Intimately Worded with Michelle

Category: Relationship situations

  • Sunday Finds

    Today I started walking the Greenway again.

    It’s Fall, baby. 🍂

    The Inbetween💕

    There was something about the cooler air that made me want to get outside and move my body again. I discovered that I can walk a half a mile without sweating—which feels like a small victory worth celebrating. These knees of mine were still screaming a little, but the walk felt good. Not because I went far. Not because I burned a certain number of calories. It just felt good to move, breathe, and be outside.

    And maybe that was the point.

    Autumn is Nature’s Canvas

    I came home and hung a mirror that has been sitting in its little corner since we moved three years ago.

    Three years.

    I finally decided the mirror had waited long enough.

    I also created my little greenhouse for my houseplants, giving them some extra love and attention. I arranged them, watered them, and turned on the humidifier because apparently my plants have entered their “we require a climate-controlled environment” era.

    And I happily obliged.

    I drank my 60 ounces of water, too.

    All of it sounds so ordinary.

    But lately I’ve been thinking about the in-betweenness of life.

    The spaces between the big things.

    The places where nothing particularly Instagram-worthy is happening, but life is still happening.

    There is the work I love. The clients I care for. Transitional Pathways continuing to become something more tangible than the idea it once was.

    There is Let’s Circle Back, the podcast work that I am building with my co-host and author friend, E. There is something special about creating with someone who has become a friend along the way—about the conversations that happen before the recording, after the recording, and sometimes nowhere near a microphone at all.

    There are ideas we’re still shaping.

    Conversations we’re still having.

    Things we’re still becoming.

    And then there is everything else.

    The walk.

    The water.

    The plants.

    The humidifier humming quietly in the background.

    The mirror finally hanging on the wall.

    The quiet.

    The solitude.

    The ordinary rhythms of taking care of myself.

    I have been working so hard to work smarter, not harder.

    Trying to figure out how to organize my life, my work, my dreams, my responsibilities. Trying to build Transitional Pathways, show up well for my clients, create, write, prepare, podcast, pray, grow—and somehow do all of it without running myself into the ground.

    Yet somehow, it still feels like everything is hard.

    And today I had one of those quiet realizations that makes me smile.

    Maybe I don’t always need another strategy.

    Maybe sometimes I need the basics.

    Take care of myself.

    Love the work I have been called to do.

    Drink the water.

    Take the walk.

    Hang the mirror.

    Tend to the plants.

    Cultivate solitude.

    Make room for God.

    There is something divinely funny about how God works.

    I can spend so much energy trying to figure out how to accomplish the God stuff—the purpose, the calling, the next thing, the bigger thing—and then I find myself accomplishing more simply by caring for the woman who is living this life.

    Maybe the work isn’t always in the doing.

    Maybe sometimes the work is in becoming well enough to receive what comes next.

    Today, I didn’t feel particularly productive.

    I just felt cared for.

    And maybe that is its own kind of productivity.

    My soul feels nurtured today.

    Cared for.

    Hopeful.

    There is a softness that comes when you realize you don’t have to force every good thing into existence.

    Some things grow because you tend to them.

    Some things change because you finally make room.

    Some things become visible because you finally hang the mirror.

    And some things—perhaps the most important things—God has been tending to all along.

    So these are my Sunday finds:

    A half-mile walk.

    A mirror finally on the wall.

    Plants getting extra love and a little humidity.

    Sixty ounces of water.

    The joy of creating something meaningful with a friend.

    Conversations becoming podcasts.

    Ideas becoming things.

    A little more solitude.

    A little less striving.

    And a soul that feels good.

    Maybe this is what I’ve been looking for in all my attempts to work smarter.

    Not a better way to do more.

    A better way to be while I’m doing it.

    I think I’ll call that a pretty good Sunday.

    Staying present,

    Michelle💕

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle.

  • Choosing Me, Still

    Choosing Me, Still

    the Fifty years—Lovingly

     I finished Harlem this weekend, and I liked the series more than I realized I did.

    There were definitely things that annoyed me. The hairstyles, for one. 🤷🏽‍♀️

    Our hair requires entirely too much time, money, manipulation and maintenance for these women to walk into one scene with waist-length braids and the next with a silk press, and then somehow have another completely different hairstyle before dinner. Ma’am. Who is paying for all of this?

    And some of their dating decisions had me talking to the television. Out loud.

    I mean, giving up tenure at Columbia to write your first novel? Why not do both? I understand choosing yourself, but must choosing yourself always require burning down the entire house?

    Still, somewhere across those three seasons, I realized what I loved most about Harlem.

    The women kept choosing themselves.

    Not perfectly. Not always wisely. Not without consequences. But they kept returning to themselves.

    And perhaps that is why the series stayed with me.

    This week, much of my clinical work sat in the complicated territory of relationships—people trying desperately to stay together, people trying to figure out how to leave, people grieving what they thought their relationship would be, and people trying to love each other when love had become painful.

    Heartbreak has many faces.

    So does love.

    There are moments when both seem to bring out the very best in us, and moments when they expose every tender, wounded, human part of us.

    I sat with all of that this Sunday and realized how grateful I am that my current personal struggle is rather simple:

    I want to love and be loved well.

    I want a healthy, loving relationship.

    I want partnership.

    And right now, there isn’t anyone on the horizon.

    Honestly, that is a pretty privileged problem to have.

    Because I have known hard.

    I think about graduate school—the long hours, working full-time, single parenting, trying to become something while still being responsible for everything and everyone who needed me. That season stretched me in ways I didn’t always know I could be stretched.

    And now, almost ten years into this profession, there are still long hours.

    There is still work to do.

    There is still building, growing, becoming more marketable, figuring out the next thing, questioning whether I’m doing enough and wondering what all of this is supposed to look like when I finally get there.

    Maybe adulthood is simply realizing there is no final “there.”

    We keep becoming.

    We build careers. We raise children. We survive marriages and divorces. We go back to school. We start businesses. We reinvent ourselves. We heal. We learn boundaries. We learn ourselves.

    And then, sometimes, we sit quietly on a Sunday and realize there is one area of our lives where our usual strategy doesn’t quite work.

    Love cannot be completed like a degree.

    It can’t be built by checking every box.

    It can’t be forced by working harder.

    And it certainly can’t be scheduled into existence.

    Maybe that is why choosing myself matters so much.

    Not as a consolation prize because love hasn’t arrived.

    Not as some declaration that I don’t need anyone.

    I do.

    I want companionship. I want tenderness. I want someone to check in because they thought about me. I want laughter in the kitchen and conversation at the end of a long day. I want the kind of relationship where two people can be fully themselves and still choose each other.

    But while I wait for that, I don’t want to abandon the woman who is already here.

    The woman who worked through graduate school.

    The woman who raised children.

    The woman who built a career.

    The woman who is still building.

    The woman who has walked through heartbreak and kept her heart.

    Maybe that is the real lesson I took from Harlem.

    Choosing yourself isn’t always about making a dramatic exit or starting over.

    Sometimes it is much quieter.

    Sometimes choosing yourself is simply refusing to leave yourself behind while you wait for the next chapter.

    And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

    I’m still choosing me.

    And I’m still leaving room for love.

    Intimately being brave,

    Michelle 💕

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle.

  • Saying Yes… Not to the Dress, but to More

    “Discernment gathers evidence; anxiety fills in the blanks.” —Me.

    Faithfully hopeful💛

    I’ve been thinking about saying yes.

    Not to the dress.

    Not yet, anyway. 😂

    I mean saying yes to more.

    More life. More possibility. More experiences. More laughter. More love. More of the things I used to think I had missed my opportunity to have.

    And perhaps most importantly, saying yes without needing to know exactly what the yes will lead to.

    That feels different for me.

    My life is full these days. Sometimes very full.

    There is my work as a therapist, sitting with people through grief, trauma, relationships, depression, transitions, and all the complicated places life takes us. There is my private practice, Transitional Pathways, which continues to grow into something that feels increasingly like my own. There is podcasting and Let’s Circle Back, where conversations about healing, trauma, poverty, relationships, and the choices we make have reminded me over and over again that people’s stories are rarely as simple as they appear.

    Then there is writing.

    Creating.

    Building.

    Planning.

    Trying to be a responsible adult while also remembering that I am allowed to actually enjoy my life.

    And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I decided to try dating again.

    At this age.

    After more than a decade of being single.

    Which, let me just say, is an experience.

    Dating after 50 requires a particular kind of discernment. 🥴

    There are men who seem promising until you actually have a conversation. Men whose profiles require a second read. Men who want to exchange phone numbers five minutes into the conversation. Men who apparently believe “I’m running from life” is an intriguing introduction rather than a potential warning label.

    And then there are the conversations that make you pause.

    Not necessarily because someone is the one, but because they remind you that you are still capable of being curious.

    Still capable of meeting someone new.

    Still capable of wondering, What if?

    That matters.

    For a long time, I think I approached relationships from a place of trying to determine whether something was worth my investment.

    Does this person communicate well?

    Are they emotionally available?

    Are they consistent?

    Are their values aligned with mine?

    Can I see a future here?

    Those questions still matter. They absolutely should.

    But I’m learning that there is another question I need to ask:

    Am I allowing myself to experience the possibility at all?

    Because discernment and fear can look remarkably similar if you aren’t paying attention.

    Discernment says, This isn’t for me.

    Fear says, Don’t even try.

    Wisdom says, Pay attention.

    Fear says, You already know how this ends.

    And I don’t want fear making decisions for me anymore.

    Sunday’s church service did something to me.

    I walked away feeling hopeful—not naïve, not desperate, not suddenly convinced that everything is going to unfold exactly the way I want it to.

    Just hopeful.

    Hopeful about my past.

    Hopeful about my current life.

    Hopeful about my future.

    And I realized how good that actually feels.

    Because there was a time when looking backward brought up all the things I didn’t get.

    The things that didn’t work.

    The years I spent alone.

    The relationship I thought would look different.

    The dreams that took longer than expected.

    The life I imagined for myself that didn’t happen on my original timeline.

    But maybe the past doesn’t have to be proof that I’ve missed something.

    Maybe it can simply be proof that I’ve lived.

    I’ve loved.

    I’ve learned.

    I’ve survived.

    I’ve grown.

    And I’m still here.

    So maybe saying yes isn’t about pretending I don’t know what disappointment feels like.

    It’s about knowing exactly what it feels like—and deciding that disappointment doesn’t get to have the final word.

    I’m 56.

    And I like my life.

    I like the woman I’ve become.

    I like the work I’m doing. I like building something of my own. I like the conversations I’m having. I like writing. I like Sunday mornings and quiet moments and the parts of life that don’t need an audience.

    I don’t need someone to come along and rescue me from my life.

    But I would love someone to join me in it.

    There is a difference.

    I don’t need a relationship to validate that my life is full.

    But I do want companionship.

    I want partnership.

    I want someone to call when something funny happens.

    Someone who checks in because they thought about me.

    Someone who wants to know how my day went and actually listens to the answer.

    Someone who understands that affection is not merely something you say but something you demonstrate.

    Someone who can sit beside me in the ordinary moments—the grocery store, dinner, Sunday morning coffee, the ridiculous television show—and recognize that ordinary can become extraordinary when you’re sharing it with the right person.

    And yes, I want romance.

    I’m not going to pretend otherwise.

    But I don’t want to manufacture it.

    I don’t want to force connection because I’m tired of waiting.

    I don’t want to overlook inconsistency because someone is attractive.

    I don’t want to explain away poor communication because I’m trying to be patient.

    I don’t want to audition for love.

    I don’t want to convince someone to choose me.

    I want something that feels mutual.

    Safe.

    Intentional.

    Grown.

    So I’m saying yes.

    Not a yes to every person who comes along.

    Not a yes to chaos.

    Not a yes to settling.

    A yes to possibility.

    A yes to getting dressed and going somewhere.

    A yes to conversation.

    A yes to meeting people.

    A yes to letting someone surprise me.

    A yes to laughing at the ridiculousness of dating after 50.

    A yes to paying attention to what feels good without ignoring what feels off.

    A yes to trusting my discernment without allowing it to become a wall.

    A yes to believing that my life can still expand.

    Maybe that’s what Sunday gave me.

    Not an answer.

    Just permission.

    Permission to look at the life behind me with gratitude instead of regret.

    Permission to look at the life in front of me with curiosity instead of fear.

    Permission to believe that there is still more.

    And perhaps that’s the real dress I’m putting on these days—not the white one.

    The one made of hope.

    The one made of possibility.

    The one that says:

    I’m still here.

    I’m still becoming.

    And I’m not finished yet.

    So yes.

    I’m saying yes.

    Not to the dress.

    Not even necessarily to a man.

    I’m saying yes to more life than I have already known.

    And honestly?

    That feels pretty good.

    Yes… that’s good.

    Very good.

    Being brave (discerningly so),

    Michelle 🌿

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle.

  • SuperSoul Sunday: Where My Heart Learned to Heal

    I am sitting with the day.

    It has been a SuperSoul Sunday.

    Church was beautiful today. Worship was high, the kind of worship that doesn’t just sound good but reaches somewhere inside of you and reminds you: You’re still here. You’re still held. Keep going.

    And then there was the park.

    I have been going there since my children were babies. My youngest is 19 now, which means this place has been part of our family story for nearly two decades.

    But somewhere along the way, it became more than a park.

    It became one of the first places where my heart learned how to heal.

    I walked there. I ran there.

    There were seasons when I didn’t know what was next. I remember losing my job (corporate thug life) and going there to walk and run—to move my body when my mind didn’t know what to do with itself.

    I ate lunch there by myself, sitting at a picnic table. Sometimes solitude was not something I had chosen. Sometimes it was simply where I was.

    And somehow, Jesus met me there.

    Every time.

    Not necessarily with an answer.

    Not always with some grand revelation.

    Sometimes just enough peace to make it through the afternoon. Sometimes enough room to breathe. Sometimes enough quiet to hear myself again.

    That is what makes a place sacred to me.

    Not the building. Not the landscaping.

    Not whether anyone else would understand why it matters.

    It is what happened there. It is who I became there. It is where I encountered God there.

    Over the last ten years or so, the area has become increasingly crowded. Neighborhoods have grown. A school is nearby. There are more people, more activity, more life.

    And for a while, I stopped going.

    There was even a guy who kept talking to me every time I went. He wasn’t scary. Just irritating.

    Sometimes we leave places for reasons that aren’t nearly as profound as the reasons we once needed them. I found other sacred spaces.

    Places where I could breathe. Places where I could pray. Places where I could be alone with my thoughts and with God.

    But that park remained my first.

    Today, on a Sunday, I went back.

    Bru had invited one of his best friends to church. Autumn was off. It was great attending as a Family. The boys decided to walk the trails together.

    I chose not to walk with them.

    I took my own path around the park.

    And then I saw them.

    Three deer. 🦌🦌🦌

    Walking. Pausing. Looking at me.

    I stood there in complete awe.

    My camerawoman skills are not it. 🤦🏽‍♀️

    I have been coming to this place since my babies were babies, and I have never seen deer there.

    Not once. And today, there they were. Three.

    I don’t know if God sent the deer to give me a message. I don’t need to make them into something they may not be.

    But I know what it felt like to stand there.

    It felt like being reminded to pay attention.

    To notice. To stay present. To slow down enough to see what had always been possible but had somehow remained unseen.

    I thought to run, walk past or turn around. I heard, “wait.”

    Maybe that’s what healing does.

    It doesn’t always take us somewhere completely new. Sometimes it brings us back to an old place with new eyes.

    The same trees. The same trails. The same picnic tables. But a different woman walking through them.

    I have changed. A lot.

    The woman who once ran those trails after losing her job is not the woman standing there today.

    The mother pushing through the seasons of raising babies is not the woman watching her 19-year-old son walk trails with one of his best friends.

    The woman who needed that park to survive a season is now able to return simply to receive the beauty of it.

    That feels significant.

    And maybe this is what I am learning about sacred spaces:

    They don’t have to remain untouched to remain sacred. They can become crowded. We can leave them. We can find other places. Life can change around them.

    And still, when we return, something in us remembers.

    I think that’s true of people, too.

    There are places we once needed desperately that we no longer need in the same way. There are relationships that held us for a season but aren’t meant to hold us forever. There are versions of ourselves that did the best they could with what they knew.

    And there are places—physical and spiritual—that become part of the architecture of our healing.

    That park is one of mine.

    It is one of the first places my heart learned that being alone did not necessarily mean being abandoned. That movement could become prayer. That lunch at a picnic table could become communion.

    That tears could fall beneath a sky and somehow you could still leave lighter. That Jesus could meet me outside of a church building.

    Actually, maybe that’s one of the reasons I love sacred spaces so much.

    Because Jesus has never seemed particularly concerned about staying inside the places we expect Him to be.

    He meets me on trails. At picnic tables. In quiet mornings. In difficult seasons. In unexpected conversations. In our emptiness.

    And apparently…

    sometimes in the middle of a park with three deer staring at me. There was another little reminder today, too.

    I had been thinking about taking a break from the dating app. The fatigue was beginning to creep in—the endless conversations, the sorting, the wondering, the discernment.

    And then this morning, I matched with a man with a beautiful smile and really good conversation.

    And then came the complication.

    He is legally married, though separated for three years. They aren’t trying to reconcile. We both respected each other’s position, and we agreed not to continue.

    Could there have been something there?

    Perhaps.

    But I am learning that possibility is not the same thing as permission. Something can feel good and still not be for me. Something can have potential and still require a boundary. And something can end before it begins without being a failure.

    Maybe that’s another kind of healing.

    Being able to say, “I see the possibility. And I also see the boundary.”

    No bitterness. No drama. No chasing. Just discernment.

    At 5:28 PM, I am thinking about all of this.

    About the woman I was. About the woman I am.

    About the places that have held me.

    About the places I have outgrown.

    About the places I may return to.

    About the sacred spaces I haven’t found yet.

    And about the strange, beautiful truth that sometimes we don’t realize a place was helping us heal until years later.

    I thought I was just walking.

    I thought I was just getting some air.

    I thought I was just eating lunch alone.

    I thought I was just trying to survive losing a job.

    But maybe Jesus was teaching my heart something. Maybe He was showing me that solitude could be holy. That movement could be medicine for the soul. That I could sit alone and still be accompanied. That I could lose something and still find myself. That I could leave and return.

    That I could become someone new without abandoning the woman who came before me.

    And today, after all these years, I walked through that sacred space again.

    And three deer stopped to look at me.

    Maybe they were simply deer. Maybe that’s all they needed to be. But I stopped, too.

    And for a moment, we just looked at each other.

    And I smiled.

    Because sometimes healing isn’t a dramatic revelation. Sometimes healing is simply realizing:

    I am still here. God is still here. And there is still beauty I haven’t seen yet.

    SuperSoul Sunday: Lean into your miracles.

    Have courage,

    Michelle

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle.

  • Free Mondays

    Staycation? I think it is giving me something more valuable: no performance, no production, no rushing toward the next thing.

    Freedom can be unstructured

    Yesterday was Sunday, and I didn’t write.

    That sentence feels almost rebellious.

    Sunday is my writing day. It’s usually when I sit down with my thoughts, gather the pieces of the week, and turn them into something I can share. But yesterday, I didn’t.

    I rested.

    I had a completely relaxed, wonderfully unproductive day.

    And somewhere between doing nothing and doing exactly what I wanted, I realized something: I really like Free Mondays.

    This week is my birthday week, and I took my entire work week off to celebrate.

    Initially, I had imagined doing it differently. I wanted to go to the beach. Not just any beach—a different beach. I could see it in my mind: the water, the hotel, the restaurants, the beautiful scenery, the little birthday moments that would make it feel like the perfect celebration.

    But then came the planning.

    The driving.

    The reservations.

    The packing.

    The figuring out what to do once I got there.

    The pressure to make the trip worth it because I had gone all the way there.

    And suddenly, the thing I wanted to feel—free—started requiring a lot of work.

    So I changed my mind.

    I chose a staycation.

    There will be a night at a beautiful, posh hotel. A spa day. A fancy solo dinner. Time with my Tribe. Time with Bru. Time at the horse ranch.

    And time where nothing is required of me.

    That last part might be my favorite.

    Today is my first Free Monday.

    No work.

    No sessions.

    No hard decisions.

    No rush moments.

    No deadlines.

    No squeezing something into a 30-minute window because the next thing is already waiting.

    Today, we spent leisurely time at the horse ranch. There was no quick workout afterward because I needed to get somewhere. No looking at the clock every few minutes. No mental calculation of what had to happen next.

    Even driving felt different.

    Normally, driving is transportation. A means to an end.

    Monday, driving felt like part of the leisure.

    There was nowhere I needed to rush to.

    And isn’t that interesting?

    Sometimes freedom isn’t about going somewhere extraordinary.

    Sometimes freedom is about not having to hurry while you’re getting there.

    I think I’ve spent a lot of my life believing that rest had to be earned and that celebrations had to be carefully constructed. That if I was going to take time off, I needed to make the most of it.

    But what if making the most of it means making nothing of it?

    What if the beautiful thing isn’t the itinerary?

    What if it’s waking up and realizing you don’t have one?

    There is something new happening in me.

    I’m learning that I don’t always need to create the experience.

    Sometimes I can simply experience it.

    Free Mondays feel new. Good. Better.

    They feel freeing. Liberating, even.

    And perhaps that’s because there is something deeply sacred about having nowhere to rush to and nothing to prove.

    I am turning 56 this week.

    Maybe this is one of the gifts of getting older: realizing that the life we imagine will make us happy isn’t always the life that actually gives us peace.

    I thought I needed another beach.

    Maybe what I needed was another pace.

    So here I am.

    On my staycation.

    Taking my time.

    Enjoying my people.

    Enjoying my solitude.

    Going to the spa.

    Having a fancy dinner by myself.

    Spending time at the horse ranch.

    Sleeping when I want.

    Writing when I want.

    And maybe not writing at all.

    Because apparently, that is freedom too.

    Happy Free Monday. ♥️

    I’m going to enjoy this one.

    Birthday-ing,

    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.

  • 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

  • Distorted is the View: When a Story Invites You to Stay

    Book Review: First Novel

    Some books entertain us. Some books educate us.
    And then there are books that invite us to sit down, settle in, and stay awhile.

    Recently, I had the privilege of reading, “Distorted is the View” by Khaya Ronkainen, and I found myself lingering long after I had closed the pages.
    As a therapist, my mind is often moving—holding stories, solving problems, making connections, and creating space for others. It is rare that a book quietens my brain. Yet, that is exactly what happened while reading this story.

    I was drawn into the lives of the characters in a way that felt both gentle and profound. I found myself invested not only in the main characters, but in the entire ecosystem of their lives—the family unit, their friendships, their adversaries, and the protectors who emerged along the way. Each relationship seemed to matter. Each person carried weight.

    Perhaps what captivated me most was the story’s generational reach.

    The choices made by one generation echoed into the next. The wounds, the resilience, the love, the misunderstandings, and the hope all seemed to ripple outward, reminding me that our lives rarely belong only to us. We inherit stories. We shape stories. And whether intentionally or unintentionally, we leave stories behind.

    There were moments while reading when I found myself pausing—not because the story was difficult, but because it felt familiar in the way all deeply human stories do. The questions of belonging, connection, identity, and legacy are ones many of us carry. Khaya’s writing invites readers to sit with those questions rather than rush past them.

    As I reflected on the book, I found myself thinking about the television series, “This Is Us.” Not because the stories are the same, but because both invite us to consider the complexities of family, identity, memory, and belonging. Reading. “Distorted is the View” felt like stepping into Khaya’s imagination and witnessing how deeply she understands the impact of human connection across generations.

    For those who appreciate stories that are character-driven, emotionally layered, and reflective of the complexities of family life, this book offers something special. It is the kind of story that encourages readers to slow down and pay attention.

    And perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts a book can offer in a world that moves so quickly. I was honored when Khaya shared that she would like to include an excerpt from my review among the early praise for the book. To know that my words resonated with her is a gift I do not take lightly.

    If you’re looking for a thoughtful summer read that explores relationships, legacy, and the enduring impact of our shared humanity, I encourage you to learn more about “Distorted is the View” and Khaya’s work here:

    https://www.khayaronkainen.fi/distorted-is-the-view/

    Books have a way of finding us when we need them. This one found me at just the right time.

    Intimately Worded, Michelle🌿

    Michelle Tillman, LCMHC| Therapist, Writer & Host of Let’s Circle Back Podcast 💛

  • 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

  • Navigating Healing, Solo-Entrepreneurship & All the Feels

    Navigating Healing, Solo-Entrepreneurship & All the Feels

    Sunday is feeling like thriving, good hope and reset.

    Today, I moved about my day intentionally—honoring Sundays, my time, my work and my SelfCare. One facial mask and folded clothes from the dryer later, I bake brownies and I write. There is something sacred about slow Sundays when you are rebuilding your life from the inside out.

    Lately, I’ve been leaning into singleness again with greater determination. Soft, yet strategic boundaries. My time is valuable now in ways I understand differently at 55. Peace has become expensive and I no longer hand it out freely in exchange for inconsistency, confusion or potential.

    I’m also leaning into entrepreneurship with greater wisdom and patience.

    Building something meaningful alone is isolating. Lonely. Hard.

    There are no standing ovations for the backend work. No applause when you’re troubleshooting systems, learning insurance credentialing, waiting on support tickets, updating websites, responding to inquiries, writing blogs, managing finances and trying not to emotionally collapse under the pressure of uncertainty.

    People often celebrate the finished product without acknowledging the emotional labor of becoming.

    These past few weeks, I’ve been intentionally building my private practice. I established Transitional Pathways PLLC years ago, but this season feels different. More focused. More aligned. Less performative. I’m accepting insurance now, learning new systems, exploring growth and stretching beyond survival mode into sustainability.

    And if I’m honest, there are moments I sit quietly and wonder if I should have started sooner.

    Maybe at 32.
    Maybe at 40.
    Maybe before life happened the way it did.

    Sometimes SoftGirl. Sometimes dinosaur. ✨

    But healing teaches us something entrepreneurship eventually confirms: timing matters.

    Who I am now carries more depth, discernment and emotional clarity than the woman I was decades ago. There is less ego attached to success now and more intention attached to peace. I no longer want to build quickly if it costs me my nervous system, my softness or my relationship with God.

    So I’m learning to build slowly.
    Wisely.
    Honestly.

    I’m learning that entrepreneurship is not simply about money or branding. Sometimes it’s about trusting yourself again after disappointment. Sometimes it’s about believing your voice matters enough to take up space. Sometimes it’s about sitting with loneliness without abandoning your vision.

    And healing? Healing is realizing you can create a beautiful life while things are still unfinished.

    Today, I’m resting.
    Tomorrow, I’ll continue building.

    Both matter.

    — Intimately Worded

  • When Loss Becomes Structure, and Grief Becomes Growth

    Forever Bloom

    There is a kind of loss that rearranges the furniture of your life. Not just the dramatic kind, and not only death. The loss of a relationship. The loss of income. The loss of identity. The loss of the version of you that once felt certain. The loss of something you prayed for and believed would stay. Any loss that breaks you open deserves to be named.

    What we rarely discuss is how necessary structure becomes after loss. When something shatters us, the nervous system searches for safety, the mind searches for meaning, and the heart searches for steady ground. Without intention, we can drift. Days blur together. Motivation thins. We mistake emotional chaos for destiny. But structure is not denial. Structure is how we begin to heal.

    After loss, structure becomes sacred. It may look simple, even ordinary. Waking up at the same time each morning. Making the bed. Drinking water before coffee. Showing up to work even when your heart feels heavy. Keeping therapy appointments. Walking. Praying. Journaling. Breathing deeply when emotion rises. These acts are not small. They are stabilizing. They quietly tell the body, “You are not dying. You are becoming.”

    What broke you open is not here to destroy you. It is here to deepen you. Breakthrough does not always arrive wrapped in celebration. Sometimes it arrives dressed as loss. Sometimes it looks like rejection. Sometimes it looks like a door closing that you begged God to keep open. Growth often requires grief. We do not evolve without releasing. We do not mature without mourning. We do not become wiser by clinging to what once felt safe.

    There is a particular courage required to release what you once prayed for. That surrender humbles you. It exposes attachment and teaches you that answered prayers are not always permanent assignments. It forces you to trust that what is leaving may be making room, even when that space initially feels empty and frightening.

    The difficulty of your current season will one day become a memory. There will come a time when you say, “I remember when,” and this chapter will be the turning point in your story. Not because you passed some invisible test or earned joy through suffering, but because adversity reorganizes us. When life does not balance neatly—when the yin does not yang—our humanity steps forward. We become more compassionate. More discerning. More honest. More courageous. We learn to love with clarity instead of fear.

    Your good things will multiply, not as a reward for pain, but as a natural consequence of who you are becoming through it. When you have been broken open, you see differently. When you have grieved deeply, you choose differently. When you have survived loss, you no longer settle for what diminishes you. You recognize alignment more quickly. You protect your peace more intentionally.

    Trust the healing that follows breakthrough, even when the breakthrough first looked like devastation. Trust yourself to recognize when you are stepping into the next love, the next lesson, and the next win. There is wisdom growing in you right now. There is clarity forming beneath the ache. There is strength building in the quiet moments no one else sees.

    Structure your days. Honor your grief. Release with intention. And then allow your life to reorganize around who you are becoming rather than what you lost. You are not behind. You are not ruined. You are in the middle of transformation. And one day, this will be in the past—evidence that you survived, evolved, and loved again.

    Being brave,

    Michelle

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle