💌 Dear Frank: Letters From the Soft Places (Vol. 1)

A NURturing deSirE Advice Column

Some people arrive at NURturing deSirE because they’re curious.

Some arrive because they’re lonely.

Some arrive because they’ve carried a truth for years and finally found a place soft enough to set it down.

I didn’t expect this many letters.

Not so quickly.

Not so honest.

Not so beautifully human.

So here it is: the first installment of Dear Frank, a column for the questions that live beneath the skin, written by the people who found this work at the exact moment their nervous system whispered, “Speak.”

Three letters.

Three lives.

Three very different doors into the same longing for connection.

Let’s begin.

📨 “A neuroscientist who needs your poetic translation more than the literature.”

Elena — Cambridge, MA

Dear Mr. Gray (Frank),

I study the exact receptor systems you write about so casually—the OXTR polymorphisms, vagal tone, the hippocampal effects of sustained oxytocin release—yet your post on “Oxytocin: The Love Hormone (and Why Nursing Works)” made me feel them in my body for the first time. That has never happened in a lab. I’m writing because I’ve begun self-induced lactation in complete solitude after a painful breakup. The physiological protocol is straightforward (I have access to the literature and compounds), but the emotional scaffolding is missing. Your writing keeps circling the idea that nursing is a co-regulated nervous-system event, not just chemistry. How do you hold that space alone? Are there rituals or mental reframes you’ve used (or seen partners use) when the mouth at the breast isn’t attached to another nervous system in real time? I can get the milk to flow, but I cannot get the feeling—the soft landing you describe. I apologize for the clinical tone; it’s a shield. Your words feel like the first safe place I’ve found in years.

Thank you,

Elena

Dear Elena,

You can call me Frank. Especially here.

Your message is one of the most achingly intelligent and tender letters I’ve received. And your closing line? That did something to me:

“Your words feel like the first safe place I’ve found in years.”
Let’s sit with that for a moment.
You’ve mapped receptor systems and still had to travel here—to a soft, strange little book about nursing—to find safety. That says a lot about what intellect can do… and what it sometimes can’t.

So let’s talk, human to human. Not just scientist to storyteller.

You asked:

“How do you hold that space alone?”
“Are there rituals or reframes when there’s no nervous system across from you?”

These are heartbreakingly beautiful questions. And they matter deeply to more people than you know—because there’s a quiet wave of folks who’ve found themselves inducing, exploring, or reclaiming this practice alone. Not for a partner. Not for a baby. But because something inside them said:
“Let me be held—even if I’m the one doing the holding.”

Here’s how some of them—and sometimes I—have found that soft landing, even in solitude:

🫀 1. Treat your body as both lover and beloved.

This sounds poetic. It’s also neurological.

The vagus nerve doesn’t require another person to be stimulated—it requires safety, rhythm, and warmth. Nursing alone can become a co-regulated event within your own body if you allow it to be. That means:

• Touching yourself as if someone who adored you were touching you.

• Speaking aloud—not to yourself as “I,” but as “you”:
  “You’re safe. You’re enough. I’ve got you.”

• Closing your eyes and imagining—not fantasy, but presence. Not a lover, but a witness.

You can literally pair the sensation of milk flow with affirming language. That turns the letdown reflex into a scripted return to safety.

🕯️ 2. Build ritual, not routine.

If this is about more than milk, let the space reflect that. Light a candle before you begin. Wrap yourself in scent. Use music. Dim the room. Hold something weighted against your spine. Make it holy—not because you're "supposed" to, but because you deserve ceremony.

And if grief rises? Let it. You’re not doing it wrong.
You’re doing it fully.

🌬️ 3. Give the milk somewhere to go.

Even if you’re not feeding a partner or child, the act of offering can be healing. Some people express a few drops into warm water and speak a blessing aloud. Others write one-word intentions during letdown. The goal is to remind your system:
“This flow means something.”
It is witnessed. Even in solitude.

💡 And one very human reframe:

When the milk comes and the feeling doesn’t, don’t assume the process is broken. Your nervous system may still be thawing.
Sometimes milk precedes meaning.
Let it. Let your body go first. The soul often takes a beat to catch up.

Elena, you’re doing something radical: inviting nurture into a space that has known loss. You’re not trying to “fill a hole”—you’re trying to tend the edges of it. That’s not pathology. That’s poetry.

Keep nursing. Keep noticing. And when the day comes that the milk flows and the feeling lands, you’ll know:
It wasn’t chemistry that changed. It was you. Letting yourself be held.

With reverence,
Frank

P.S. No apology needed for the clinical tone. Shields serve a purpose—especially for brilliant minds trying to tiptoe into softness. You can bring your science here. Just let your heart walk in beside it.

📨 “A first-time wet nursing question from a guy who never thought he’d be writing this.”

Marc — Somewhere on I-80

Hey Frank,

Your Milk Drops blog popped up when I was googling “adult breastfeeding without baby” at 3 a.m. in a truck stop outside Billings. Read the Oxytocin piece and the latching piece and damn near started crying in the sleeper cab—didn’t expect that. My girlfriend (long-distance right now) surprised me by starting to lactate for us. First time it happened I froze up—felt like I was doing something wrong even though she was begging me to keep going. I’m 6'4", bearded, been single for years, and here I am addicted to something that feels more intimate than sex ever did. Question: when there’s actual milk (not just drops), how do you not make it feel… clinical? Like I’m “milking” her instead of loving her? She says it feels amazing, but I catch myself overthinking technique and it kills the mood. Any tricks from your side for staying in the emotional lane instead of the mechanical one? Appreciate you putting this out there, man. Makes a guy feel less like a freak.

Marc (Somewhere on I-80 right now)

Oh Marc—
If this ever becomes a book of letters, yours is going right up front. The image of a 6'4" bearded guy getting misty over oxytocin in a sleeper cab outside Billings? That’s not just poetry—that’s proof that intimacy sneaks up on us in the most unexpected places.

Thank you for writing. You’re not a freak. You’re just awake.

Let’s talk about your question:

“When there’s actual milk… how do you not make it feel clinical? Like I’m ‘milking’ her instead of loving her?”

God, what a good question. And you’re not the only one who’s felt that shift—when the body starts giving in a real, visible way, it can be disorienting. Suddenly, what used to be sensual and slow turns into something that feels more… productive. And that change can trip up even the most emotionally grounded partner.

Here’s what I’d offer:

🐄 1. Ditch the word “milking.” Seriously.

Yes, it’s the biological term. But emotionally? That word pulls us out of presence and into function. You’re not milking a cow. You’re not pumping a machine. You’re receiving a gift from someone’s body because she wants to give it to you. You’re not extracting—you’re connecting.

So when the milk flows, try reframing it like this:
“This isn’t me making something happen. This is her body choosing to trust me.”
Stay in that story.

🐚 2. Focus on atmosphere, not outcome.

Technique matters—but tone matters more.

Soften the moment. Dim the lights. Turn on music. Add warmth to the room, literally and emotionally. Keep your other hand engaged—not in productivity, but in presence: stroke her arm, hold her hand, rest on her ribcage. This reminds you both: we’re not here to perform, we’re here to connect.

If things start to feel too mechanical? Pause. Kiss her collarbone. Breathe together. Let the milk be part of the moment, not the goal.

🌊 3. Stay attuned to rhythm, not results.

Let her body guide the pace. Milk tends to flow in waves—not always consistent, not always predictable. Don’t rush it. Let the experience be messy, surprising, even funny. (Sometimes, a spontaneous spurt hits your chin. Laugh. Wipe it. Keep going.)

This isn’t a job. It’s a dance. Sometimes she leads. Sometimes you do. But the music is trust.

🫶 4. Own your reaction.

You froze the first time because you care. That’s not failure—it’s reverence. Your pause didn’t mean “something’s wrong.” It meant you realized something was real. That tenderness? Let it stay. Let it inform how you hold her. How you drink from her. How you thank her—verbally or not—for offering herself this way.

Marc, the fact that you’re asking this question means you’re already doing it right. Staying “in the emotional lane” isn’t about being perfect—it’s about choosing presence over performance, again and again.

So next time the milk flows, try this:
Don’t think “Am I doing this right?”
Think “Can she feel how much I love being close to her?”

That’s the real technique. Everything else is just gravity and skin.

Keep trucking. And stay in touch when you can—I'd love to hear how this grows.

With grit and gratitude,
Frank

📨 “Thank you + a very specific question about induced lactation.”

Sarah — Toronto

I found your site through the “Dry vs. Wet Nursing” post yesterday and ended up reading everything in one sitting with tears in my eyes; someone finally wrote the words I’ve never been able to say out loud. My husband and I have been nursing (dry) almost every night for comfort and closeness. It’s the best part of our marriage, but I keep circling the idea of actually bringing in milk someday. I’m turning 35 soon and we’re not sure about kids yet, so the idea of inducing just for us feels both exciting and terrifying. Every forum I’ve found is either fetish-focused or written for new moms. Your writing feels safe and human. My question is brutally practical: once I actually start a serious induction protocol (I have the Domperidone prescription ready), how did you and your partner handle the first few weeks when the milk is unpredictable and sometimes just a few drops? Did you ever feel silly or discouraged? How did you protect the emotional side of nursing when the physical reality was messy and slow? I ordered the paperback tonight. Thank you for giving this beautiful thing a name that doesn’t make us feel broken.

With gratitude, Sarah (Toronto)

Dear Sarah,

First of all, thank you. Your note stopped me in my tracks. The care and courage in your words—that is exactly why this work exists. You’re not broken, not alone, and certainly not the first person to feel both awe and hesitation about crossing into something so intimate and undefined.

You asked:

“How did you and your partner handle the first few weeks when the milk is unpredictable and sometimes just a few drops?”

Such a beautifully honest question. And here’s the truth: many couples who explore induced lactation describe those early days as surprisingly emotional. You do the prep. You follow the plan. And then… a drop. Maybe. It can feel anticlimactic, even a little absurd. One person told me, “I expected magic—and I got moisture.” It was said with love and laughter, but also with real vulnerability.

What helps most?

• Reframing those early drops. They’re not a finish line—they’re a signal. A “hey, I hear you” from your body. For some, that’s cause for celebration. (I know one couple who literally toasted their first drop with a shot of almond milk.)

• Making emotional connection the metric. Not ounces. Not volume. But questions like: Did we feel close tonight? Did we breathe better afterward? Keeping the soul of nursing intact protects it from becoming mechanical.

• Staying playful. The couples who thrive through induction tend to be the ones who laugh easily, take breaks when needed, and refuse to see this as a performance. (Let me just say: the most memorable letdown I ever witnessed came in the middle of a lazy afternoon—not during a “serious session.” The body has its own sense of timing.)

So yes, it can be slow. And yes, it can feel strange. But it can also be one of the most rewarding journeys you share—not because of the milk, but because of what you build together in the process of trying.

You already have the most important thing: a bond worth deepening.

With warmth,
Frank

💬 Closing Thoughts

If you saw yourself in any of these letters—

write to me.

Shy. Scientific. Heartbroken. Curious.

Anonymous or not. Signed or initialed.

It all counts.

The door of NURturing deSirE is open to the questions most people keep hidden.

Send your letter → therealfrankgray@gmail.com