Erotica as Healing: When Fantasy Meets Recovery

I’ve always believed that reading fiction is a kind of therapy.

Not in the formal sense, no clipboard, no couch, but in the way it settles something inside you. Fiction creates space. A quiet, internal space where the noise of the world dims for a moment and you can just feel. And when a story truly lands, when it resonates, when it reflects even a small piece of your life back at you; that’s not just entertainment. That’s healing.

That’s especially true with erotica.

There’s something powerful about seeing your body, your desire, your mess, and your magic on the page. When I read fiction that sees me...really sees me...I’m no longer a ghost in the room. I’m real. I exist. I matter.

Even though the writer is writing from her own experience or imagination, something in her words resonates with me. I see myself. Or I see someone I’ve loved. I've come to understand a decision I made years ago that never made sense until now. I feel seen in ways that others, even those who love me, often don’t.

In that safe space fiction creates, I can work out things I’m not ready to say out loud. I can trace paths through my past, or imagine futures where I am not just surviving; but wanting, loving, being wanted in return.

This is why romantic and erotic fiction matter. We need stories that transcend the conventional portrayals of resilient warriors, wise caregivers, or funny sidekicks. We need stories where we are desired, where we are soft, where we are complicated, where we are whole.

Because here’s the truth: a lot of us have been wounded by love. Betrayed by partners. Shamed for our bodies. Taught that desire makes us dangerous or dirty. Many of us, especially Black women, especially queer women, have spent years trying to shrink ourselves into what’s palatable.

Erotica helps us expand again.

Not just in the physical sense, but emotionally. Erotica lets us try on pleasure, safety, intimacy; without consequence. We get to imagine being loved with care, touched with intention, adored for exactly who we are. We get to choose our fantasies instead of being told what they should be.

And sometimes, when we’ve been hurt, choosing pleasure is the healing. Sometimes the fantasy isn’t about escaping life. It’s about rewriting it and reclaiming it.

This is why I write what I write.

I want to give us places to see ourselves loved, not in spite of the mess, but in the middle of it. I want Black women to see each other and ourselves as worthy of tenderness and lust. Of laughter and touch. Of attention. Of joy.

I want our reflections to show up in the prose and feel like home.

That’s not just fiction. That’s recovery.

Zuri Amara 10/16/2025