In my last post, I came to the defense of romance novels with research about how beneficial they are for relationship health based on what we can learn from them. I find that on tikotk the conversation about romance novels often starts in the wrong place.

It starts with a claim that these books are harmful. That they create unrealistic expectations. They they are damaging relationships.

That framing keeps the focus narrow. It treats readers as passive recipients of influence instead of active participants in meaning-making. It also misses what’s happening on a deeper level.

Romance is not only entertainment. It is a space where people practice identity.

People often rehearse parts of themselves in fiction before they claim them in real life. I talk about this often in my practice. Literature, especially romance books are a place where people can explore identity from a distance. Clients will describe a character, a dynamic, or a storyline with curiosity. They will explain what they love, what they want, what feels safe or unsafe. They often do this long before they can speak about those same needs directly.

That distance from reality matters.

Fiction provides a layer of separation that reduces risk. When something is framed as a story, you aren’t required to take ownership of it. You can engage, react, and reflect without feeling exposed. This creates a low-pressure environment for exploration, especially in areas shaped by shame, silence, or rigid expectations.

Romance, in particular, offers a structured space to explore gender roles, power, and desire.

Within the boundaries of a story, you can examine what it feels like to want something without having to act on it. You can observe different expressions of intimacy, communication, and conflict. You can witness power dynamics play out in ways that are negotiated, challenged, or redefined. You can see what mutual desire looks like when it is explicitly acknowledged.

These experiences don’t remain within the pages of books.

They create reference points.

When someone reads a scene where boundaries are respected, where communication is direct, or where desire is treated as valid, they are not only following a plot. They are absorbing a model. That model becomes something they can compare against their own experiences.

For individuals who were raised in environments that limited or distorted conversations about desire, this kind of exposure is significant. Many people were not given language for what they feel. They were taught what was acceptable, what was expected, and what should be avoided. Romance introduces variation. It presents alternatives.

This is where fantasy plays a critical role.

Fantasy creates distance from shame. It allows readers to engage with desire without immediately attaching judgment to it. Instead of asking “is this allowed,” the question shifts to “does this resonate.”

That shift changes the entire process.

Resonance invites curiosity. It encourages readers to notice their reactions rather than suppress them. Over time, this builds awareness. Patterns begin to emerge. Certain dynamics feel compelling, and others feel uncomfortable. Some interactions create a sense of safety, while others don’t.

This isn’t random.

It reflects internal values, needs, and boundaries that may not yet be fully articulated. Romance becomes a tool for identifying those patterns.

For marginalized readers, this function becomes even more critical.

Traditional narratives have historically centered a narrow definition of desirability. Whiteness, thinness, cisgender identity, and heteronormativity have often been positioned as the default. Within those constraints, many readers have not seen themselves reflected as the subject of desire or as central to a romantic narrative.

When readers encounter stories that center identities like their own, the impact extends beyond representation.

They are seeing themselves placed in roles that affirm their worth. They are witnessing characters who are desired, who have agency, and who navigate relationships on their own terms. This challenges internalized beliefs about who is allowed to be seen, wanted, and prioritized.

It also expands possibility.

If you have never seen a dynamic modeled, it’s difficult to imagine it as an option for your own life. Romance provides those models. It shows a range of relational structures, communication styles, and expressions of intimacy that may not have been available in a reader’s immediate environment.

This isn’t about replacing reality with fiction.

It is about creating a space where new ideas can be considered without immediate consequence.

The process is gradual. A reader notices what draws them in. They begin to understand why certain dynamics resonate. They develop language for their preferences, boundaries, and desires. Over time, this awareness can translate into real-life communication and decision-making.

In this way, romance supports identity formation.

It offers a space where exploration is possible without pressure. It allows readers to engage with complex aspects of themselves in a way that feels contained and manageable. It provides examples that can be evaluated, accepted, or rejected.

The value lies in that process of engagement.

When readers approach romance with attention and reflection, they aren’t consuming passively. They are interacting with the material. They are gathering information about themselves. They are testing ideas in a context that allows for flexibility and change.

This is particularly relevant in conversations about desire.

Desire is often framed as something that needs to be controlled or corrected. In many cultural contexts, it is associated with risk, judgment, or moral evaluation. Romance shifts that framing. It treats desire as something that can be explored, understood, and communicated.

That shift has implications.

When people have access to language and models for their experiences, they are better equipped to navigate relationships. They can identify what they want. They can articulate boundaries. They can recognize when something feels misaligned.

These are foundational skills for relational health.

They are’nt developed in isolation. They are shaped by the narratives people engage with, the examples they observe, and the spaces where they feel safe enough to reflect.

Romance, at its best, contributes to that process.

It creates a space where readers can encounter parts of themselves indirectly. It allows them to engage with those parts without immediate pressure to define or defend them. It supports a movement from reaction to recognition.

A useful place to begin is with a simple question.

What parts of yourself did you meet in fiction before you could name them out loud?

Tell me in the comments! I'll start, one of the first times I saw a nonbinary character on page was in I Kissed Shara Wheeler. There was a secondary character asking a tertiary character how they knew they were nonbinary, and as that character described the experience of knowing it, it felt like they were telling my story. I just knew, yes, that's me. And I suddenly had language I previously did not.

This isn't even remotely related to bookish content, but it's been on my mind and ties in with yesterday's post. Being upset about an interaction that didn't go the way you wanted is valid; however, we rarely, if ever, have all the facts about an interaction, because we cannot know everyone's perspective.

So we have this interaction, feel something, and our brain tells us it must be true. That belief drives much of our emotional suffering.

From a Cognitive Behavioral Therapy lens, there's an important distinction that changes how we relate to our internal world.

All emotions are valid. Not all emotions are accurate.

This difference matters because it shapes how we respond to ourselves in moments of distress. If we treat every emotion as proof of reality, we react to our thoughts as facts. And one thing I always tell my clients: "Thoughts aren't facts."

If we dismiss our emotions, we lose useful information about our needs and patterns. CBT offers a middle path. We take our emotions seriously without assuming they're telling us the full truth.

Let's start with what validity means.

An emotion is valid when it makes sense based on our internal experience. Our brain processes a situation, generates a thought, and produces a feeling. That sequence happens quickly and often outside of awareness. The feeling that follows isn't random. It's a direct response to how we interpreted what happened. Our perception of events.

If we feel anxious after someone doesn't respond to a message, that anxiety is valid. Our mind may have linked the silence to rejection. If we feel shame after making a mistake, that shame is valid. Our mind may have linked the mistake to our sense of worth.

Validation does not mean agreement. It means acknowledging that our emotional response has a cause.

Accuracy is a separate question.

An emotion is accurate when the thought driving it reflects the full context of the situation. In CBT, thoughts are evaluated for distortions. These include mind reading, catastrophizing, overgeneralizing, personalization, and more. When a thought is distorted, the emotion that follows feels intense and convincing, but it may not match reality.

Here's an example of a common experience we have.

You send a message and don't get a reply.

Your automatic thought might be, “They are ignoring me. I did something wrong.”

The emotion that follows is anxiety or rejection.

That emotion is valid. It follows the thought.

Now examine the thought.

What evidence supports the idea that you're being ignored?
What evidence suggests other explanations?
Have there been times when this person responded late for neutral reasons?

When you step back, you often see that you don't have enough information to confirm the original belief.

You try a reframe.

“They might be busy. I don't know why they haven't responded yet.”

The emotional shift is immediate. Anxiety decreases. Curiosity or mild concern replaces it.

The first emotion was valid. The second emotional response is more accurate because the thought aligns better with available evidence.

This is the core of perspective taking.

Perspective-taking expands the frame beyond our initial interpretation. It asks us to consider multiple explanations, not only the one that feels most emotionally charged. This doesn't invalidate our experience. It updates it.

Another example shows how this plays out with self-evaluation.

You make a mistake at work.

Your automatic thought is, “I'm incompetent.”

The emotion is shame.

That shame is valid. It reflects the meaning you assigned to the mistake.

Now challenge the thought.

Does one mistake define your overall ability?
What is the actual impact of this error?
What would you say to a colleague in the same situation?

A more balanced thought might be, “I made a mistake. I can correct it and learn from it.”

The emotional response shifts to disappointment or accountability. These emotions are still uncomfortable, but they're proportionate to the situation and more useful for problem-solving.

The distinction between valid and accurate emotions becomes especially important in relationships.

When someone cancels plans, we might feel hurt and think, “They don't care about me.” The hurt is valid, but the conclusion may not be accurate. Without examining the thought, we risk reacting in a way that damages the relationship. With perspective-taking, we create space to respond rather than react.

This approach changes how we treat ourselves.

Instead of saying, “I shouldn't feel this way,” we say, “It makes sense that I feel this way, given what I'm telling myself.” That reduces shame around the emotion. Then we ask, “Is my thought the only explanation, or the most accurate one?” That invites flexibility.

The goal is not to eliminate emotion. The goal is to align our emotional responses with reality as closely as possible.

In practice, this means slowing the process down.

Identify the situation.
Notice the thought that came up.
Name the emotion that followed.

Then examine the thought.

What am I assuming?
What evidence supports this?
What evidence does not?
What are alternative explanations?

When the thought shifts, the emotional experience shifts with it. This is not about forcing yourself to feel better. It is about responding to a more complete picture.

You don't have to choose between honoring your emotions and staying grounded in reality. You can do both.

I've been thinking about what happened at Book Con with Tracy Deonn and how that correlates to what happened last summer at Sinners and Stardust in Boston. These two things have one thing in common that is both simple and complex. Parasocial relationships. As we ramp up book convention season here are some things to think about.

When a reader walks into a convention space, their behavior often shifts faster than they expect or realize. Social psychology explains this phenomenon well. Environments shape norms. Norms shape behavior.

Researchers like Philip Zimbardo showed how quickly people adjust to roles based on context. In convention settings, the cues are clear. Costumes, fandom language, themed spaces, and shared identity all signal that this is not everyday life. The result is a temporary suspension of usual social boundaries. This is often called deindividuation, a concept studied by psychologist Leon Festinger. I have been to many conventions in the last five years, and I have witnessed this time and again, and I have started to call it convention liberation. When people feel less tied to their individual identity, they rely more on group norms. At conventions, the group norm leans toward openness, intensity, and emotional expression.

That shift can feel freeing. Many attendees report a sense of permission. They speak more openly, flirt more directly, and express admiration with fewer filters. Sociologist Erving Goffman described social life as a performance. Conventions function like a stage where the “front stage” rules change. You are no longer bound to your usual script.

At the same time, another process is happening. Parasocial relationships are activated and intensified. The term was first defined by Donald Horton and R. Richard Wohl. These are one-sided relationships in which a person feels emotional closeness toward a public figure who does not know them. Media exposure builds familiarity. Repeated exposure builds perceived intimacy. As a reader, many of these authors share tidbits about their lives with their readers online, and coupled with reading their books, which gives the reader what feels like a peek into the soul of the author, this gives the reader the sense that they deeply know these authors.

At a convention, that perceived intimacy meets physical proximity.

That combination creates a mismatch. The attendee feels like they are meeting someone they already know. The person behind the table is meeting a stranger while trying to do their job. This gap drives a sense of entitlement. Research on parasocial bonds shows that people often overestimate reciprocity. They expect warmth, time, emotional engagement, or even physical closeness because the relationship feels real on their side.

You see this in behavior. People interrupt conversations. They push for personal details. They expect extended interactions beyond what the setting allows. Some cross physical boundaries, as we saw at Sinner and Stardust. Others treat access as a right rather than a limited resource.

There is also a structural factor. Conventions blur lines between access and labor. Writers, actors, and artists are marketed as approachable. The setting encourages connection. Yet these individuals are working. They are managing time, energy, and often large crowds. The labor includes emotional regulation. They are expected to be kind, engaged, and responsive even when faced with invasive behavior. They often have to perform overly exaggerated positivity, which can be tremendously draining.

This creates a tension between two sets of norms. Attendees operate under a temporary norm of liberation. Workers operate under professional norms and constraints.

The result is predictable. Boundary violations increase in environments where norms are unclear or shifting. Studies on norm ambiguity show that when expectations are not explicit, people rely on internal desires or group cues. At conventions, those cues often prioritize enthusiasm over restraint.

Clear boundaries reduce this problem. When expectations are stated and enforced, behavior shifts quickly. People follow norms when they are visible and reinforced. This aligns with decades of research on social conformity.

So what is happening is not random. It is patterned.

A high stimulation environment lowers inhibition. Group identity increases emotional expression. Parasocial bonds create a sense of closeness. Structural ambiguity around roles creates entitlement.

All of these factors converge in one space. The result feels like freedom for some people. For others, especially those working the event, it feels like constant boundary management.

Understanding this helps reframe the issue. The behavior is not about individual morality alone. It is about context shaping perception, expectation, and action.

If you want that moment to feel meaningful without crossing a line, focus on intention and respect.

Pause before you step up. Remind yourself this is a brief, shared interaction, not a personal relationship. That small mental reset changes how you show up.

Keep your words specific and contained. Share one sentence about what their work meant to you. For example, “Your book helped me feel less alone during a hard time.” That lands. It doesn't require a long response or emotional labor.

Watch for cues. If the line is moving, keep it moving. If the person shifts their body, looks to the next attendee, or shortens responses, that is your signal to wrap up.

Ask before you extend the interaction. A quick “Is it okay if I ask one more thing?” gives them control. If they hesitate, let it go.

Respect physical space. Do not assume touch is welcome. A simple “Can I get a photo?” or “Is a hug okay?” keeps consent clear.

Avoid personal or intrusive questions. You are there to appreciate their work, not access their private life.

Decide your boundary ahead of time. Go in knowing you will keep it brief, kind, and grounded.

Meaning does not come from how long the interaction lasts. It comes from clarity, respect, and presence in a short moment.

When I lived in Alaska, I became a foster parent. I had not planned for it. A colleague said, “you have an extra bedroom and room in your heart, what are you waiting for?” Soon after, I met my first foster daughter at a shelter for unhoused youth. That moment shifted the direction of my life. I cared for seven daughters over the next few years. I also had to confront how little I had done to challenge my own thinking. I learned there is a huge difference between knowing racism is wrong and doing the ongoing work of antiracism.

One moment still sits with me. I was in a meeting, speaking, and a Tlingit grandmother told me to stop. She said, “we don’t need the opinion of a white woman. If we want to hear from you, we will ask.” I felt the discomfort immediately. But I also knew I needed to listen.

That moment forced me to face a gap between what I believed about myself and how I was showing up. I had named social justice as a value. As a social worker, I knew it sat at the core of the National Association of Social Workers Code of Ethics. Still, I had not done the deeper work. I had not examined how white supremacy shaped my assumptions, my reactions, and my sense of authority.

I started reading with intention. I learned about what colonizers did to the Tlingit people and Haida people. I read Black scholars and applied those frameworks to my work with Indigenous youth and families. I began to understand that antiracism is not about holding the right beliefs. It is about changing how you think, how you listen, and how you act.

That work requires unlearning. It requires decolonizing your thinking. White supremacy teaches you to center yourself, to assume expertise, to move quickly, to speak first. Decolonizing asks you to pause, to listen, to question where your thoughts come from, and to notice when you are reinforcing harm.

This is daily work. It does not end after reading one book. It does not hold steady when you are tired. Burnout makes it easier to slip back into default thinking. For me, that default comes from being raised white in a system built on white supremacy. I have to interrupt that pattern over and over again.

Reading plays a role in that interruption. Not as a checklist. Not as a way to feel accomplished. Reading diversely is part of antiracism because stories shape how you see the world. If most of what you read centers cisgender, heterosexual, white characters, those narratives start to feel neutral and universal. They are not. They are limited.

When you read stories by Indigenous authors, by Black authors, by queer authors, you shift what feels familiar. You build a different baseline. You begin to notice whose voices are missing and whose stories are treated as optional. You start to question why.

Reading diversely is not about exposure. It is about accountability. It is about refusing to let white supremacy define your imagination. It is about choosing to engage with perspectives that challenge your assumptions and expand your understanding of community, identity, and power.

For me, that shift changed how I show up in my work and in my life. It continues to change me.

Knowing that backstory, I’m always on the hunt for sapphic Indigenous romances and I found one, and it not only didn’t disappoint, I was blown away by how beautiful it was!

The Ways We Converge by Collins Fox is a book settles into you and stays there.

Synopsis: Juniper Banks has spent the last decade running her mom’s powwow food truck—a life far from the dreams she once had. But while serving frybread and iced tea, she’s quietly built something her Tribe’s thriving food sovereignty program. Now, with an official budget and a coveted office in the new Tribal administrative building, she’s ready to reclaim her narrative and help shape her community’s future.

Rowan Birdsong, a rising star in environmental law, never thought she’d return to the Reservation she once called home. But when her father’s health declines, Rowan steps away from her high-profile career to work as a Tribal advisor and take care of him. The last thing she expects is to cross paths with her first love—Juniper. Or maybe, deep down, it’s exactly who she hopes to see.

It’s been fifteen years since Rowan left Juniper behind, shattering their bond without explanation. Now, fate thrusts them together once more to collaborate on expanding the Tribal gardens Juniper worked so hard to establish. Juniper is furious—why is Rowan back now, and why does she have to ruin her carefully constructed plans for redemption?

At first, Juniper resolves to keep their partnership strictly professional. But as old tensions flare into fresh sparks and the truth behind Rowan’s sudden departure begins to surface, both women must decide whether they can rewrite their past—and if their paths are destined to converge after all.

The Ways We Converge is a second-chance, forced-proximity sapphic romance featuring two Indigenous leads, with plus-size and gender non-conforming representation, climate justice, food sovereignty, powwow food truck chaos, and nerds… who really like to bang (a lot, everywhere).

My Thoughts:

The first thing that stands out to me was how deeply Indigenous culture shaped every part of the story. The reader got community, responsibility, history, and daily life woven into each scene. Juniper’s work with food sovereignty grounds the narrative in something real and urgent. You see how food connects to land, identity, and survival. The story treated that connection with care and precision.

Sapphic romance rarely centers Indigenous characters, and here it was not a side note. It drove the plot. It shaped the tension. It informed how Juniper and Rowan moved through the world and how they moved toward each other. You felt the weight of being seen in a genre that often overlooks this perspective.

The environmental thread adds another layer. The focus on land stewardship and climate justice didn’t feel like a lesson. It felt lived in. The work Juniper builds and the work Rowan returns to support was central to their identities. Their professional collaboration created a layer of friction that pushed the romance forward instead of slowing it down.

There was also a powerful throughline around hair and mourning. The story spoke to the cultural significance of hair for Indigenous people and the act of cutting it as a response to grief. Rowan’s relationship to her hair mirrored her relationship to herself. She was mourning the version of herself who did not feel worthy, who could not love who she was. Leaving the Reservation became part of that process. She had to step away to understand herself, and that journey added depth to her return and to the choices she made in the present.

It had been 15 years since Juniper and Rowan had last seen each other, and the second chance arc hits with jus the right level of animosity and trepidation. There was a lot of hurt to work through from Rowan leaving so abruptly.

When the truth behind Rowan’s departure starts to unfold, the emotional payoff lands because the story took time to build it. And girl does the romance deliver. The tension, the intensity and these ladies LOVE to bang. More importantly, the spice matches the emotional depth instead of overpowring it. You get connection, desire, and vulnerability all working together.

This is a five star read I’ll think about for a long time. 

Every few months, a new conservative book influencer circulates the claim that romance novels, especially the “spicy” ones, are to blame for unrealistic expectations, dissatisfaction, and even the slow erosion of real relationships.

It sounds convincing. They pull information for a study here and a doctor there. They show a book in their post that looks like a valuable resource. But … it also falls apart under scrutiny.

There is no strong body of empirical research showing that reading erotic or sexually explicit romance harms relationships, and there is no strong body of evidence to show that pornography is an actual addiction. What does exist tells a different story, one grounded in therapy, sexual health research, and decades of work in bibliotherapy.

The panic says one thing, but the evidence says another.

There Is No Evidence That Romance Novels Damage Relationships

If erotic romance were actively harmful, you would expect to see consistent, peer-reviewed findings linking it to decreased relationship satisfaction or dysfunction.

That research does NOT exist.

Instead, what we have are cultural assumptions. Critics often rely on anecdotal claims or borrow concerns from adjacent research on pornography. Even in those areas, findings are mixed and shaped by context, communication, and individual biases.

Romance novels, specifically, remain largely unstudied in terms of harm. That absence matters. In research, lack of evidence is not proof of harm. It signals that a claim has not been demonstrated.

What the Research Actually Shows About Reading and Sexual Health

When researchers have studied reading in the context of sexual functioning, the results point in a different direction.

Bibliotherapy, the use of reading as a therapeutic tool, is already an established intervention in psychology. It is low-cost, accessible, and often used in sexual health treatment.

In a controlled study published in Sexual and Relationship Therapy, researchers compared erotic fiction to sexual self-help reading for women experiencing low desire. Both groups showed measurable improvement.

Participants experienced “statistically significant gains” in desire, arousal, satisfaction, orgasm, and overall sexual functioning.

The findings weren't short-lived. Follow-up data showed that improvements were maintained over time, including increases in satisfaction and reductions in pain. 

Another study on bibliotherapy found that women who engaged in structured reading interventions showed “greater gains over time” in sexual desire, arousal, and satisfaction compared to control groups. 

This isn't fringe research. It reflects a growing body of work showing that reading, including erotic material, can function as a legitimate intervention for sexual concerns.

Erotic Fiction Is Already Used in Clinical Practice

Therapists have been using erotic material for decades as part of treatment. I’ve been using it since I started private practice.

In fact, clinical literature notes that when addressing low sexual desire, “a significant number of clinicians include exercises designed to stimulate the erotic imagination,” often through reading. And in real therapy spaces, I have on occasion recommended a round or two of solo or partnered sex to my clients as “homework”.

That detail matters, not the homework, the other parts.

Erotic romance is not an outlier behavior that needs to be corrected. It's a tool already embedded in evidence-based approaches to sexual health.

Why This Works, From a Therapy Lens

When you look at this through a clinical framework, the benefits make sense.

Reading erotic romance creates space for exploration without pressure. It allows you to engage with desire privately, at your own pace, without performance anxiety.

It also gives language to something many people were never taught how to articulate.

Sexual script theory explains that people learn what sex is supposed to look like through narratives. For many, those narratives are limited, shame-based, or nonexistent. Erotic romance expands that range.

It introduces variation. It models communication. It normalizes desire.

For clients who struggle with shame, this matters. Shame reduction is strongly linked to improved sexual satisfaction and relational connection.

Reading also supports what therapists call arousal literacy. It helps people recognize what they respond to, what they enjoy, and what they want to communicate to a partner.

That kind of clarity strengthens relationships. It doesn’t weaken them.

The Relationship Impact Is Often Positive

The idea that erotic romance replaces real connection misinterprets how desire works.

Desire isn’t diminished by imagination. It’s often activated by it.

Research shows that sexual well-being is tied to overall relationship satisfaction. When desire, communication, and comfort increase, relationships tend to improve alongside them. 

Erotic reading supports that process in practical ways:

It gives couples something to talk about. It provides a shared reference point for fantasies and preferences. It reduces avoidance around sexual topics. It encourages curiosity rather than routine.

These are all markers of healthier relational dynamics, not signs of damage.

So, Why Does the Panic Persist?

The backlash against romance, especially romance written for and consumed by women, is not new.

Media that centers female desire often gets framed as excessive, unrealistic, or dangerous. The same concerns rarely appear with male-centered sexual media in the same way.

There’s also discomfort with the distinction between fantasy and expectation. Reading about something doesn’t mean demanding it in real life. People engage with fiction across genres without assuming it sets a standard for their lived experience. I mean, we aren’t jacking off minotaurs in real life, nor do any of us actually want to.

No one argues that crime novels create criminals. Romance, however, is treated differently.

That difference isn't rooted in evidence. It’s rooted in misogyny, patriarchy, and white supremacy.

What Actually Harms Relationships?

In therapy, the drivers of relationship strain are consistent.

• Communication breakdown.

• Unresolved conflict.

• Avoidance.

• Shame.

• Trauma.

Reading habits rarely show up on that list.

More often, reading becomes a resource. It helps clients reconnect with desire, understand themselves, and approach conversations with more clarity.

Erotic romance is not a threat to relationships. It is a tool. Like any tool, its impact depends on how it is used.

When approached with reflection, curiosity, and communication, it supports self-exploration and relational growth.

The research doesn't support the claim that it causes harm.

It does suggest that, for many people, it does the opposite.

I am writing this as a queer therapist who specializes in religious trauma and cult recovery. I sit with people who are trying to rebuild a sense of self after systems tried to erase them.

This is not abstract for me. It shows up in sessions every week. It shows up in how people speak about themselves, how they regulate their emotions, and how safe they feel existing in their own bodies. I, myself am a queer person who is still recovering from a high control religion I have been out of for many years now.

So I want to be clear. What is happening in the courts right now has direct psychological consequences.

The Supreme Court Ruling and What It Means

On March 31, the Supreme Court issued an 8 to 1 decision in Chiles v. Salazar.

This case challenged a Colorado law that banned licensed mental health professionals from engaging in conversion practices with minors.

The Court held that these bans raise serious First Amendment concerns related to therapist speech. In practice, this opens the door for limits on a state’s ability to prohibit these practices.

Here is the impact. If states cannot regulate this, licensed providers gain more protection to engage in practices that major medical and mental health organizations have already identified as harmful. There were NO mental health professionals consulted in this ruling. 

This shifts protection away from vulnerable clients and toward those in positions of power.

Naming the Practice for What It Is

The term “conversion therapy” suggests treatment.

That is inaccurate.

This is conversion abuse.
This is coercive identity suppression.

These practices attempt to change or suppress a person’s sexual orientation or gender identity through authority, shame, and fear.

From a clinical perspective, the structure is clear.
There is a power imbalance.
There is coercion.
There is removal of autonomy.

That meets the definition of abuse.

What the Data Shows

The harm is well documented.

Research supported by the NIH and large national studies on LGBTQ youth show consistent outcomes.

• LGBTQ youth exposed to conversion efforts are more than twice as likely to attempt suicide compared to those who are not exposed.

• One large study found about 28% of youth exposed to these practices reported a suicide attempt, compared to around 12% who were not exposed.

• Exposure before age 18 is associated with higher rates of depression, anxiety, severe psychological distress, and long term trauma symptoms.

These findings repeat across studies.

This is not a question of belief. This is a question of measurable harm.

What I See in the Therapy Room

People who have experienced conversion abuse do not come in confused about who they are.

They come in after being told who they are is wrong.

They present with:

• chronic shame

• dissociation

• hypervigilance

• fear tied to identity expression

• difficulty trusting their own thoughts and feelings

Many folks have learned to disconnect from themselves in order to stay safe in environments where authenticity historically led to punishment.

That is not identity exploration.
That is trauma adaptation.

The Link to Religious Trauma and High-Control Systems

Conversion abuse often exists within high-control environments.

The patterns are consistent with what we see in religious trauma and cult dynamics:

• authority defines identity

• questioning is punished

• fear is used to enforce compliance

• belonging is conditional

When identity becomes something controlled by an external authority, the nervous system shifts into survival mode.

People suppress parts of themselves to avoid rejection, harm, or abandonment.

That suppression does not resolve distress. It internalizes it.

Book Bans and the Removal of Representation

At the same time, there is a growing push to remove books with queer and trans representation from schools and libraries.

This is not separate from what is happening in the courts.

Representation serves a critical psychological function.
It provides language.
It reduces isolation.
It supports identity development.

When you remove representation, you remove access to self-understanding. I use literature in the therapy space constantly to support my clients and to give them something they can see themselves in, and see someone like them flourishing and thriving.

A young person who cannot see themselves reflected anywhere is more likely to internalize shame and accept narratives that frame them as wrong.

That increases vulnerability to coercive systems, including conversion abuse.

The Ethical Responsibility of Therapists

As a licensed clinical social worker, I am bound by the NASW Code of Ethics.

Three principles are central here:

• self determination

• nonmaleficence

• dignity and worth of the person

Conversion abuse violates all three.

A client cannot exercise self determination if their identity is treated as something to change.

A provider violates nonmaleficence when engaging in practices known to increase suicide risk and psychological distress.

Dignity is undermined when identity is framed as disordered or immoral.

This is not an ethical gray area within the profession.

I am beyond livid as I type this thinking about the catastrophic impacts of this ruling.

The Larger Pattern

When you look at these issues together, a pattern emerges.

Limit access to affirming information.
Remove representation.
Frame identity as dangerous or immoral.
Protect systems that enforce conformity.

This is how erasure operates.

It does not begin with identity disappearing.
It begins with making identity unsafe to acknowledge.

The Psychological Impact Right Now

When your existence becomes a topic of legal debate, your nervous system responds.

I am seeing increases in:

• anxiety and hypervigilance

• emotional shutdown

• identity suppression driven by fear

• internalized stigma

These responses are not exaggerated. They are adaptive responses to perceived threat.

What Ethical, Affirming Care Looks Like

Affirming therapy does not attempt to direct identity.

It supports you in understanding yourself.

It focuses on:

• restoring autonomy

• rebuilding trust in your internal experience

• processing trauma without reinforcing shame

No ethical framework supports attempting to change a person’s core identity.

What Needs to Happen

At the policy level:
States need the ability to ban conversion abuse and protect minors from these practices.

At the professional level:
Mental health providers must adhere to ethical standards and refuse to legitimize harmful practices.

At the community level:
Access to queer and trans representation must remain protected.
Support for queer-led organizations needs to increase.

At the individual level:
Seek affirming care.
Build supportive networks.
Stay informed about policy changes that impact your safety.

Refusing Erasure

This is not about competing beliefs.

This is about whether systems are allowed to override a person’s identity under the label of care.

Queer and trans identities are not conditions.
They are not symptoms.
They are not problems to solve.

The harm comes from systems that insist they are.

I’ve talked about this before, but I’m going to talk about it again. Why do so many readers stay inside the same loop of recommendations?

When you engage with one popular sapphic book, platforms feed you ten more that look the same. You are not choosing from the full landscape. You are choosing from a narrow slice shaped by engagement data.

When thousands of readers praise the same books, you feel more confident picking them up. That reduces risk, but it also limits discovery. You miss quieter releases, indie authors, and genre crossovers that do not get mass attention.

Recommendation culture favors speed over depth. People ask for “good sapphic books” and get the same five answers. Few readers ask for what kind of sapphic story they want. Few reviewers explain why a book worked or did not work beyond surface-level reactions.

If you want a richer reading life, you have to push outside that loop on purpose.

Here are six sapphic books that move beyond the usual rotation, with what they offer and where they fall short.

Revel by Bryce Oakley 4 stars
A beachside wedding brings a friend group back together. A reservation mix-up leaves Isla and Freya sharing a single bed, and years of friendship shift into something else.

This novella closes out the Kaleidoscope series with focus and intention. The tension between Isla and Freya carries the story. You feel the weight of their history in every interaction. The pacing is tight because of the length, but the emotional payoff lands. This works as a final note to a series that understands its characters.

The Oblivion Bride by Caitlin Starling 4 stars
Lorelei inherits her family’s legacy after a wave of mysterious deaths. Her uncle marries her off to Nephele, a war alchemist tasked with saving her life. What starts as strategy turns into something personal as they confront a spreading magical threat.

This book leans into intensity. The arranged marriage, the age gap, and the possessiveness all build a charged dynamic between Lorelei and Nephele. The world blends technology and magic in a way that keeps you engaged, even when the rules are not fully explained. The romance carries the story. The ending felt a little rushed, and some plot elements lost clarity, but the emotional core remained strong.

Anywhere You Go by Bridget Morrissey 5 stars
A small-town waitress and a high-powered press agent swap homes after their lives fall apart. Each woman finds unexpected connections and direction in the other’s world. If The Holiday were sapphic this is it.

This is a dual romance that succeeds on both sides. Eleanor and Carson bring emotional depth and directness. Tatum and June offer slow, patient longing and all the sapphic yearning. The structure keeps you invested because you want both outcomes. The characters feel grounded, and the relationships develop with care. This is a romcom that earns its emotional impact.

Cowboys and Kisses by Karin Kallmaker 4.5 stars
Darlin’ survives in a Wyoming town with limited options and fewer protections as a sex worker in a brothel. Years later, she faces the possibility of love and a life beyond survival with the pastor's sister.

This story does not soften its setting. You feel the pressure of a world where women without protection face constant risk. The first-person voice captures both youth and endurance. The romance offers relief without ignoring the cost of getting there. The ending offers hope, balancing the harshness of the journey.

Strange Beasts by Susan J. Morris 5 stars
Samantha Harker investigates supernatural murders in early twentieth-century Paris alongside Helena Moriarty (The daughter of Dracula's killer and Sherlock Holmes villain Moriarty). Their partnership grows under pressure as they track a killer.

This book blends gothic horror, mystery, and feminist themes. The atmosphere is consistent and immersive. Sam’s internal conflict around her abilities adds tension to every scene. The chemistry between Sam and Hel is built through distrust and necessity. The pacing drives the story forward, and the world invites further exploration. This stands out for its scope and ambition. There was more emphasis on the mystery than anything else.

Single Player by Tara Tai
Two game developers clash over whether their project needs romance. Professional tension shifts into something more as they confront external threats and internal defenses.

Cat’s early characterization feels exaggerated, and some choices seem unbelievable. As the story progresses, both leads gain depth, and their shared passion for gaming grounds the narrative. The identity elements lack development and feel thrown in for diversity's sake rather than cultural impact. The book works best as a light, character-driven read rather than a deep exploration of representation.

What this list shows

When you step outside the usual recommendations, you find range. You find sci-fi horror with obsessive romance. You find historical grit. You find dual love stories that balance each other. You find gothic mysteries with feminist stakes.

If you keep reading the same five authors, you miss this range.

A better approach to recommendations

Ask for specifics. Do you want slow burn or immediate tension? Do you want plot-heavy or character-driven? Do you want soft romance or morally complex dynamics?

Track your own reactions. Notice what holds your attention and what pulls you out of a story.

Read across subgenres. Contemporary, fantasy, horror, historical. Each one expands the possibilities of sapphic storytelling.

Support smaller titles. Many of the most interesting books do not trend. You have to look for them. I had never heard of Karin Killmaker until I was rummaging through "available now" titles on Libby.

Your reading life grows when you stop relying on the same loop and start choosing with intention.

I'm hoping to be back more often with short recs like this or round ups like what can be found on my instagram but with more explanation and intention.

Ok fam, here are the new releases for April, below are the ones I've been notified about since posting this:

Ok since posting I've been made aware of:
Bleed Blue by Moxie St. Henry coming out on 4/6
Queenslander by Laura Garden coming out on 4/21

If I'me made aware of any more I'll update y'all! Tell me in the comments what you are most excited for!