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. 💕
Rainy Sundays, The Day After Valentine’s Day, and the Quiet Work of Agape
There is something sacred about a rainy Sunday.
The sky softens. The noise settles. The world feels like it has exhaled. And today — the day after Valentine’s Day — the roses are slightly tilted, the chocolate boxes half empty, and the performance of romance has quieted.
What remains?
This is where “loving better” begins.
Not in the glitter of a single day, but in the ordinary, rain-soaked moments that follow it.
Valentine’s Day often celebrates eros — the passionate, romantic love that thrills and sparks. But the day after invites something deeper. Something steadier. It calls us toward agape.
Agape love is not flashy. It does not demand applause. It is patient, enduring, and generous in spirit. In the Christian tradition, agape is the highest form of love — the kind that reflects the heart of God. As described in 1 Corinthians 13, it is the love that is patient and kind, that keeps no record of wrongs, that bears and believes and hopes.
Agape is the love that shows up on rainy Sundays.
It looks like making breakfast slowly and staying at the table a little longer.
It looks like checking in on a friend without needing anything in return.
It looks like choosing gentleness when irritation would be easier.
It looks like forgiving — even when no one posts about it.
Loving better is not about loving perfectly. It is about loving consciously.
The day after Valentine’s Day is honest. It asks: Who are you when the spotlight dims? Who are you in the quiet? Who are you when loving requires patience more than passion?
Rainy Sundays are teachers. They remind us that intimacy is cultivated in stillness. That love deepens in consistency. That safety is built in small, repeated acts of care.
For those of us who are healing, who are rebuilding trust, who are learning to receive and give love more softly — loving better may mean slowing down. It may mean refusing intensity that feels like chaos. It may mean honoring steadiness over sparks.
Agape invites us to love from wholeness, not hunger. And that begins within.
Because loving better also includes how you speak to yourself when no one else is around. It includes the grace you extend when you fall short. It includes the way you tend to your own heart on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
Love is not proven in grand gestures alone. It is revealed in posture.
So today, let the rain fall. Let the world move more slowly. Let your love be less performative and more rooted.
Valentine’s Day may celebrate being chosen.
But the day after celebrates choosing — again and again — to love well.
Reflective Thought:
On this rainy Sunday, ask yourself:
Where in my life am I loving out of habit instead of intention? Do I offer myself the same patience I extend to others? What would it look like to practice agape — steady, generous love — in one small, concrete way this week? Am I loving from fullness, or from a desire to be filled?
There is a sacredness that lives in ordinary moments. Not the loud, mountaintop kind of sacred. The quieter kind. The kind that slips into your life wearing your man’s favorite sports jersey on a lazy Sunday afternoon after Church, hair wrapped up in a messy bun, soul rested, heart slowly learning how to trust softness again.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how God remains.
Heart work.
Not just when life feels orderly. Not just when prayers feel answered in obvious ways. But in the everyday unfolding of intimacy… the kind that feels human, warm, and sometimes unexpectedly healing.
This Sunday felt like that.
After Church, we drifted into what has become our unspoken ritual — pajama Sundays. No rushing. No performing productivity. Just allowing ourselves to exist beside each other. I pulled on his favorite sports jersey, oversized and comfortable, the fabric carrying the faint scent of him. There is something quietly vulnerable about wearing something that belongs to someone you care about. It is closeness without announcement. Trust without speeches.
And in that moment, I felt it — God remaining in tenderness.
We spent the afternoon watching movies, eventually landing on Double Jeopardy. An older film, but one that stirred something deeper than entertainment. As the story unfolded, the betrayal by the husband was sharp and unsettling. What surprised me wasn’t the plot twist, but his reaction to it.
He was hurt by it. Not dismissive. Not detached. Hurt.
There was a visible discomfort in him as he processed the cruelty of a man who could betray someone who loved him. He spoke about it with genuine frustration, almost grief-like confusion about how someone could carry such intentions toward their partner.
And I watched him while he watched the movie.
Sometimes God shows up in sermons. Sometimes in scripture. But sometimes, God shows up in the way someone’s heart reveals itself when they are not trying to impress you. Just reacting. Just being.
There is a quiet safety in witnessing a man be moved by injustice against love. It tells you something words cannot. It reveals a moral tenderness that does not perform strength through hardness, but through care.
God remains in that too.
I am learning that divine presence is not reserved for grand spiritual awakenings. Sometimes it rests in the way someone reminds you to eat after a long day. The way they lean closer during a tense movie scene. The way they respond emotionally to pain that isn’t even their own.
God remains in shared blankets.
God remains in laughter between dialogue.
God remains in oversized jerseys and slow Sundays.
God remains in the soft rebuilding of trust after life has taught you to armor up.
For a long time, I believed closeness required vigilance. That love needed monitoring. That safety had to be negotiated constantly. But lately, I am experiencing intimacy that feels like exhale. Not perfect. Not fairy tale. But present. Intentional. Gentle in ways that feel spiritually grounding.
There is something holy about being allowed to soften without fear of being mishandled.
And maybe that is one of the most overlooked ways God stays with us — through the people who hold our tenderness with care.
We often search for God in clarity, answers, or control over outcomes. Yet I am discovering God also remains in the unfolding… in learning someone’s emotional language… in noticing how they respond to harm, to love, to vulnerability, to stories that mirror real life.
God remains in how we learn each other.
This relationship is teaching me that divine reassurance doesn’t always arrive as certainty. Sometimes it arrives as consistency. As presence. As small moments stacking themselves into quiet evidence that love can be both safe and deeply felt.
That afternoon, wrapped in comfort and movie light, I felt gratitude rise unexpectedly. Not just for him, but for the way God continues to show me that intimacy does not have to be chaotic to be passionate. That softness does not weaken connection — it deepens it.
There is holiness in ordinary love.
There is ministry in tenderness.
And there is God… still remaining… in all of our things.
Remain brave,
Michelle 🌿
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Scripture: “You make known to me the path of life; You will fill me with joy in Your presence, with eternal pleasures at Your right hand.” ~ Psalm 16:11
Reflection:
•Where have you experienced tenderness that felt spiritually safe?
•Have you allowed yourself to recognize those moments as sacred, or have you minimized them because they felt “too simple” to be divine?
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. 🌿
Intimately Worded with Michelle 
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