In dating and intimacy, we’re often taught to look for surface-level markers of “worthiness” — titles, income, lifestyle, social status. But the deeper truth is this:
A person can look impressive and still live in quiet chaos.
And the more mature version of you doesn’t need to investigate someone’s outer life to understand their inner world.
You don’t have to figure out how much someone makes to know whether they are emotionally whole.
What matters more are quieter, more honest questions:
Is their life stable — emotionally, spiritually, relationally?
Does their story match their choices?
Do you feel safe, calm, and clear in their presence — or confused, tense, and unsettled?
These questions don’t come from judgment.
They come from wisdom.
You’re not “too sensitive.”
You’re perceptive.
When something feels off, it isn’t an accusation.
It’s information.
Your body notices before your mind catches up.
Your spirit recognizes misalignment long before you can explain it.
And trusting yourself doesn’t make you cynical — it makes you grounded.
Quiet clarity is powerful.
You don’t have to argue with your instincts.
You don’t have to convince yourself to stay curious about red flags.
You don’t have to silence your nervous system to be “open-minded.”
You are allowed to listen to the discomfort.
You are allowed to honor the pause.
You are allowed to choose peace over potential.
Emotional intelligence in love looks like this:
Peace without performance.
Consistency without chasing.
Safety without forcing.
And spiritual maturity shows up as discernment — not paranoia.
You are not rejecting people.
You are protecting your peace.
And that is holy.
I pray this Sunday you focused on what you need and that you know that your wants (no matter how big) are divinely aligned. May peace be your stand and hope your anchor. You are worth your healing work. 💕
There is something sacred about a Sunday when North Carolina snow is expected. Not the dramatic, blizzard kind— but the kind that slows the roads, quiets the neighborhood, and gently insists: stay in.
The kind that turns errands into cancellations and plans into permission. For me, Snow in NC carries expectancy. We watch the sky. We check the forecast more than once. We listen for the hush that comes right before it begins.
And when it finally falls, everything feels muted— as if the world itself is holding its breath.
Being snowed in on a Sunday feels different. It’s not confinement; it’s an invitation. To pause without explanation. To rest without productivity attached. To be still without feeling behind.
The snow does what Sundays were always meant to do— slow us enough to notice ourselves again. There’s no rushing out the door. No pressure to make the most of the day.
Just warm rooms, familiar quiet, and the gentle rhythm of time stretching instead of tightening.
In the stillness, expectancy shifts. It’s no longer about what’s coming next— but about what’s already here.
What we’ve been carrying. What we’ve been ignoring. What our bodies and spirits have been asking for all along. Snow has a way of leveling everything. Covering the noise. Softening the edges.
Reminding us that rest is not laziness—
it’s alignment. And maybe that’s the gift of being snowed in on a Sunday: the realization that pausing is not a detour from life, but a return to it.
A reminder that God often speaks in the quiet.
That clarity doesn’t always arrive with movement. That some seasons require us to stop long enough to feel what’s true.
So today, let the snow fall. Let the world wait. Let your nervous system settle. Let Sunday be Sunday again.
There is grace in the pause. There is wisdom in the stillness. There is expectancy even here. Especially here. 🌿❄️🌿
Remain Brave,
Michelle
Closing Reflection
As the snow settles and the world grows quiet,
ask yourself—
What am I being invited to pause from right now?And what part of me has been waiting for this stillness to finally speak?
You don’t have to rush the answer. Let it rise slowly, like snowfall— unannounced, unforced, enough.
Soft Scripture
“In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.” ~Psalm 4:8
North Carolina slowed all the way down this weekend. A predicted historical Snowstorm. Snow day. Ice storm. Our first snow day together.
The world outside went quiet, the quiet that presses you inward. He promised breakfast in bed—said it easily, like warmth was a given. And in that moment, it was. Safety felt less like a concept. It was more like a posture: bodies tucked in, heat humming, nowhere we needed to be but here. I honor the quiet this time brings.
What I learned this weekend came in small, honest ways.
He has a tendency to fuss about things that bring me comfort. My favorite t-shirt—well worn, soft from years of loving, holes that tell the truth of time. An uneven drawstring on the sweatsuit he bought me, something I barely noticed until he did.
I don’t take it as criticism. I’m learning it’s his way of caring out loud—wanting things right, wanting things better, wanting me wrapped in what he believes I deserve. Still, I smile. Comfort doesn’t always need correcting.
Then there’s the contrast that makes me chuckle.
This man loves action movies—the louder, the better. Yet Sylvie’s Love has him standing up, cheering, eyes teary, emotions spilling over without apology. I watch him from the corner of the sofa and think, There you are. The tenderness we don’t always name finds its way out anyway.
Later, he sleeps. I study the rise and fall of his chest like it’s a prayer. Each time my phone rings, he wakes—every single time.
“Everyone okay?”
That question stays with me. The instinct to protect. To check. To stay alert even in rest.
And me?
I’m learning something quieter, maybe harder. I’m learning to rest in my uncertainty of us. Not rush clarity. Not demand guarantees. Not brace for what hasn’t happened.
That is my good in loving better—allowing presence without possession, warmth without certainty, love without over-managing the outcome.
Snow melts. Ice thaws.
And still, there is comfort.
Not named.
Not explained.
Just felt.
It moves through the quiet of the house. It moves through shared warmth. It provides the permission to be where I am without reaching for what’s next. God’s presence this weekend didn’t arrive with answers.
It came as refuge—steady, unhurried, close. Meeting me in the pause. Holding me while nothing is resolved.
I’m learning that loving better sometimes looks like staying. Letting uncertainty sit beside me. Trusting that grace doesn’t rush what is still becoming.
“The Lord is good to those who wait for Him,
to the soul who seeks Him.”
— Lamentations 3:25
A gentle question:
Where might God be sitting with you right now, simply asking you to stay? Please share your thoughts.
There is a particular intimacy that comes with age—one that is slower, fuller, and unapologetically embodied. I wake up in his t-shirt again.
It hangs off my shoulders, soft and oversized, brushing against skin that has lived. Skin that has stretched, healed, marked time. At this stage of life, nothing about my body is imaginary. Everything has a story.
Our bodies tell our most intimate stories—
the stretch marks, the tats, the birthmarks.
The places where life pressed hard and didn’t apologize. The places where love once left and later returned.
When he pulls me close, there is no scanning, no assessment. He affirms the deep valleys, the crooks, the life pain my body has held. His touch doesn’t avoid the tender places—it honors them. There is something profoundly healing about being touched without correction. About being desired without being edited.
We cuddle like people who have nothing to prove.
His body meets mine not with urgency, but with knowing. The kind of knowing that comes from grief survived, prayers whispered, and faith that had to mature before love could. His hand rests—not to claim, but to stay.
The coffee brews quietly, like a benediction.
Steam rises while we remain tangled, breathing each other in. In moments like this, I feel God close—not distant or judgmental, but present. I believe intimacy like this is holy. Not because it is perfect, but because it is honest.
After 50, desire doesn’t disappear—it becomes discerning. It chooses safety. It chooses warmth. It chooses someone who understands that pleasure and pain often live in the same body. Someone who doesn’t rush past the scars but recognizes them as proof of survival.
Faith has taught me this:
God restores through gentleness more often than spectacle. Through mornings like this. Through affection that doesn’t demand transformation. Through love that says, you don’t have to tighten to be worthy.
This kind of intimacy feels like redemption.
Like being met exactly where I am—with reverence for the flesh that carried me through childbirth, heartbreak, longing, and prayer. Like God saying, I remember what you’ve endured—and I still call this good.
So I stay in his t-shirt a little longer.
I let my body soften. I let myself be held without shrinking. After 50, intimacy is not about becoming someone new. It’s about being loved as the woman you already are.
And that—
that feels like grace poured slowly, one quiet Saturday and/or Sunday morning at a time.
The new year does not arrive quietly. It comes with memory, with residue, with the echo of prayers whispered in exhaustion and spoken aloud in faith. As I step into this year, I do so aware of divine forces that have been at work long before I had language for them. God’s love has not been performative or punitive—it has been steady, corrective, and deeply intimate.
Some prayers were answered quickly. Others were answered slowly, through redirection, loss, or delay. And some were answered in ways that required me to grow into the answer rather than simply receive it. I now understand that unanswered prayers are often invitations to become wiser, more honest, and more discerning.
The Pathways of 2025
The pathways established in 2025 were not accidental. They were carved through difficult decisions, uncomfortable boundaries, and moments where choosing myself felt lonely but necessary. I learned that God’s guidance does not always feel gentle in the moment—but it is always precise.
Every hard pivot created alignment. Every closed door reduced distraction. Every ending taught me discernment. What once felt like disruption revealed itself as divine order.
The wisdom gained did not come from ease. It came from emotional pain—pain that now reads like a highlight reel of growth rather than a list of regrets. I can trace my maturity back to moments where I survived disappointment without losing my softness, where I chose integrity over convenience, and where I honored my values even when it cost me comfort.
Emotional Pain as Wisdom
The older I get, the more I understand emotional pain as a form of instruction. Pain exposes what matters. It clarifies what cannot be negotiated. It sharpens our ability to love ourselves with boundaries rather than abandonment.
Grace, I’ve learned, is rarely delivered as “I told you so.” God does not shame us with hindsight. Grace is extended from love—quietly, patiently—without the language of “you should have” or “why didn’t you.” Instead, grace says: Now you know. And knowing changes everything.
This understanding has softened my relationship with my past. I no longer interrogate myself for what I didn’t know then. I honor who I was with the tools I had. Growth does not require self-punishment—it requires acceptance.
Acceptance Without Self-Erasure
Acceptance does not mean betraying your desires. It does not require you to prove your love by shrinking your wants, lowering your standards, or redesigning your future to make others more comfortable. Acceptance is not compliance.
I am learning to lean into acceptance without changing the landscape of my wants. Without negotiating my needs. Without confusing patience with settling.
Because settling has consequences.
And I have learned—sometimes painfully—that the cost of settling is always higher than the cost of waiting, choosing again, or walking away.
Counting the Cost
I will continue to ask myself one question in this season: What is the cost?
What is the cost of staying where I am tolerated but not cherished?
What is the cost of silencing my intuition for the sake of harmony?
What is the cost of convenience over calling?
This question has become a form of self-respect. It keeps me aligned with God’s wisdom rather than my fear. It reminds me that love—divine or human—should not require self-abandonment as proof.
Moving Forward
As this year unfolds, I trust the pathways already laid. I trust the wisdom earned. I trust that God’s love will continue to guide me—not through coercion, but through clarity.
I enter this year grounded in faith, sharpened by experience, and unwilling to settle for anything that costs me my peace.
Grace has met me here.
And I am ready. 🌿
A Closing Prayer
God of wisdom and gentle correction,
Thank You for loving me without humiliation and guiding me without force. Thank You for the prayers You answered, the ones You delayed, and the ones You answered by changing me. As I step forward, help me to trust the pathways You have already established, even when I cannot see the full picture.
Grant me discernment to know the cost of settling and the courage to choose what aligns with Your truth for my life. Teach me to accept what has been without diminishing what I still desire. May my wants be refined, not erased. May my love be rooted, not desperate. May my decisions be guided by wisdom rather than fear.
Cover me with grace as I continue becoming.
Amen.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.” — Proverbs 3:5–6
Soul-ing Quote:
Emotional pain did not break me—it instructed me. What once hurt now highlights the wisdom I earned and the grace that carried me forward.
I am feeling much better after a severe bout with a cold and congestion that would not let loose for about ten days.
Comforts of Home
I think I’ve finally returned to the land of the living… slowly, gently, gratefully. Today I felt the slightest spark to read, to write, to journal, to work a puzzle—little things I had planned for this holiday break before my body reminded me it had other intentions. 🤕
But Sundays? #Sundays remain the best.
This morning I let myself sleep in. No alarms, no rushing. Just rest.
Then a long, warm shower—💕
My full face regimen—💕
Moisturized from neck to toes—💕
H2O flowing through this human system—💕
Brushed my locs and massaged my scalp—💕
I even put on my pearl earrings. I miss my mom terribly. (Her name is Pearl.) 🌿
And when I exhaled… a deep sigh moved through me like a small resurrection. My appetite still isn’t back, but I’ll take these little returns. These tiny renewals.
I’m sipping hot tea—no coffee for almost two weeks now. Outside, it’s raining, that soft hush that makes the world feel like it’s whispering. With my youngest two at work, it’s just Big Koda and me in this quiet house.
Sundays are when I sage and soulfully reset. When I choose to be here, fully, even if “here” feels tender and strange. My weekly writing—this slow, intentional ritual—has a way of improving my emotional disposition. It lets me name the weight of the world without being crushed beneath it.
I don’t have answers to any of it. I haven’t made sense of much of anything lately. But I am releasing the heaviness—the chaotic energy that keeps trying to settle in my spirit.
Today I’m still moving slowly and softly. And that feels holy enough.
“Dear friend, I pray that you may enjoy good health and that all may go well with you, even as your soul is getting along well.” ~3 John 1:2
#SuperSundays: I used a gift card I won through a health app and treated myself to Starbucks this morning. I walked in, minding my business, and they handed me a free Red Cup for being a regular coffee consumer. A small, unexpected kindness. A wink from God. #WinWin 🤓
The Tribe… they were all here this weekend.
• Autumn fussed about my eating—and my not eating—habits. 🥰 A full Tillman. When she “moms” me, I hear Pearlie Mae, Val, and Keyna speaking through her. Healing comes full circle when our children carry the tone of the women who shaped us.
• Brutus texted a whole list of demands… while at work. 🧐🤷🏽♀️
• Darius seeking Umi duties. 🥰 His way of staying close.
• Damien, the big brother who shows up—not loudly, but faithfully. 💛 His presence always lifts me.
Damien and I spent Saturday together—shopping, movies, dinner. I drove him around for a bit. We got home and he immediately started dressing to go out again. I fussed because truly… he only comes to see his barber and his brother.
Him: “I’ve been with you all day.”
🤷🏽♀️🧐🙄
#FirstBornJiltsTheHeart
There’s a sacred sweetness in this stage of life—grown children finding their own paths but still circling back home in their unique ways. Their presence reminds me that love doesn’t leave; it shifts, expands, and deepens. Even the fussing is a kind of prayer.
Pair all of that with one spoiled pup and I feel surrounded by a living testimony of God’s goodness. 🌿🧡🌿 I’m leaning into these new chapters, not just gracefully—but spiritually aware.
🍂 Fall is here again. My favorite.
NC weather gave us every season this week:
🌦️☔️🌬️❄️☀️
But today is calm, bright, and warm in that gentle, soul-softening way.
This morning was #CoffeeAndQuiet and #PrayersAndSage.
A settling. A centering.
A reminder of Psalm 46:10 —
“Be still, and know that I am God.”
Stillness is not the absence of movement; it is the presence of awareness. It is choosing to pause long enough to hear what your spirit has been whispering all week.
Today, I’m reminded:
Healing isn’t optional; it’s required.
And it often begins in these small, ordinary, holy moments—
Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.~Langston Hughes
Where the Soul and Subconscious Meet
The other night, I dreamed I was in a new relationship. We were on a trip, walking through the woods where the land had been cleared—open, yet tender. From the trees hung purple plants that bloomed freely, their petals swaying as if they knew we were watching. The air was thick with possibility. Then the clouds opened, and it began to snow—large, full flakes that we caught with our hands, laughing. We were on our way to a friend’s wedding.
Even as I slept, I could feel the awe of that moment. The lightness. The quiet joy of being seen and free at once. I wanted to stay in that dream a little bit longer; it was safe, peaceful—with joy.
Dreams as Mirrors of the Inner World
Clinically, dreams are often described as the mind’s way of speaking in symbols—an intimate language of images, feelings, and unfinished stories. They help us integrate emotions that are too complex or quiet to surface during waking life.
When we dream of open landscapes, new connections, or nature renewing itself, it can reflect an inner readiness—healing that has been quietly taking place beneath the surface. Dreams of color, like the purple blooms I saw, often symbolize intuition and spiritual awareness. Snow, in its stillness, can represent cleansing, clarity, or grace. It once snowed heavily in April in NC and I thought it was the most perfect way of understanding God love for us. Rare. Tangible. Plentiful. Unknown
As a therapist, I’ve learned that dreams are not random. They are bridges—between what we know and what we’re becoming. They invite us to listen more deeply, to trust what our inner life is trying to show us.
Dreams as Spiritual Gateways
Spiritually, I’ve come to believe dreams are sacred conversations—where the Divine, ancestors, or the higher self speak through imagery our soul understands.
In the dream, the snow felt like blessing—pure and effortless. It wasn’t something I chased; it descended when I was already present, open, and content. That’s often how grace works: it arrives when we stop striving.
The landscape felt holy, familiar yet transformed. Maybe that’s what spiritual renewal feels like—recognizing parts of yourself you thought were long gone, blooming again in unexpected colors.
Integrating the Message
When I woke, I carried that stillness with me. The dream wasn’t about prediction; it was about permission—permission to soften into connection, to trust that what’s meant for me will unfold in divine timing.
It reminded me that love—both human and sacred—often enters through cleared ground, after we’ve done the work to let go of what’s overgrown.
Reflection Prompt
This week, pay attention to what returns to you in your sleep.
Notice how you feel when you wake—peaceful, unsettled, inspired.
What emotion lingers, and what might it be asking you to honor in your waking life?
Closing Reflection
Intimately Worded has always been about those quiet, sacred exchanges—the places where our human stories touch something holy. Dreams remind us that healing isn’t always loud or linear. Sometimes, it’s revealed in symbols, softness, and snowflakes that fall without effort.
May your dreams this season guide you gently toward what’s real, ready, and meant to unfold. Trust the gateways that open, even in sleep. 🌿
November Reflections: Reciprocity, Renewal, and Protecting the Heart
Work is creeping in, in a deep way—feeling like November and the end of Fall. I know there’s still more Autumn left, even if the weather and early darkness suggest otherwise. There’s a chill that whispers both endings and beginnings.
For now, I’ll protect my physical body with crochet scarves and my red beanie, layers of warmth and softness that feel like care. Spiritually, I’ll protect myself with scripture, hot tea, and quietness. This combination grounds me—it’s a gentle ritual of self-preservation and presence.
I will also continue to follow through with clinical encouragement and therapeutic support for my clients. I love what I practice for a living, though it often carries a great amount of heaviness. Bearing witness to others’ pain and growth is sacred work—it deepens empathy but also stretches the heart thin at times. My heart feels frayed a bit lately, yet my hope is deeper and wider.
It’s Sunday again—a new month, a renewing of time. The clocks “fell back” in the early morning hours, giving us the illusion of more rest, more time. Yet I know how long it takes for the body and spirit to catch up with the shift. This symbolic turning reminds me: don’t allow the world to cloud your intuition. Trust what you know.
Reciprocity vs. Transactional Relationships
In therapy and in life, we often examine the balance of giving and receiving—what it means to love freely while maintaining healthy boundaries. It’s important to distinguish reciprocity from a purely transactional way of relating.
A reciprocal relationship is rooted in goodwill, connection, and genuine care. It’s where giving becomes an act of love—not an investment expecting a return. It flows both ways, naturally and without keeping score.
By contrast, a transactional relationship measures worth in exchanges:
“I bought you coffee, so you owe me a coffee.”
In reciprocity, the heart says:
“I bought you coffee because I wanted to do something kind. I trust that you’ll hold me in love and care when I need it most.”
The difference may seem subtle, but emotionally and spiritually, it’s profound. Reciprocity nourishes connection. Transactionality breeds comparison, resentment, and emotional distance.
In therapy, I often remind clients that reciprocity thrives in spaces where trust and emotional safety exist. It’s a rhythm of mutual investment—where both people are free to give from overflow, not obligation.
Love, God, and the Waiting Season
Lately, I’ve returned to the dating app—not out of desperation, but curiosity and openness. It’s a strange world to navigate with a tender heart and a discerning spirit. I find myself reflecting often on why I desire partnership and how I wish to love.
Some conversations spark hope; others remind me how surface-level connection can be when rooted in transaction rather than reciprocity. There’s a quiet ache in realizing how rare it is to meet someone who’s ready to love intentionally—to listen, to give without keeping score, to see beyond what’s easy.
And yet, even as I scroll, match, and unmatch, I still believe in divine timing. I still believe that God writes love stories differently—slowly, intentionally, with purpose and alignment. So I’m learning to wait well. To stay open, but not hurried. To protect my peace while remaining hopeful that the right heart will recognize mine.
Spiritual Reflection, in Galatians 6:9, we’re reminded: “Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.”
This scripture grounds me as both therapist and woman—someone holding space for others while still longing for her own sacred companionship.
Even when my heart feels stretched thin, I remember that reciprocity—with myself, with God, and with others—is an act of trust. A form of love that doesn’t rush or demand, but rests and receives.
As time falls back and the days grow shorter, I choose to rest, to trust what I know, and to give from love—never from depletion.
May this November invite you, too, into warmth, rest, and a deeper understanding of how you give and receive love. And if you, like me, are waiting on God to write your love story—know that He’s still writing.
Reflection Prompt: Where in your life do you need to trust divine timing—in love, in purpose, or in the quiet in-between?
Sundays have a way of slowing me down enough to notice what time has been doing beneath the surface. The air is crisp, the light shifts, and even the trees seem to know when to release. I am in wonder of how time cloaked our struggles, yet time also reveals the required healing — the necessary strength for us to witness the why’s. In this turning season, I’m reminded that God’s work often happens quietly, layered in moments we don’t yet understand. What once felt delayed was, in truth, unfolding right on time.
Yesterday, I attended my cousin’s wedding — my second cousin, though I still remember her as the little girl with big dreams and a contagious laugh. Watching her stand there, radiant in hope and grace, marrying again with such genuine love, felt like witnessing time come full circle. The ceremony was outdoors, framed by trees touched with autumn gold, the air soft with both memory and promise.
At this age, I’m in awe of how love still finds us, how it gathers what’s been scattered by years, by loss, by change. Marriage has a way of reminding us that family expands even as it shifts — that though we’ve said goodbye to parents and grandparents, something sacred continues through us. It’s as if time weaves a quiet thread between what was and what is becoming, inviting us to see how love endures, how it unfolds anew.
This morning, before I began to write, I recorded a few thoughts — just me, my voice, and the quiet of Sunday. Sunday mornings have become their own kind of prayer for me. Waking up smiling, breathing easier, releasing the heaviness of the work week and the constant pulse of motherhood, I find myself able to go to God in a way that comforts me. There’s peace in that surrender — in remembering I don’t have to hold everything together for the world to keep turning.
I love my walks, especially now as the leaves start to fall and the air turns brisk. It’s where I feel time most gently — not rushing, not demanding, just moving with me. Each step reminds me that unfolding doesn’t require effort, only willingness. And maybe that’s what this season — this life — continues to teach me: that healing, love, and even time itself are part of a divine rhythm, one that never stops revealing what’s meant to be known in its own perfect moment.
Rest in knowing that what’s meant for you is already moving toward you. Time, love, and grace are all working together in ways you can’t yet see.
Intimately Worded with Michelle 
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