“These Are Better Than the Best Sex I’ve Ever Had”
Or, how chocolate, music, and a tenor from Canada helped me claim my voice—and rewrite my identity
A hand landed gently on my shoulder and a smoky woman’s voice came from behind me.
“Did you make these?”
I was holding a silver tray, offering hand-rolled, hand-dipped dark chocolate truffles at a VIP after-party.
“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, I did.”
She took another bite, eyes wide, and said something that still makes me laugh.
“These are better than the best sex I’ve ever had.”
It was the perfect exclamation point at the end of a day I will never forget.
But let me start at the beginning.
In 2007, I was burning out—mentally, physically, spiritually. Years of 100-hour workweeks had taken their toll. I was surviving, but barely. Something in me was unraveling.
Then I heard him.
Mark Masri. A Juno award-winning tenor from Canada.
The first time he sang, he hit a note so pure it felt like time stopped. Something deep inside me cracked open. I could feel my nervous system respond. The ache softened. The anxiety paused. The pain lifted.
That was the first time I consciously experienced frequency as medicine.
Music saved my life.
Fast forward a few years. Mark and I had become friends. I’d started helping musicians promote their work online. One day, in a moment that felt offhand to him but reverent to me, he looked at me and said:
“Shaneh, you’re a writer.”
I remember the flutter in my chest—and the immediate internal rejection.
Because at that point, I was all-in on the identity I thought made me worthy:
“I’m an accountant.”
Saying I was a writer felt indulgent. Silly, even. Who did I think I was?
But life has a way of circling back.
A few years later, I was helping Mark produce a PBS special—an outdoor concert filmed on the banks of the Welland Canal. I was writing bios, scripting intros, designing merch, even hosting benefit concerts in my home. All while still insisting I didn’t have a creative bone in my body.
I was writing every single day.
In journal entries. In emails. In marketing copy. In moments of prayer.
But no one saw it. Not even me.
Then, five years ago, someone told me:
“Your words are erotica for my soul.”
And still… I clung to “just an accountant.”
Until now.
Because this is what I know:
We will contort ourselves into the smallest containers of identity if we think it keeps us safe.
We will over-identify with what we do to avoid claiming who we are.
We will reject the truth of what others see in us—because accepting it means becoming more than we were told we were allowed to be.
So let me ask you something, beloved:
What identities are you holding onto so tightly that you’re choking out the ones waiting to emerge?
Who are you when you stop performing and start receiving?
What truth have others spoken over you—again and again—that you’ve never fully believed?
Can you, just for a moment, borrow the eyes of those who have loved you well?
What would you finally claim if you could see yourself as they do?
Here’s what I’m claiming:
I am an accountant.
I am a CFO.
I am an entrepreneur.
I am a truffle maker.
And yes—
I am a writer.
This Substack is my altar.
A place where all my selves are welcome.
A home for sacred rebellion, sovereign profit, and stories shared, no longer hidden.
Pull up a chair.
Tell the truth.
Let’s set the record (and our bank balances) straight.
Song of the Day: Caruso by Mark Masri