Tag: Faith

Sundays gently invite reflection.

Today, I’m still processing my mammogram. Softly. Practically. I’m allowing myself to acknowledge the uncertainty without allowing it to become the entire story. Waiting has never been easy for me, but I am learning that there is a quiet strength in resisting the urge to write an ending before life has had a chance to unfold.

This Sunday has been an invitation to hold more than one truth at a time. Between moments of wondering, I found myself working on my podcast and outlining a trauma workshop that has been quietly taking shape in my heart. As I organized my notes, I was unexpectedly drawn toward accreditation courses and advanced training. One idea led to another until I realized I wasn’t simply researching credentials—I was rediscovering something about myself.

I love teaching. Not simply standing in front of a room, but creating spaces where people understand themselves more deeply. Whether through therapy, writing, workshops, or conversations, education has always been one of the ways I love people well.

It felt less like discovering a new dream and more like remembering an old one. Then another thought quietly found its way in.

Am I too late to dig deeper?
It’s an honest question, especially in my fifties. We begin to wonder if we’ve missed our moment. Is there enough time to pursue another certification? To build something new? To step into another calling? But perhaps I’ve been asking the wrong question. Maybe everything I’ve lived has prepared me for this season.

The losses. The joys. The years of parenting.
The years of counseling. The heartbreaks that taught compassion. The healing that taught grace. None of it has been wasted.

The work I feel drawn toward isn’t disconnected from who I’ve been—it is a continuation of who I am becoming.

As I sat with these thoughts, another realization settled over me. Being a woman is an ever-evolving journey of care. There are annual exams, mammograms, blood work, conversations about hormones, changing bodies, changing priorities, and the quiet awareness that our health requires a different kind of attention than it once did.

No one really prepares us for how much emotional energy accompanies caring for our bodies. It’s not just appointments. It’s waiting. It’s wondering. It’s remembering previous biopsies, comparing reports, listening for the phone to ring, and trying not to let fear write stories that haven’t happened. There is nothing small about that.

And yet, life keeps moving.
Emails still need answering.
Ideas still arrive.
Dinner still needs to be eaten.
Children still call.
Dreams still whisper.
Purpose still knocks.

Perhaps this is what being human really is.
A meticulous preparation for living.
A deliberate practice of loving.
Learning when to say yes. Learning when to say no. Choosing what deserves our attention.
Choosing what deserves our peace. Holding hope in one hand while carrying uncertainty in the other.

Maybe adulthood isn’t about arriving at certainty after all. Maybe it’s about learning to live faithfully in the middle—to trust God with what we cannot yet see —while remaining fully present to the life unfolding right in front of us.
Today reminded me that anxiety has a convincing voice. It loves unfinished stories. It fills the quiet with possibilities that often never come to pass. It asks, “What if?” over and over again until it begins to sound like certainty.

But anxiety is not prophecy.

It is a feeling, not a forecast. It does not know tomorrow. It cannot predict the outcome of a phone call, a doctor’s appointment, or the next chapter of my life. Most importantly, it cannot rewrite God’s faithfulness. Perhaps growing older isn’t asking me to become fearless. Perhaps it’s teaching me that faith has always made room for fear—it simply refuses to let fear have the final word. So today, I am choosing to nourish more than my fears.

I am eating well. Resting. Dreaming. Planning.
Researching. Praying. Laughing.

Building workshops that haven’t yet been taught.
Preparing conversations that haven’t yet been recorded. Imagining classrooms I haven’t yet stepped into. Trusting that purpose doesn’t retire simply because I have entered my fifties. If anything, it has become more refined, more intentional, and more deeply rooted in the woman God has been shaping all along.

There is another appointment on my calendar.
There are workshops waiting to be built.
There are conversations waiting to be recorded.
There are women I have yet to meet.
Stories I have yet to write. Classrooms I have yet to step into.

Today, I am holding both.
The uncertainty and the hope.
The practical next steps and the quiet prayers.
The changing body and the growing purpose.
The questions I cannot answer and the life that continues unfolding anyway.

Perhaps this is one of the quiet gifts of growing older—not that life becomes easier, but that we become more willing to live faithfully in the middle of it. We stop demanding certainty before we move. We learn that courage isn’t the absence of fear; it’s choosing to keep living while we wait.

And perhaps the quiet between isn’t empty at all.
Perhaps it is where God continues preparing us—for deeper work, deeper love, deeper faith, and the courage to keep becoming.

Tomorrow will bring whatever tomorrow brings.
Today, I will nourish my body, tend to my purpose, trust God’s heart, and hold both.
Between fear and faith.

For today, that is enough.

Being brave,

Michelle.

©️Intimately Worded, Michelle