Mama Gena's School of Womanly Arts

Mama Gena's School of Womanly Arts www.mamagenas.com

At The School of Womanly Arts, Regena teaches practical tools to help women embrace pleasure, access their glorious untapped potential, unlearn patriarchal conditioning, and live the joyous lives meant for them.

Years ago, a young woman I had never met wrote to tell me she had just gotten a p***y tattooed on the inside of her fore...
09/08/2026

Years ago, a young woman I had never met wrote to tell me she had just gotten a p***y tattooed on the inside of her forearm.

And I thought... who is this gorgeous, glorious, outrageously spectacular creature who got the download of her own majesty and power so completely, from a book, that she went out and got a motherf%cking tattoo?!

And she was only halfway through the book. Halfway, darling! She did not wait to find out how it ended.

And that is how our love affair began.

Let me tell you the rest of of the story (it's fascinating 👀) and all about where we'll be together in a few days…

bit.ly/brave-with-mama-g

One day your life was ordinary.The next, the ground opened under you.A diagnosis.A betrayal.A phone call at 2am.An endin...
07/21/2026

One day your life was ordinary.

The next, the ground opened under you.

A diagnosis.
A betrayal.
A phone call at 2am.

An ending you never saw coming and never got a vote on.

You didn't choose it, you couldn't claw your way back out, and you've been living down there in the dark ever since — functioning, mostly, smiling on schedule, braced, always braced, for whatever comes next.

Persephone knows.

A girl in a meadow, picking flowers. The earth splits open. A god drags her straight down into the underworld without asking.

Everyone tells this story like she's a victim. A girl who got stolen. The end. A cautionary tale about staying close to your mother.

That is not the end.

Down there in the dark, Persephone does not shrink. She does not sit around waiting to be rescued. She does not spend a thousand years apologizing for being taken. She becomes Queen of the Underworld.

She takes the very realm that was built to destroy her, and she rules it.

And when she rises every spring, she rises as someone that safe little meadow could never in a thousand years have made her — sovereign, with a whole dark kingdom at her back.

Queen — and I mean that word for you — you do not pray to Persephone from below. You become her. She's the force in you that goes all the way down, refuses to be only a victim of the descent, and comes back up wearing a crown the easy years could never have given you.

This is the reframe I want to hand you for the worst thing that ever happened to you: it was a kidnapping, yes. And it was also, if you let it be, a coronation. The descent is the initiation. It was never meant to be the life sentence.

That's the spine of my new book, On Our Knees, and Persephone gets her very own chapter — with a practice for ruling your underworld instead of just surviving it.

She's born August 25.

And the night she arrives, we rise together — a live Transmission, thousands of us dropping into the same hour, coming up out of the dark wearing our crowns, wherever we are.

One copy of On Our Knees gets you the book AND your seat at the Transmission. Grab a second for a woman still down in it — but one is all it takes to be in: mamagenas.com/livestream

Let me tell you how I make a book – because it tells you everything you need to know about the one that is about to be b...
07/14/2026

Let me tell you how I make a book – because it tells you everything you need to know about the one that is about to be born on August 25...

For my very first book baby, I bought a towering stack of lavender legal pads and wrote the whole thing by hand while my man typed the pages into the computer behind me like a devoted scribe.

I rented a single room in a house on Fire Island and rose at dawn every morning – carrying a coffee and a folding chair out to the sand and writing as I faced the sunrise, in rhythm with the waves coming in.

Not in a grim office under fluorescent light, gritting my teeth toward a deadline. In pleasure. On purpose. At the most beautiful hour I could find, in the most beautiful place I could get to.

Three books in three years, every single one made exactly that way — because I refuse, on principle, to create anything about pleasure from a place of grind. (It would be a lie from the very first sentence.)

On Our Knees was written in that identical spirit — except this time I was writing my way up off an actual floor, one lavender page at a time, in front of my own kind of sunrise.

Every raw and real word of her, I lived first. She is born August 25.

And that is the whole secret she quietly hands you: you do not have to grind your way back to life. You do not have to earn your way up off the floor through suffering, or discipline, or one more punishing system.

You can come back the way I write, the way I teach — in pleasure, in beauty, at dawn, in the company of others doing the exact same thing.

Which is exactly how we are going to do it together on the 25th.

The in-person night in Brooklyn is full, so I'm opening the whole thing up: a live transmission, thousands of us dropping into the same hour, wherever we are, everyone you love close. I'll run the practice straight into your body, live — not a lecture you watch, an experience you feel in your skin.

One copy of On Our Knees gets you the book AND your seat at the livestream.

Preorder (one copy = your seat) → mamagenas.com/onourknees
Already ordered? Claim your seat: swa.pages.ontraport.net/ook-receipt-upload

Come back to life the way it was always meant to happen, my love — in pleasure, in company, at dawn. Not nervous. Not under duress or deadline. But lit all the way up.

Decades ago, I was on the couch at 2am nursing my newborn in the blue flicker of the television, milk leaking, my soul l...
07/08/2026

Decades ago, I was on the couch at 2am nursing my newborn in the blue flicker of the television, milk leaking, my soul like an unmade bed, more exhausted than I had words for.

Half asleep, I clicked on a film called Dangerous Beauty, about a sixteenth-century Venetian courtesan named Veronica Franco.

There is a scene where Veronica's mother is bathing her grown daughter, teaching her the family trade, and she says it plainly, like she's passing down a recipe: to give pleasure, you must first know pleasure.

In other words: wake up, darling Regena. Remember who the f*ck you are.

I sat there in the dark, leaking and undone and barely upright, and something in me that had been asleep my whole life woke all the way up.

That 2am film is the night the School of Womanly Arts was conceived. One woman, in a story, woke another woman, on a couch — who went on to wake hundreds of thousands more. That is how this work has always traveled. From one woman to one woman, in the dark, at the exact moment she was certain she was the most alone.

I tell that story in On Our Knees, born August 25, because it is the genesis and truth of our movement in a single scene. We do not get free alone. We get free in pairs, in circles, one person leaning over another and saying: wake up.

Which is exactly why the night we are building around this book is not a thing you do by yourself.

The in-person night in Brooklyn is full — so on August 25, I'm opening the doors wide to the Transmission (my book launch livestream) where thousands of us will gather, in the same hour, in kitchens and living rooms all over the world.

I'll pour the whole experience straight into your body, the way that film poured it into mine. You won't watch it. You'll wake up inside it.

And getting in is the same thing as getting the book. One copy of On Our Knees gets you the book on launch day AND your seat at the livestream.

(Oh and while you're at it, grab a second copy and press it into the hands of someone you love who needs waking up, too — because that is the whole thing, the only way it has ever worked: one of us, leaning over another, in the dark, saying wake up, wake up, wake up.)

Pre-order (one copy = your seat) → mamagenas.com/onourknees
Already ordered? Claim your seat! → swa.pages.ontraport.net/ook-receipt-upload

Wake up, darling. I'll meet you there.

07/07/2026

I keep hearing the same quiet confession from women: "I just don't want s*x anymore."

The kids leave home. Life slows down in certain ways. And suddenly, so many women find themselves wondering where their desire went—and whether something is wrong with them.

I was recently featured in a beautiful goop article about intimacy, pleasure, and the empty nest years, and I shared something I deeply believe:

There is often nothing wrong with your desire.

Sometimes the body has simply been carrying too much for too long.

Pleasure isn't frivolous. It isn't something we earn after we've taken care of everyone else. It's one of the ways we come back to ourselves.

If you're in this season of life—or know a woman who is—I think this conversation will resonate.

Read the article here: goop.com/wellness/s*xual-health/empty-nester-s*x-tips

And tell me: what has this chapter of your life been teaching you? ❤️

Thirty years ago I taught my first students in the living room of an Upper West Side brownstone whose rent we could bare...
07/07/2026

Thirty years ago I taught my first students in the living room of an Upper West Side brownstone whose rent we could barely afford.

My friend Meryl painted an enormous v***a across the vaulted vestibule, right over the doorway, so not one woman could walk in and pretend she’d arrived somewhere respectable.

Twelve of them on the floor. Irreverent, holy, f*ckable. I had more nerve than sense and no idea what I was starting.

I just knew what happened in there.

Women walked in braced — arms crossed, smiling that careful smile, fine, fine, fine — and somewhere in the night something came loose, like a tooth, like a screw, and they remembered they were a force.

You cannot do that alone, behind a locked door, at midnight. You do it in a crowd of women who refuse to let you take it back.

That living room became a whole life.

It became my new book → On Our Knees, born August 25. And on the night she arrives, I’m conjuring the biggest, boldest version of that first night I have ever made.

So let me tell you what August 25 is actually going to look like, because I refuse to play small and be polite about something this spectacular.

It is 150 of us at the House of Yes in Brooklyn with the bass coming up through the floor.

It is the kind of night where your skin lights up before you’ve finished your first drink, where you catch a stranger’s eye across the crowd and she’s already grinning at you like she knows.

It is bodies and laughter and the holy racket we make when nobody is supposed to be watching and everybody is.

It is On Our Knees off the page and in our bodies — the most fun I have had with my clothes (mostly) on.

This is not a workshop where you sit with your hands folded. It is not a reading where I murmur a few pages and send you home to your regularly scheduled exhaustion.

It is the night your body has been starving for while you were busy being everyone’s answer.

This is the first time I’ve taken a stage since 2019, and there are only 150 seats.

Your $250 ticket puts two copies of the book in your hands — one to keep, one to press into the hands of someone you love, because not one of us makes it off her knees alone.

I’m not going to make the gentle case. I’m going to grab you by the wrist. Come be sistered. Come let your skin light up. Come stand with 150 people who are done being fine and find out what you’re like with the lid all the way off.

And if you can’t get to Brooklyn — you’re still all the way in. Pre-order the book now and let the anticipation of her arriving Aug 25 light you up the moment you say yes.

CLAIM YOUR SEAT: mamagenas.com/onourknees-initiation
PRE-ORDER: mamagenas.com/onourknees

A few years ago, I had a season where I taught a sold-out call in the morning — smiling, lit up, every tool I have ever ...
07/02/2026

A few years ago, I had a season where I taught a sold-out call in the morning — smiling, lit up, every tool I have ever handed you running clean through my own body — and then I logged off, walked into my own bathroom, sank down onto the cold tile, and stayed there. On my knees. On the actual floor.

Some days I prayed. Most days I wept. Some days I just breathed. Then I got up, washed my face, and went back to being Mama Gena for everybody else.

I never missed a beat on the outside. And underneath, life had taken me all the way down.

Here is what I learned down there on that tile, and what I wrote an entire book to tell you.

There is no clipboard in the sky where some bureaucrat ticks a box that says 'she has done her work, exempt her, give her the easy years now.' It does not work that way.

The wisest, most practiced, most lit-up woman you know still gets brought to her knees. I did.

The work does not spare you the floor — the work is what turns the floor into a doorway instead of a life sentence.

That is why I wrote my new book, On Our Knees. She is coming out August 25, and she is the most personal and most raw thing I have ever made.

On Our Knees is not a book to read alone and then shelve. She is a book to pass, hand to hand, woman to woman, until she reaches every single one of us who has forgotten she was ever a force — and we are so many right now.

Preorder her today and come get the very first of her with me at mamagenas.com/onourknees

Let's turn on the world, together.

I have a confession.Right now, as I write this, I am in the middle of a motherf*cking sprint. Massive things are happeni...
06/23/2026

I have a confession.

Right now, as I write this, I am in the middle of a motherf*cking sprint. Massive things are happening in my world, and one of the biggest lands tomorrow. (You will be the first to know.)

A few weeks ago I looked at the whole magnificent, terrifying pile of it and asked myself one question: how on earth am I going to survive this?

The answer was not more coffee.
It was not a better calendar.
It was not white-knuckling my way through.

It was pleasure.

So I made myself a vow. A daily 0rgasm practice, no matter what, even on the mornings I did not feel like it. Especially then.

And what happened next surprised even me.

Read the whole confession here: mamagenas.com/confession

Years ago, someone gave me an assignment that sounded absurd: prepare your home as if the most important person in the w...
06/16/2026

Years ago, someone gave me an assignment that sounded absurd: prepare your home as if the most important person in the world were coming to visit.

Pick the food. The candles. The music. And then?

Realize the guest is you.

So I did. Roses and dark chocolate from the market. Sade on the speakers. A long, luxurious bath, my little treasures arranged nearby like a private altar.

And something rose up in me that I had not felt since childhood. Liquid gold. Melted honey.

Nobody did that to me, my love.

I did it. On purpose.

And it taught me the thing almost all of us get exactly backwards about pleasure.

Read about it here: mamagenas.com/turn-yourself-on

You know the sound a faucet makes when it's running out of water?That gaspy, wheezy, death-rattle sputter?I can hear it ...
06/06/2026

You know the sound a faucet makes when it's running out of water?

That gaspy, wheezy, death-rattle sputter?

I can hear it as I write this, because it is the sound a woman makes too –– somewhere around 4pm, when she has given and given and given since before the coffee went cold.

You love your kids and you are fried at the thought of refereeing one more fight about whose turn it is.

You love your partner and you cannot remember the last time you wanted to be touched instead of finally, blessedly, left alone.

You love your work, or you're done with your work, and either way you can't make yourself care while the inbox refills faster than you empty it and the good weather mocks you through the window.

You’re wrung out. Run dry. Trapped in a full-body bind – and the longer you stay in it, the tighter it cinches.

The body truth is this: when a woman feels trapped, she actually is trapped, cut off from the one current that gets her loose, which is her own pleasure.

On days like that, pleasure is not optional. It is oxygen. The way out is not more discipline. It is not another f*cking planner. It is not the oat-milk latte you drink standing up at the counter while three people talk at you without seeing you.

This morning the rattle was mine. It was so tempting to throw myself a private pity party and bury the whole feeling under my phone and a sleeve of crackers so I would not have to feel it.

Instead, I did the thing I teach (and notice, it is not a punishment).

I ran a bath so hot and so deep it was almost obscene, lit the good candle – the expensive ones we’re tempted to save for a special occasion...but I AM THE SPECIAL OCCASION – put on the song that makes my hips move on their own, and gave my own body the kind of attention we’re supposed to save for someone else or save for later.

I came back to my desk an hour later a different woman, lit from the inside, my energy running as hot and clear as the water in that delicious tub. I did not discipline myself back to life. I pleasured myself back to life. That is the entire difference, and it is the difference Virtual Pleasure Bootcamp teaches.

Bootcamp is eight weeks of building pleasure as a reflex and holy f*cking fuel so deep into your body it runs without you having to remember. So the 4pm rattle stops getting a vote in how your life goes.

Turn the water back on at virtualpleasurebootcamp.com

Come and get yours.

Address

New York, NY

Opening Hours

Monday 10am - 6pm
Tuesday 10am - 6pm
Wednesday 10am - 6pm
Thursday 10am - 6pm
Friday 10am - 5pm

Telephone

+12127872411

Website

Alerts

Be the first to know and let us send you an email when Mama Gena's School of Womanly Arts posts news and promotions. Your email address will not be used for any other purpose, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

Contact The School

Send a message to Mama Gena's School of Womanly Arts:

Shortcuts

Featured

Share

Category