There is something sacred about a Sunday when North Carolina snow is expected. Not the dramatic, blizzard kind— but the kind that slows the roads, quiets the neighborhood, and gently insists: stay in.
The kind that turns errands into cancellations and plans into permission. For me, Snow in NC carries expectancy. We watch the sky. We check the forecast more than once. We listen for the hush that comes right before it begins.
And when it finally falls, everything feels muted— as if the world itself is holding its breath.
Being snowed in on a Sunday feels different. It’s not confinement; it’s an invitation. To pause without explanation. To rest without productivity attached. To be still without feeling behind.
The snow does what Sundays were always meant to do— slow us enough to notice ourselves again. There’s no rushing out the door. No pressure to make the most of the day.
Just warm rooms, familiar quiet, and the gentle rhythm of time stretching instead of tightening.
In the stillness, expectancy shifts. It’s no longer about what’s coming next— but about what’s already here.
What we’ve been carrying. What we’ve been ignoring. What our bodies and spirits have been asking for all along. Snow has a way of leveling everything. Covering the noise. Softening the edges.
Reminding us that rest is not laziness—
it’s alignment. And maybe that’s the gift of being snowed in on a Sunday: the realization that pausing is not a detour from life, but a return to it.
A reminder that God often speaks in the quiet.
That clarity doesn’t always arrive with movement. That some seasons require us to stop long enough to feel what’s true.
So today, let the snow fall. Let the world wait. Let your nervous system settle. Let Sunday be Sunday again.
There is grace in the pause. There is wisdom in the stillness. There is expectancy even here. Especially here. 🌿❄️🌿
Remain Brave,
Michelle
Closing Reflection
As the snow settles and the world grows quiet,
ask yourself—
What am I being invited to pause from right now?And what part of me has been waiting for this stillness to finally speak?
You don’t have to rush the answer. Let it rise slowly, like snowfall— unannounced, unforced, enough.
Soft Scripture
“In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.” ~Psalm 4:8
North Carolina slowed all the way down this weekend. A predicted historical Snowstorm. Snow day. Ice storm. Our first snow day together.
The world outside went quiet, the quiet that presses you inward. He promised breakfast in bed—said it easily, like warmth was a given. And in that moment, it was. Safety felt less like a concept. It was more like a posture: bodies tucked in, heat humming, nowhere we needed to be but here. I honor the quiet this time brings.
What I learned this weekend came in small, honest ways.
He has a tendency to fuss about things that bring me comfort. My favorite t-shirt—well worn, soft from years of loving, holes that tell the truth of time. An uneven drawstring on the sweatsuit he bought me, something I barely noticed until he did.
I don’t take it as criticism. I’m learning it’s his way of caring out loud—wanting things right, wanting things better, wanting me wrapped in what he believes I deserve. Still, I smile. Comfort doesn’t always need correcting.
Then there’s the contrast that makes me chuckle.
This man loves action movies—the louder, the better. Yet Sylvie’s Love has him standing up, cheering, eyes teary, emotions spilling over without apology. I watch him from the corner of the sofa and think, There you are. The tenderness we don’t always name finds its way out anyway.
Later, he sleeps. I study the rise and fall of his chest like it’s a prayer. Each time my phone rings, he wakes—every single time.
“Everyone okay?”
That question stays with me. The instinct to protect. To check. To stay alert even in rest.
And me?
I’m learning something quieter, maybe harder. I’m learning to rest in my uncertainty of us. Not rush clarity. Not demand guarantees. Not brace for what hasn’t happened.
That is my good in loving better—allowing presence without possession, warmth without certainty, love without over-managing the outcome.
Snow melts. Ice thaws.
And still, there is comfort.
Not named.
Not explained.
Just felt.
It moves through the quiet of the house. It moves through shared warmth. It provides the permission to be where I am without reaching for what’s next. God’s presence this weekend didn’t arrive with answers.
It came as refuge—steady, unhurried, close. Meeting me in the pause. Holding me while nothing is resolved.
I’m learning that loving better sometimes looks like staying. Letting uncertainty sit beside me. Trusting that grace doesn’t rush what is still becoming.
“The Lord is good to those who wait for Him,
to the soul who seeks Him.”
— Lamentations 3:25
A gentle question:
Where might God be sitting with you right now, simply asking you to stay? Please share your thoughts.
There is a particular intimacy that comes with age—one that is slower, fuller, and unapologetically embodied. I wake up in his t-shirt again.
It hangs off my shoulders, soft and oversized, brushing against skin that has lived. Skin that has stretched, healed, marked time. At this stage of life, nothing about my body is imaginary. Everything has a story.
Our bodies tell our most intimate stories—
the stretch marks, the tats, the birthmarks.
The places where life pressed hard and didn’t apologize. The places where love once left and later returned.
When he pulls me close, there is no scanning, no assessment. He affirms the deep valleys, the crooks, the life pain my body has held. His touch doesn’t avoid the tender places—it honors them. There is something profoundly healing about being touched without correction. About being desired without being edited.
We cuddle like people who have nothing to prove.
His body meets mine not with urgency, but with knowing. The kind of knowing that comes from grief survived, prayers whispered, and faith that had to mature before love could. His hand rests—not to claim, but to stay.
The coffee brews quietly, like a benediction.
Steam rises while we remain tangled, breathing each other in. In moments like this, I feel God close—not distant or judgmental, but present. I believe intimacy like this is holy. Not because it is perfect, but because it is honest.
After 50, desire doesn’t disappear—it becomes discerning. It chooses safety. It chooses warmth. It chooses someone who understands that pleasure and pain often live in the same body. Someone who doesn’t rush past the scars but recognizes them as proof of survival.
Faith has taught me this:
God restores through gentleness more often than spectacle. Through mornings like this. Through affection that doesn’t demand transformation. Through love that says, you don’t have to tighten to be worthy.
This kind of intimacy feels like redemption.
Like being met exactly where I am—with reverence for the flesh that carried me through childbirth, heartbreak, longing, and prayer. Like God saying, I remember what you’ve endured—and I still call this good.
So I stay in his t-shirt a little longer.
I let my body soften. I let myself be held without shrinking. After 50, intimacy is not about becoming someone new. It’s about being loved as the woman you already are.
And that—
that feels like grace poured slowly, one quiet Saturday and/or Sunday morning at a time.
The new year does not arrive quietly. It comes with memory, with residue, with the echo of prayers whispered in exhaustion and spoken aloud in faith. As I step into this year, I do so aware of divine forces that have been at work long before I had language for them. God’s love has not been performative or punitive—it has been steady, corrective, and deeply intimate.
Some prayers were answered quickly. Others were answered slowly, through redirection, loss, or delay. And some were answered in ways that required me to grow into the answer rather than simply receive it. I now understand that unanswered prayers are often invitations to become wiser, more honest, and more discerning.
The Pathways of 2025
The pathways established in 2025 were not accidental. They were carved through difficult decisions, uncomfortable boundaries, and moments where choosing myself felt lonely but necessary. I learned that God’s guidance does not always feel gentle in the moment—but it is always precise.
Every hard pivot created alignment. Every closed door reduced distraction. Every ending taught me discernment. What once felt like disruption revealed itself as divine order.
The wisdom gained did not come from ease. It came from emotional pain—pain that now reads like a highlight reel of growth rather than a list of regrets. I can trace my maturity back to moments where I survived disappointment without losing my softness, where I chose integrity over convenience, and where I honored my values even when it cost me comfort.
Emotional Pain as Wisdom
The older I get, the more I understand emotional pain as a form of instruction. Pain exposes what matters. It clarifies what cannot be negotiated. It sharpens our ability to love ourselves with boundaries rather than abandonment.
Grace, I’ve learned, is rarely delivered as “I told you so.” God does not shame us with hindsight. Grace is extended from love—quietly, patiently—without the language of “you should have” or “why didn’t you.” Instead, grace says: Now you know. And knowing changes everything.
This understanding has softened my relationship with my past. I no longer interrogate myself for what I didn’t know then. I honor who I was with the tools I had. Growth does not require self-punishment—it requires acceptance.
Acceptance Without Self-Erasure
Acceptance does not mean betraying your desires. It does not require you to prove your love by shrinking your wants, lowering your standards, or redesigning your future to make others more comfortable. Acceptance is not compliance.
I am learning to lean into acceptance without changing the landscape of my wants. Without negotiating my needs. Without confusing patience with settling.
Because settling has consequences.
And I have learned—sometimes painfully—that the cost of settling is always higher than the cost of waiting, choosing again, or walking away.
Counting the Cost
I will continue to ask myself one question in this season: What is the cost?
What is the cost of staying where I am tolerated but not cherished?
What is the cost of silencing my intuition for the sake of harmony?
What is the cost of convenience over calling?
This question has become a form of self-respect. It keeps me aligned with God’s wisdom rather than my fear. It reminds me that love—divine or human—should not require self-abandonment as proof.
Moving Forward
As this year unfolds, I trust the pathways already laid. I trust the wisdom earned. I trust that God’s love will continue to guide me—not through coercion, but through clarity.
I enter this year grounded in faith, sharpened by experience, and unwilling to settle for anything that costs me my peace.
Grace has met me here.
And I am ready. 🌿
A Closing Prayer
God of wisdom and gentle correction,
Thank You for loving me without humiliation and guiding me without force. Thank You for the prayers You answered, the ones You delayed, and the ones You answered by changing me. As I step forward, help me to trust the pathways You have already established, even when I cannot see the full picture.
Grant me discernment to know the cost of settling and the courage to choose what aligns with Your truth for my life. Teach me to accept what has been without diminishing what I still desire. May my wants be refined, not erased. May my love be rooted, not desperate. May my decisions be guided by wisdom rather than fear.
Cover me with grace as I continue becoming.
Amen.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to Him, and He will make your paths straight.” — Proverbs 3:5–6
Soul-ing Quote:
Emotional pain did not break me—it instructed me. What once hurt now highlights the wisdom I earned and the grace that carried me forward.
By Michelle Tillman, PsychoTherapist/Founder of Transitional Pathways, PLLC
Graced for more💕
August has always felt like a threshold month. The eighth out of twelve, it marks a quiet turning point—a slow descent from summer’s height into something more inward, reflective. The number eight, symbolizing new beginnings and infinite cycles, reminds me that change isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a whisper, a knowing, a sacred nudge inward.
This August, I’m paying closer attention.
I’m noticing how much I’ve grown through the stillness and the storms. Life, love, and relationships—each carry layers of complexity I continue to unpeel, not just as a therapist, but as a Black woman who holds space for others while learning to hold space for myself. Each interaction becomes an opportunity for reflection and growth, revealing deeper truths about my journey and the interconnectedness of our experiences.
Parenting Through Transitions
Parenting adult children is its own sacred terrain. There’s a constant balancing act between support and surrender, concern and trust. The role shifts from being a protector to a mirror—from telling them what to do, to showing them who I am becoming. And in that, I’m relearning who I am, too. It’s an intricate dance that requires both courage and vulnerability. As I navigate this evolving relationship, I find myself reflecting on the lessons of patience and grace that I wish to impart. There are days I want to gather them like I used to when they were small, encasing them in the warmth of my love and protection. And there are days when I sit quietly, choosing not to fill the silence, letting them figure it out—letting me figure it out. It’s hard. It’s holy. It’s human, a reminder that growth often comes in layers, revealing more of us in the process.
The Inner Work of Love
In love—romantic or otherwise—I’ve stopped striving for clarity at the expense of peace. I’ve learned that deeper connection doesn’t come from figuring someone out but from allowing myself to be fully known, even in uncertainty. Intimacy, for me now, feels less like pursuit and more like permission. The permission to be present, to not shrink, to not pretend I don’t need gentleness. Embracing this vulnerability has deepened my relationships in unexpected ways, fostering a sense of safety and trust that allows us to explore the beautiful complexity of our connections.
I no longer equate urgency with care. Instead, I ask, Can this connection honor my healing pace? That question alone has brought more clarity than some relationships ever could. It’s taught me the power of setting boundaries and recognizing when a relationship fuels my spirit versus when it drains my energy.
Spirit-Led Slow Living
This season, I’ve been deepening my relationship with prayer, meditation, and the quiet art of slowing down. I used to think rest was the reward. Now I know it’s the way. Meditation isn’t always serene. Sometimes it’s tears. Sometimes it’s silence that says, “you’re safe now.” I’ve learned that God often speaks in the pauses between breaths, not just in the outcomes I used to chase. There is a different kind of wisdom that rises when you stop rushing. It invites you to savor life’s moments, to appreciate the beauty in the mundane, and to embrace stillness as a teacher.
In this letting go of haste, I’ve begun to uncover the richness of my inner landscape—thoughts, feelings, dreams—and allowed them to unfold naturally.
Holding Space for Myself
As a therapist, I’ve witnessed transformation in others. But this year, I’ve been asked to be the witness for myself. To name my desires. To grieve what never happened. To celebrate how far I’ve come—even if no one else sees the full stretch. Healing is a personal journey, and each step brings me closer to my authentic self, reminding me that I am not defined by my past, but rather by my resilience.
August reminds me that healing doesn’t have to be complete to be worthy. I can be tender and powerful. Grieving and grateful. Longing and whole. This dance of contradictions is where I find my strength, my joy, and my truth.
To You, Reader:
If you are navigating change—be it in your body, your boundaries, your beliefs—I hope you honor the pauses. I hope you let softness find you. I hope you remember that your pace is not a problem. It’s part of your becoming. Each step along this path is significant, and each moment of reflection is a gift to be cherished.
Let August be an altar. Not to who you used to be, but to the soul you’re still discovering. Embrace this time of introspection, allowing it to guide you into deeper understanding and appreciation of both yourself and the intricate tapestry of life that connects us all.
Always, with grace and truth.
Intimately Worded,
Michelle
@TransitionalPathwaysPLLC
Where healing is sacred and intimacy begins with you.
In my therapeutic profession, this weekend and new week is an emotional one: Saturday, September 10: World Suicide Preventation Day. Sunday, September 11: Remembrance of 9/11. In my personal life, Monday, September 12: My eldest son’s birthday. This week the local market has #sunflowers for $5.00.
I’ve learned my hometown has grown a field of sunflowers that one can visit. Sunflowers are one of my favorite flowers. I continue to seek the simplicities of life and I yearn more for my soul than yesterday.
I am reflective this heavy weekend and how inclusive of celebrating life I try to be. I’m learning that my self-care consists of familiarity, many must-haves and structure. I like it that way. Of course, there is spontatneity which often brings in great joy. It is Sunday morning and I’ve washed my face, brushed my teeth…made up my bed, put on my fuzzy socks and I’m mentally planning my day. I checked my emails and the thought hits me….”I’m always working and my work includes caring for others.”
My work emails include questions on individual trauma recovery or taking another educational course on trauma. I read, respond if it is a quick answer. I pause and tell myself, prayer time, coffee, outside before it gets hot, do some stretches and yoga. Write and post your blog. I am proud of myself that this is my third Sunday in row, blogging. I smile. I beleive often we’re equipped within to reframe the heaviness, move it around a bit. I tend to think we’re here for reasons bigger than we think, without being aggrogant yet genuine, authentic. I know we’re to love and be loving. I also know we’re to be here for one another in whatever capacity that benefits us—that is not selfish. #BoomerangEffect
So, I’ll purchase $5.00 sunflowers for my home. Later this week, I’ll anonmously deliver some to a person I know is struggling with how LIfe is coming at them. I’ll continue to be there for my Tribe. I’ll show up time and time again for this woman who’s hair is turning more white than grey yet she still seems to smile back at me in the mirror…somehow different yet the same. #Making Room
“We must go down to the very foundations of life. For any merely superficial odering of life that leaves its deepest needs unsatisfied is as ineffectual as if no attempt at order had ever been made…”
~I Ching/ “The Well” (circa 2500 BC)
Love yourself just a wee bit more this new season. #Autumn #Change
#Friendships: I am so grateful that Fall Season is approaching. I love Nature; I move forward within my peace when I am in nature. I grew up with my family and my first cousins being my best friends. Later, my intimate relationships would be the focal part of bonding and establishing friendships. During and after my divorce my circle became even smaller. Reflecting back, I was dropped out of friendships due to my singleness. Funny, that’s when you need the most support from friends and family.
Divorce is not only devastatingly personal, it will hit children, family members and truly affects your financial status and inner circle. I focused on my children, went to grad school, changed careers, tried to build and be in serious relationships…I’ve never truly dated. I do not know how. What I know: life may get complicated and heavy yet having true friends that encourage and support you is needed.
My friends’ differences are great and they love me in their way; oftentimes their way of love benefits me. Friendships should. Lately, I’m struggling with the singleness, the generational changes I see, the lack of community and unhealthy connections. I find it paniful the loss of humanness, of being kind, the old love that touched communities, that reached further than what was in front of you.
I work a lot—it has kept me out of trouble and out of the way of those that are troubled. I love what I do for a living. I had to sacrifice and grow a great deal—my independence shows. I think people who have a peek into my life would think it is all I do, work. I have purposed my life with my children…I did and do what I have to do for them and for myself. Recently, I was asked what I do for fun after catching this person up with the latest transitions of my life. The question hit me wrong. I’m telling her details about my work life because she asked. Fun? Am I unfun? #LongBlink #DeepBreath
Another friend, as we were discussing relationships and I was told what I’m looking for (healthy relationships) doesn’t exist. Well, I stopped arguing with others many moons ago. I don’t think friends truly understand the impact of their words and what potential damage those words could carry. That question and statement came from friends, colleagues. I find myself searching my past, my pain, those wounds, that is tedious and undoing. With ever growing resolve, I believe God has been better than good and has done better than He promised with my life. #Freewill is not about compromise. I’m learning it is about showing up even when we’re unsure how. It is hard, healing work.
What I was revealing to her —was the fun parts for me. I love my grand girl’s visits. She’s so funny and quite loving at 6. I support my teens, we have a great time together when they are not closed up in their rooms. I love writing and reading. I love a good movie. I love home. I love solitude. I love mommy-ing my two older adult sons. I enjoy how the tables are turning and they “watch over me” now—making sure I’m okay. My Mater and my Bear. I love continuous education on the impact of trauma. I am learning to love my work-outs…I’m happy. I’m productive not just busy. I truly laugh more than I cry.
Are there times I feel invisible, alone? Do I want to be in loving relationship with a good man? Yes, but I know enough to not monkeypox my way through anything that affects my being, my wellness negatively. I know this life journey better than most because it is mine. I know that grace leads and follows me in every millisecond of my days. I’m better. I’m whole and I’m healing. I’ve gotten this far because of love and how I love. I’m reminding myself, “I’m not perfect. I haven’t done everything that right right nor am I without mistakes yet I’m faithful.” I’m faithfully trusting if I take one step God will take a thousand. I’m not walled up and nor was the last love of my life the last love of my life.
What I know: Love is recovering. Love is healing. Love is change. Love transitions. Love is honoring your journey. Love is sacred. Keep going for what grabs you when you’re good and doing good. Trust your soul for the future. Keep healing. I support you. I see you. I love you.
Psalm 121: “…..the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.”
In my thoughts…I think this health struggle has thrown me back into the mentality of struggling, of always having to fight. I’m forgetting a lot of my structural things: forgetting to wear my mask consistently and wondering why everyone is staring at me; driving anxiously—having to concentrate on where I am going, budgeting/being really frugal because I’m frightened of not knowing yet anticipating the good of things. I hope that makes sense. I’m exhausted after errands, after a full day of work…when those things were easy for me. Socially, I’m inept, depleted.
I had gotten into the self-care thought pattern of going to the gym; looked forward to it. Thursday was a true struggle. I went yet I did not see the point in going in that moment. I’m losing weight…my favorite pajama pants fell of me while I was walking. I worried first, then laughed I still haven’t thrown them away. They are laying across my bed. I remain, faithfully in #transition.
No, I don’t have physical symptoms. There is no lump; only the knowledge that there is something there. My struggle is not only mental—the spiritual aspect of it has me reverting to, “Why now?” I stopped asking, “why me” as a teen. As I mature spiritually, I believe God’s love for His son personifies His love for us; He endured so much more.
I trust God’s divine timing —He is at His best…even when I think He’s got me in the valley of things. I’m rereading past writings with wonder and questions that turn me towards my relationship with Him. I do not feel distant. I feel a little lost with the how; the what else and currently the resigned acceptance; okay.
I wrote the paragraph below, April 29, 2019 5:42 am:
“Do not out-position God thinking you can not do better….that your right now is greater than His way, than this path you’re currently on. Review where you initially felt an offset, an unsettling. God didn’t stop there; why have you? Our insecurities can show up in so many different ways. Trust where you are; embrace the position, the possibilities. His grace leads to so much more. Believe Better. His love is greater.”
I do find joy in reflecting on my past writings, it gives way to self-wonderment and the depths of growth. I’m looking more within, giving pause. I hold space for Sundays, for my spiritual self and for my writing soul. What keeps you holding space, grounded in your peace?
Isaiah 43:2: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown. When you walk through the fire of oppression, you will not be burned; the flames will not consume you.”
Intimately Worded with Michelle 
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