Intimately Worded with Michelle

Category: Connecting

  • Touching Grass

    Sundays have become sacred in ways I never expected.

    Seeking Soulness

    Not because they’re perfect. Not because all the problems disappear before the weekend ends. But because Sunday gives me permission to stop performing long enough to remember who I am.

    Lately, life has been… whooping me.

    Work has demanded more than I thought I had to give. Healing has required honesty instead of speed. Relationships have invited me to trust instead of control. Even joy has asked something of me—to stay present long enough to receive it.

    And yet…

    I am flourishing.

    I don’t say that because everything is easy. I say it because my roots have gone deeper than my circumstances.

    I’ve noticed something about myself. Every Sunday, I seem to spiritually “touch grass.”

    The world uses that phrase to mean getting outside, disconnecting, and remembering real life. For me, it’s something deeper. It’s sitting with God without rushing the conversation. It’s laughing with my children. It’s reading words that stretch my thinking. It’s praying for strangers on my SoftLife Channel while God quietly ministers to me. It’s going to the gym because my body deserves kindness, not punishment. It’s watching horses stare back at me as if creation itself recognizes the need for stillness.

    Sunday reminds me that I don’t have to earn peace.

    I simply have to notice it.

    This season has taught me that flourishing isn’t the absence of hardship. Flourishing is continuing to bloom while carrying the weight of real life. It is choosing gratitude without pretending. It is allowing yourself to rest without apologizing. It is believing God is just as present in the ordinary as He is in the miraculous.

    Maybe that’s why I look forward to Sundays now.

    They are my reset.

    My reminder that I am more than deadlines, responsibilities, unanswered questions, and unfinished goals. They remind me that before I am a therapist, mother, writer, friend, or dreamer, I am God’s daughter.

    That identity asks nothing of me except to come close.

    Tomorrow will bring another week. There will be emails to answer, decisions to make, people to care for, and dreams still waiting for their appointed time.

    But today…

    Today I am touching grass.

    Today I am letting my soul exhale.

    Today I am remembering that grace grows quietly, often beneath the surface, long before anyone sees the bloom.

    And perhaps that is flourishing after all.

    Do well in your journey. You’re worthy.

    Graced for more,

    Michelle

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

  • Staying Present with God

    Sacred Spaces: Coffee & Time

    We often meet God in our worry—in the before and the after. We cry out when we’re waiting, and we rejoice when the prayer is answered. Yet somewhere in between, we can miss the quiet ways He has been carrying us all along.

    We fight harder and longer than necessary, trying to control the narrative. We pray for what we want, often imagining the best version of what we hope life will become. We hold tightly to outcomes, believing we know what will bring us peace.

    But God is not only concerned with our destination. He is deeply invested in our becoming.

    Somehow, with tenderness only He possesses, God caresses the heart into what is necessary for our lives. He gently loosens our grip on what we thought we needed and teaches us to trust what He is cultivating instead. His work is rarely rushed. It is intentional. It is loving. It is holy.

    This week reminded me that God is rarely as loud as my worries. There were moments I wanted answers, reassurance, and certainty. Instead, He gave me enough grace for the next conversation, the next client, the next morning, the next breath. Looking back, I realized He wasn’t waiting for me at the end of the week. He had been walking with me through every ordinary moment I almost overlooked.

    Perhaps that’s what staying present with God really is—not waiting until the blessing arrives to recognize His faithfulness, but noticing Him while the story is still unfolding.

    Staying present with God means resisting the urge to live only in yesterday’s regrets or tomorrow’s possibilities. It means recognizing that His grace is meeting us here—in this ordinary moment, this unanswered prayer, this quiet morning, this unexpected detour.

    Perhaps the miracle is not only that God brings us through, but that He never leaves us while we’re in it.

    May we become people who notice His presence before the breakthrough, within the process, and beyond the blessing. Because when we remain present with God, we discover He has been present with us all along.

    Being brave,

    Michelle 🌿

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

    Journal Prompt

    Where have I overlooked God’s presence because I was focused on His promises?

    Take a few moments today to reflect on your own “in-between.” Where has God quietly sustained you, redirected you, comforted you, or carried you before the outcome arrived? Write down three moments—no matter how ordinary—that reveal His presence was with you all along.

  • Held by Grace…

    Poolside: Water Footprints

    There are weeks when being a therapist feels sacred.

    There are other weeks when it feels heartbreakingly human.

    This week reminded me that trauma does not simply leave emotional wounds. It changes how people reason. It interrupts logic, clouds judgment, distorts memory, and convinces brilliant people to make decisions that seem irrational to everyone except the parts of them still trying to survive.

    I found myself sitting with story after story, listening beyond the words being spoken. Behind every “Why would they do that?” was a nervous system doing exactly what it had learned to do years before.

    That realization never gets easier.

    It is one of the bittersweet realities of this work. I spend my days believing in healing while also witnessing how deeply humanity can wound itself. Sometimes I leave sessions carrying the quiet grief that so many people are still searching for safety they should have known as children.

    Humanity often suffers the souls of the lost.

    And therapists…we witness it. We hold hope until our clients can borrow enough of it for themselves.

    This morning, my daughter unknowingly held hope for me. She insisted we go to the pool before anyone else was awake.

    “No excuses, Momma.”

    So I grabbed a bathing suit I’d nearly forgotten I owned, pulled my hair into a messy bun, tossed the paperback edition of Distorted Is the View into my bag, filled a bottle with water, and followed her. Distorted is the View: When a Story Invites You to Stay

    The pool belonged only to us.

    She fussed at me the entire time.

    “Live a little, Momma.”

    “Look at the clouds.”

    “Float.”

    “Be free.”

    I laughed more than I expected. Mostly, I watched her.

    She swam the way she always has—without hesitation, without apology. She floated beneath an open sky as if she had made a lifelong agreement with water. I realized she has loved the water through every stage of her life. Little girl. Teenager. Young woman. Some things remain beautifully unchanged.

    For once, I didn’t slip into reflection.

    I wasn’t searching for meaning.

    I wasn’t trying to turn the moment into a lesson.

    I simply watched my daughter laugh.

    And somehow, that was enough.

    Maybe healing isn’t always found in the breakthrough. Maybe sometimes it arrives in an empty pool before sunrise.

    In a daughter reminding her mother that joy doesn’t have to be earned.

    In clouds that ask nothing of us except to notice them. In floating instead of carrying.

    Early morning didn’t erase the weight of this week. It didn’t answer the hard questions trauma leaves behind. But it reminded me that those of us who spend our lives tending to wounded souls must also remember our own.

    Some Sundays are for prayer. Some are for rest.

    And some are simply for floating.

    Today was a good day. Have courage.

    Graced for more,

    Michelle 🌿

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

  • The Seventh Wonder: Grace

    The Seventh Wonder: Grace

    Graced for More

    There’s something special about July.

    The seventh month quietly invites me to pause. It isn’t the excitement of a new year or the anticipation of autumn. Instead, it feels like a gentle checkpoint—a place where I can stop long enough to ask myself, How am I really doing?
    This first week of July has found me reflecting more than usual.

    I’ve been taking inventory. Not the kind of inventory that measures success by accomplishments or compares my life to someone else’s timeline. Rather, the kind that requires honesty, courage, and enough grace to tell the truth without condemning myself.

    I’ve reflected on parenting.
    No matter how old our children become, parenting continues to shape us. There are moments I’m incredibly proud of, moments I wish I could relive, conversations I would handle differently, and seasons that stretched me beyond what I thought I could bear. Yet, through every chapter, love has remained constant. Perhaps that’s one of the greatest gifts of parenthood—we learn that perfect isn’t the goal. Faithful love is.

    I’ve reflected on singleness.
    Singleness has taught me things marriage never could have. It has uncovered places where I’ve grown stronger, where I’ve healed, and where I still carry hope. There have been disappointments, unmet expectations, and relationships that simply weren’t meant to continue. There have also been beautiful reminders that waiting is not the same as being forgotten.

    Then there are relationships. The journey of loving people—and allowing yourself to be loved—isn’t simple. There have been hopes that never unfolded, missteps I wish I could undo, and mistakes that could break anyone’s heart. Some lessons arrived gently. Others demanded tears before they revealed their purpose.

    Yet I remain here.
    Still believing in love.
    Still believing people can heal.
    Still believing that God writes stories we could never script ourselves.

    I’ve also been taking inventory of practical things.
    My finances. My goals. My dreams. The life I’m building. The spaces I’m organizing. From decluttering closets to organizing my budget, I’ve realized both require similar questions: What belongs? What no longer serves me? What am I making room for? And yes…I’ve even laughed to myself wondering if this is finally the year I’ll commit to playing the lottery. Probably not. But it’s funny what crosses your mind when you’re dreaming about possibilities.

    The question that keeps returning, though, is much deeper: Am I still walking within God’s will for my life? Not someone else’s expectations. Not society’s timeline. Not the pressure to have everything figured out by now.

    Simply God’s will.
    Because I’ve learned that faithfulness doesn’t always look flashy. Sometimes it looks like showing up to work. Paying your bills. Loving your family well. Resting when you’re tired. Saying no when your spirit says no. Continuing to hope after disappointment. Trusting God one ordinary day at a time.

    Perhaps the hardest inventory of all has been extending grace to myself.
    Self-grace sounds beautiful until it’s time to practice it. I’m often harder on myself than anyone else could ever be.

    I’ve never been one to look for shortcuts. I’ve always believed in doing the work, taking the longer road if necessary, and building a life with integrity. There are consequences to choosing the long way around. Progress can feel slower. Success may arrive later than expected. Sometimes you wonder if everyone else discovered a map you somehow missed.

    But I also know this: The long road has introduced me to a deeper version of myself. It has strengthened my faith. It has refined my character.
    It has taught me that love is less about arriving and more about becoming.

    Maybe that’s what this season is really teaching me.

    To become someone who allows herself to be loved while continuing to love others well. To celebrate growth instead of perfection. To trust God’s pace instead of my own. To believe that every chapter—even the difficult ones—has been shaping something beautiful.

    As July unfolds, my prayer is simple.
    May I continue taking honest inventory without losing hope. May I organize my heart as carefully as I organize my home. May I steward my finances with wisdom, my relationships with intention, and my dreams with open hands. Most of all, may I remember that God’s grace has always been greater than my regrets. And perhaps that’s the sweetest place to begin again.

    The greatest wonder isn’t that I’ve built the perfect life. It’s that God has sustained me through every imperfect season with grace.

    Gracefully, M.🌻

    “Let us search out and examine our ways, and turn back to the Lord.” Book of Lamentations 3:40

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

  • The Life I No Longer Want to Escape

    Sometimes healing isn’t found in extraordinary moments. Sometimes it’s waiting in a rainy afternoon, a son’s quiet kindness, and the life we’ve finally learned to notice.

    Yesterday was beautifully ordinary.
    I spent most of the day with my youngest son, Brutus. At nineteen, he is becoming someone I enjoy simply being around—not because he is my son, but because I genuinely like the human he is growing into.

    We started our morning at the gym. He has become my strength training coach, patiently teaching me form, encouraging me to trust my body in new ways. After helping me through my workout, he stayed for his own while I rushed home to work for a bit before we met again later that afternoon.

    Together, we attended our first horse show.
    The stable where he has been learning horsemanship hosted its inaugural show, and I found myself listening more than watching. His excitement wasn’t performative; it was rooted in learning. Every few moments he would lean over to explain a technique, identify a movement, or share something new he had discovered. Watching someone you love come alive through curiosity is a gift all its own.

    It was hot, sticky hot—one of those Carolina afternoons where the sun seems to wrap itself around everything. Yet being surrounded by horses, open fields, and the quiet rhythm of nature made the heat feel almost secondary.

    There was a moment that stayed with me.
    He noticed I didn’t have a place to sit and quietly found me a chair. I declined. Later, as people shifted around us, he gently pulled me a little closer beside him, instinctively making sure I felt protected. It wasn’t dramatic. It was love. The kind of love that matures almost unnoticed. The kind parents pray they’ll one day receive from the children they’ve spent years protecting.

    When we returned home, there was nowhere else either of us needed to be. He disappeared into his room. Koda curled into his favorite spot on the sofa. I opened my book. Then the rain came.

    The storm rolled in slowly, tapping against the windows while the house settled into that sacred silence that asks nothing of you except your presence. Koda slept. I read. The world outside watered itself. It felt like magic.

    Koda Bear, in the Storms

    As I sat there, I realized how deeply I love my life.

    Not because it is perfect. Not because every prayer has been answered or every wound has healed. But because I’ve learned to recognize the beauty of the pauses.

    The quiet. The small victories. The ordinary moments that somehow become sacred when we’re paying attention. God has a way of completing things within us that we don’t even realize are still under construction. While we’re busy looking for transformation in grand gestures, He often does His deepest work in stillness—in conversations with our children, afternoons beneath open skies, storms that invite us to slow down, and homes that finally feel like peace.

    I’ve also learned that self-love isn’t nearly as tidy as people make it sound. It isn’t a checklist.
    It isn’t one perfect morning routine or one profound breakthrough. It isn’t forgiving yourself once and never struggling again. Sometimes self-love is simply staying. Staying present. Staying soft. Staying open enough to notice that your life is already holding pieces of the very peace you’ve been praying for.

    What I know is this: I have a heart that has loved deeply, even when it cost me. I am loved in beautifully complex ways. And somehow… it all works for me. Maybe that’s what healing begins to look like. Not a destination.

    Just the quiet confidence that the life you’re living no longer needs to be escaped. Sometimes it simply needs to be noticed.

    Loving brave,

    Michelle

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

    Sunflowers
    Staying Soft
  • Sunny with a Chance of Flowers🌺

    Sunny with a Chance of Flowers🌺

    What Recovery Is Teaching Me About Self-Care and Self-Awareness

    Sunday Walks

    There is something about recovery that slows life down enough for you to notice it.

    This past week, as I continue healing after surgery, I found myself looking at self-care through a different lens. Not as another task on a checklist. Not as something to squeeze into a busy schedule. But as an invitation to become more aware of myself.

    Awareness is funny that way. It often arrives quietly.

    This weekend was filled with little discoveries.

    During a wine-shopping trip, I stumbled across a no-sugar white wine. The name alone made me smile: Sunny with a Chance of Flowers. Isn’t that delightful? Sometimes joy shows up in the smallest places—a clever label, an unexpected find, a moment that makes you pause and grin.

    I finally sat still long enough to do an at-home facial.

    Friends, stop sleeping on your facial hygiene.

    There is something deeply satisfying about taking twenty minutes to care for your skin. It felt less like beauty maintenance and more like an act of honoring myself. The warm water, the cleansing, the quiet attention—it was invigorating. A reminder that tending to ourselves is not vanity. It is presence.

    I also reached out to my best friend from high school.

    We laughed until we could hardly catch our breath. Our conversation wandered through aging, menopause, parenting adult children, grandmothering, dating in our fifties, and the beautiful freedom of loving our “no.”

    At one point, we found ourselves discussing retirement.

    Retirement.

    How did we get here?

    I am still chuckling about it.

    There is a unique comfort in friendships that have witnessed multiple versions of you. Friends who knew you before the responsibilities, before the heartbreaks, before the career milestones, before the wisdom. Friends who can remind you that while much has changed, something essential remains beautifully the same.

    Sunday brought another gift.

    My son and I visited a different park and took a walk together. The weather was perfect. The kind of day that reminds you God is generous with simple things—sunshine, fresh air, movement, conversation, and time.

    I love Sundays.

    They feel like a sacred exhale before a new week begins.

    As I prepared for the week ahead, I found myself creating homework assignments for several clients navigating difficult healing journeys. There is a space I deeply cherish as a therapist—the place where my clinical mind meets my therapeutic heart.

    Knowledge matters. Research matters. Interventions matter.

    But so does compassion.

    So does sitting with someone in the uncertainty of becoming.

    So does believing healing is possible even when someone else cannot yet see it for themselves.

    Perhaps that is why this week’s reflections felt so meaningful.

    Recovery has reminded me that self-care is really a self-awareness challenge.

    Can we notice what brings us joy?

    Can we recognize when our bodies need rest?

    Can we make room for friendships that nourish us?

    Can we embrace new seasons without mourning every season that has passed?

    Can we accept that healing is often found in ordinary moments?

    A walk.

    A conversation.

    A facial.

    A glass of wine with an impossibly charming name.

    The older I get, the more I believe that a meaningful life is not built from grand gestures alone. It is built from paying attention. It is built from noticing where grace has quietly settled.

    This week, grace looked like laughter, friendship, recovery, sunshine, meaningful work, and a Sunday well spent.

    And honestly, that feels like a pretty beautiful way to heal.

    Being brave,

    Michelle ✨🌿✨

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

  • Softly: Holding Space for My Own Words

    Softly: Holding Space for My Own Words

    There is a specific kind of silence that exists before a breakthrough. It’s the silence of the soil before the first sprout breaks through—a quiet, heavy waiting. For a while, my pen felt like that soil: dormant, yet holding a universe of potential. But lately, there has been a shift. A rejuvenation.

    In my practice, I often tell my clients that healing is not a linear path, but a spiral—we return to old places with new eyes. I am returning to my writing now, not out of the frantic “shoulds” of a career, but because I am learning to love the discipline of it again. As a Black woman and a therapist, my life is often dedicated to holding space for the narratives of others. I witness the trauma, the triumph, and the messy “in-betweens” of the human condition. It is holy work, a ministry of presence, but it requires a different kind of “due diligence” than the creative soul demands.

    I find myself still wondering, What does that diligence look like for me now? It feels like a commitment to the truth that exists outside of a diagnostic manual, a surrender to the promise in Isaiah 43:19: “Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

    The Grounding and the Expounding

    Writing is my peculiar grace. It is the only thing I know that can simultaneously ground me and expound me without causing harm. In the clinical world, we talk about “containment”—the ability to hold difficult emotions without being overwhelmed by them. Writing is my ultimate container. It roots me in the present moment, in the physical sensation of the word meeting the page, yet it allows my spirit to expand, to reach toward truths I didn’t know I was carrying. It is a soft place to land and a vast place to fly.

    The Shadow of the Teenager

    I was a writer long before I was a therapist. Long before the degrees, the licenses, and the clinical formulations, there was just Michelle and her notebook. Yet, as I sit to work on my first book, I often feel a familiar shadow. It’s that awkward, “weird” teenage version of myself. She’s still there, hovering over the keyboard, whispering doubts about whether these words are enough to merit an editor or a place on a shelf.

    In therapy, we might call this “ego state” work. I have to remind that younger version of me that she doesn’t have to carry the weight of the book alone. We are doing this together now. I am the woman I needed back then, and she is the spark I need right now. We are no longer in the desert; the river is starting to flow.

    The Muse of the Blog

    While the book feels like a marathon, this blog—Intimately Worded—has become my muse. There is an ease here. Publishing a post feels like a deep, collective exhale. It is the training ground for my bigger dreams. And yes, I have those dreams: to be the famous, money-making author, to see my name in lights not for my clinical notes, but for the soul I pour into my prose.

    I am skilled in clinical writing, yes. I can draft a treatment plan with my eyes closed, weaving logic and empathy into a professional narrative. But there is a different magic in “playing with words” just for the sake of the play. It is where my spirit breathes.

    “You Are Such a Michelle”

    Whenever I find myself caught in the web of my own complexity—the therapist analyzing the writer, or the writer questioning the therapist—I hear my mother’s voice. I can hear the specific tone, that familiar cadence that only a mother can have.

    “You are such a Michelle.”

    I repeat those words to myself like a mantra. In her tone, it isn’t a critique; it’s an acknowledgement of my essence. It’s a reminder that I am allowed to be all of it: the skilled clinician, the ambitious dreamer, the spiritual seeker, and the woman who is finally, discipline by discipline, coming home to her words.

    Writing out of love is the highest form of rejuvenation. The “new thing” is here. I am grounded, I am perceived, and I am ready to see where the words take me next.

    Being Brave,

    Michelle

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

  • This Is What Healing Became

    This Is What Healing Became

    — Dating with Intention, Growing in Purpose, and Embracing What’s Next

    Soft landing

    I feel like I’m moving into something new.

    It isn’t loud. It isn’t forced. There’s no dramatic breaking or unraveling—just a quiet unfolding. A gentle crossing over into a space that feels… different. I feel loved here. Sure-footed. Grounded in a way that doesn’t require me to prove anything. And there’s a happiness present—steady, unyielding, yet breathable. The kind that doesn’t suffocate or demand, but simply is.

    Earlier this week, a client told me, “You’re strong.”

    I paused, and I gently told her, “I have strength.”

    Because there is a difference.

    Being “strong” can sometimes feel like a role we’re forced to play. A fixed identity. A weight. It can sound like survival dressed up as virtue—the kind that leaves no room for softness, for breaking, for being held. Strength, on the other hand, is alive. It moves. It breathes. It grows.

    My strength is not rigid—it replenishes.

    It extends grace when I need it most.

    It allows me to bend without losing myself.

    It lets me rest without guilt.

    Strength is what carried me through the seasons where I didn’t feel chosen, where I questioned my path, where I showed up anyway—uncertain, but willing. It is what taught me that endurance is not about hardening, but about remaining open… even when it would be easier to close.

    And now, I feel the fruit of that.

    Not in a performative way. Not in a way that needs validation. But in a quiet knowing: I am held. By God. By the work I’ve done. By the woman I’ve become.

    This newness doesn’t feel like pressure—it feels like permission.

    Permission to soften without losing my power.

    Permission to experience joy without waiting for something to go wrong.

    Permission to receive love without questioning if I’ve earned it.

    And as I sit with this newness, I’m beginning to understand what it is asking of me.

    It is calling me to be intentional in the spaces I once approached cautiously.

    When I return to dating, it will not be from a place of loneliness or curiosity—but from alignment. I am no longer entertaining potential without evidence. I am no longer drawn to what feels familiar but unsettled. I will date with intention—clear, grounded, and open—allowing connection to meet me where I already stand whole. There will be no rushing, no proving, no abandoning myself to be chosen. Only mutuality. Only peace.

    This newness is also stretching me professionally.

    There is more for me to learn, more for me to carry, more for me to offer. I can feel the pull toward another certification—another layer of knowledge, another refinement of my craft. Not for validation, not for appearance, but because I honor the responsibility of what I hold. The letters behind my name will grow, yes—but more importantly, so will my capacity to serve, to discern, to lead with both skill and spirit.

    And then there is this sacred space I am entering—empty nesting.

    It is tender. It is unfamiliar. It is quieter than what I’ve known for so long. And yet, I am not resisting it. I am leaning in. I am allowing myself to feel the fullness of what it means to release and to trust that what I have poured into will continue to live and breathe beyond me.

    At the same time, I find myself gently preparing—creating provision for what’s to come. Not from fear, but from wisdom. Not from lack, but from stewardship. I am honoring both the present moment and the future that is unfolding before me.

    This is what newness means for me:

    Not striving—but aligning.

    Not forcing—but allowing.

    Not bracing—but trusting.

    Do the necessary work.

    I am learning that growth doesn’t always feel like pressure. Sometimes it feels like peace. Sometimes it feels like clarity. Sometimes it feels like standing in the middle of your life and realizing… you are no longer trying to survive it.

    You are ready to live it.

    And maybe that’s where I am.

    Not at the end of anything.

    But at the beginning of something sacred.

    A life that feels both grounded and expansive.

    A heart that is no longer bracing—but open.

    A spirit that trusts what is unfolding, even without having all the answers.

    If this is what newness feels like…

    I am ready to receive it.

    Being brave,

    Michelle ✨🌿✨

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

  • God Remains in the Small, Tender Things

    God Remains in the Small, Tender Things

    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?

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle.

  • Snow Day Reflections: Love, Comfort and waiting WITH God

    Snow Day Reflections: Love, Comfort and waiting WITH God

    A young woman with textured hair reading a book while sitting on a cozy sofa surrounded by stacks of books and a small Christmas tree in the background.

    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.

    Be braver,

    Michelle🌿

    Sylvie’s Love with Tessa Thompson

    The Grey with Liam Neeson

    Buck and The Preacher with Sidney Poitier

    300 with Gerard Butler

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle.

  • His T-Shirts, Cuddles, and Coffee — Our Bodies Remember

    His T-Shirts, Cuddles, and Coffee — Our Bodies Remember

    Choose You

    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.

    XOXO,

    Michelle 💛

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle.

  • Red Flags or Revelation? Learning to Trust Your Inner Wisdom in Love

    Red Flags or Revelation? Learning to Trust Your Inner Wisdom in Love

    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. 💕

    Be brave,

    Michelle🌿

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle.