Welcome to Our Wild, Beautiful Life
Hello! My name is Kami!
I didn’t grow up free.
I grew up in a world where control was called love, and fear was disguised as faith. Where men held the authority, women held their tongues, and children learned early how to hide their questions behind polite smiles. I was the good girl — obedient, modest, eager to please. But beneath the surface, I was filled with doubt and longing. I couldn’t understand why love had to feel so conditional, why belonging came with so many rules, or why being myself always seemed to cost too much.
Even then, I felt something sacred stirring inside me — something that didn’t fit within the walls I’d been given.
So when I met Trent — my high school sweetheart — I clung to the connection like it was oxygen. We were young, just kids really, but our love was real. He saw me. I saw him. And together, we built a life. Married at 19 and 18. Six kids by our early 30s. On the outside, we were the model couple — leading marriage classes, serving in church leadership, helping others walk the path we thought was the “right one.”
And in many ways, it was a good life. We had love. We had friendship. We had faith.
But over time, the cracks began to show — and everything we thought we knew was about to be tested.
When our second child became critically ill, the ground beneath us gave way. What had once felt certain — faith, community, purpose — began to collapse. We were desperate for support, for answers, for hope. But instead of compassion, we were met with blame. Leaders we had trusted told us our child’s illness was punishment — that either he had sinned, or we had. That I was being judged for not "submitting" enough. That God was “teaching us a lesson.”
We were grieving, terrified, and shattered — and instead of being held, we were condemned.
I can’t even explain the pain of watching your child suffer while your faith is weaponized against you. We endured three years of hell. Three years of begging for healing, for clarity, for meaning. And when our son died, part of us died with him — not just as parents, but as believers.
We couldn’t pretend anymore. Not with God. Not with church. Not with each other.
So we left. We packed up our family, walked away from everything we’d ever known, and started over — heartbroken, angry, raw, and deeply hungry for something real.
We wanted healing. We wanted wholeness. We wanted truth.
And we knew we couldn’t go back to the cages we had once called home.
So we walked away — not in rebellion, but in heartbreak. Not because we didn’t care, but because we couldn’t survive in a system that called suffering divine punishment and pain a test of faith.
Leaving wasn’t easy. It was disorienting, excruciating, lonely. We didn’t just lose our son — we lost our spiritual home, our community, our compass. People who once prayed with us now gossiped about us. The ones who called us leaders now called us lost. But we weren’t lost.
We were undone.
And sometimes, that’s the most sacred thing that can happen.
Grief stripped us bare. But in that barren place, we began to feel something honest start to rise. Not answers. Not certainty. Just breath. Just being. Just the tiniest spark of a different kind of knowing — one not rooted in fear or performance, but in presence. In pain. In permission.
We didn’t have language for it yet. But something in us whispered: There’s more. Don’t stop here.
That whisper became our anchor.
So we started over. Moved our family to a new place. Took a long, hard look at everything we’d been taught about life, faith, bodies, love — and began the sacred work of asking: What’s actually true for us?
And somewhere in that season, we turned toward something we’d never really questioned before — our own marriage. Our sexuality. Our sense of pleasure and joy and aliveness.
We weren’t looking to fix something that was broken — we were looking to awaken something that had been buried.
After nearly three decades of marriage, we realized we had been living a version of life that had become… routine. Comfortable. Predictable. And while there was love — deep, enduring love — we started to ask bigger questions.
Is this all there is?
Are we just going to get older, quieter, duller — waiting around to die?
We weren’t willing to settle. Not after everything we had already survived.
So we began to explore — gently, curiously — what it would mean to live with abundance. Not just spiritually, but physically. Sensually. Sexually. What would it look like to not just exist in our bodies, but enjoy them? What would it feel like to reclaim pleasure, not as something shameful or selfish, but as something sacred?
We read books. We devoured podcasts and TED Talks. We followed sex educators and therapists. We had late-night conversations. We deconstructed everything we’d been taught about purity and sin and gender roles. We prayed — not to the punishing god of our past, but to the Source within us that had always whispered, You were made for more than fear.
And eventually, we took a small step that became a turning point: we went to a nude beach.
Then a nudist resort.
And something clicked.
For the first time in a long, long while — we felt free.
No masks. No performances. No judgment. Just bodies. Just honesty. Just humans being… human.
And strangely enough, it felt like church.
The people we met there were open, curious, kind. The conversations were real. The connection was deep. And the longer we stayed, the more we realized we had stumbled into something that felt more like home than any sanctuary ever had.
It was there, in this open, body-honoring space, that we were first introduced to the world of ethical non-monogamy.
We didn’t jump in. We took our time — years, actually. We read. We wrestled. We processed. We stayed honest with each other, constantly checking in, holding each other, holding space. We knew this wasn’t a “fix” or an escape. It was a conscious, sacred unfolding — something we were choosing together, with integrity and intention.
And when we finally stepped into it, it was with open hearts and cautious curiosity.
We learned about compersion — that beautiful, expansive feeling of joy when someone you love finds connection and pleasure with someone else.
We also stumbled.
We got triggered.
We had to unlearn a lot.
But we also healed.
We grew closer.
We fell in love — not just with each other again, but with life.
What started as curiosity became a sacred expansion. We weren’t chasing novelty. We were chasing aliveness. We weren’t “opening” our marriage to escape something; we were opening it to invite more of who we really were — emotionally, spiritually, sexually.
And along the way, we kept doing what we’ve always done — we helped others. We mentored, counseled, coached, and held space for couples who were wrestling with the same questions we once had: Is there more? Can we be fully ourselves and still fully in love? What if the life we’ve been taught to live isn’t the life we were made for?
And then… something happened we didn’t expect.
We met a couple we loved hanging out with. He came from a similar background and shared similar experiences as us. She was magnetic — vibrant, wild, deeply intuitive. She had this radiant energy that felt like a mirror to my soul. She came from a totally different culture and I loved seeing the world through her eyes, feeling her fire. She felt like my alter ego — the part of me I didn’t even know I was missing.
We grew close. But their relationship had cracks. It was toxic at times — turbulent, confusing, painful to watch. We found ourselves trying to help, to hold space, to offer guidance. But then, when it all fell apart, we were the ones she called.
We showed up and held space of her.
She moved in with us.
What began as healing — a safe place, a soft landing — grew into something we never could have predicted: love. Real, deep, holy, complicated love.
We became a throuple.
And suddenly, everything made sense in a new way.
She wasn’t just a friend. She was family. She was love.
And while this was new for Trent and me, she had already experienced this kind of relationship before — and that helped anchor us all. We navigated the emotions, the boundaries, the joys and challenges together. It wasn’t always easy — but it was always real.
And perhaps the most surprising part of all? I’m not bi.
And yet — I love her. I desire her. I’m intimate with her.
She’s gay — and yet she has learned to love and trust my husband, too.
And Trent? That man is a force of nature. He somehow keeps up with two fiery, sensual, deeply emotional women — and still shows up every day with strength, love, and patience.
We’re not perfect. Not even close.
But we are alive.
And we are in love.
And we are having a hell of a lot of fun.
Our life together is full of laughter, depth, growth, and truly next-level sex. Yes — we go there. We’re not afraid to talk about the pleasure, the connection, the intimacy. For us, sex isn’t separate from spirit — it’s part of it. We make love every night. We explore. We connect. We heal. We play. And somehow, in the sacred and the silly, the messy and the magical — we’ve created a life that feels like home.
