already overstimulated from mingling with 70,000+ conference attendees, I’m running late for the evening’s creatives event.

When the empty bus finally arrives, I think: Great!!

But, instead of opening the door, the driver walks to the rear, going seat by seat, checking that it’s actually empty and everything’s okay. That’s his job, and he’s doing it well. He’s moving at a normal pace, but when I’m already running late and freezing, time seems to move in slow motion. (I need to learn more patience.)

He opens the door. Yay!! 🎉 I whip out my monthly pass. Then, I feel it. Someone is touching me. Firmer now. Applying pressure. When I look down, I see an older woman has extended her arm across my body to block me from boarding.

I’m so confused.

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I’ve been writing Tiny, Private Love Letter for 20 years, across different platforms. On Substack, I’ve charged $6/month.…

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