Intimately Worded with Michelle

Tag: intimacy

  • 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.

  • The Quiet Wins I Almost Missed

    Choose You, more.

    Sometimes the wins of a week don’t look like wins. There isn’t always a check deposited, a goal crossed off, a weight lifted, or some grand announcement that says, Look at you. You’re doing better. Sometimes the win is much quieter. Sometimes it is simply recognizing that you responded differently than you would have before. This week, I noticed a few of those quiet wins.

    I’ve been thinking about how much growth can happen in the small decisions we make when no one is watching. In dating, for example, I’m learning that patience has boundaries. For a long time, I could explain almost anything away. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s figuring things out. Maybe I need to give it more time. Maybe this is an opportunity for me to practice patience. And sometimes, perhaps it was.

    But I’ve come to understand that I don’t have to spiritualize someone’s inconsistency in order to tolerate it. Poor communication can simply be poor communication. I can notice it without judging the person, decide that it doesn’t work for me, and deny access without bitterness. That feels like growth—not because I’m becoming harder, but because I’m becoming clearer. I don’t have to make someone wrong to decide that something isn’t right for me.

    There is a particular freedom in realizing that discernment and kindness can coexist. I can wish someone well and still close the door. I can be compassionate without making myself endlessly available. I can practice patience without abandoning my own standards. Perhaps wisdom sometimes looks less like waiting for something to change and more like recognizing what has already been revealed.

    Then there was Monday. I didn’t realize I was off until yesterday evening, and when I did, I smiled. It seems like such a small thing, but maybe that’s exactly why it touched me. There was a day waiting for me that I hadn’t planned for, scheduled, or tried to create.

    Just space. Room. An unexpected exhale. I’ve spent so much of my life being responsible, productive, available, and aware of what needs to happen next that discovering I had a day where I didn’t have to do any of it felt like a little gift. Maybe that’s part of what Soft Life means to me now—not simply having fewer responsibilities, but being able to receive moments of rest without feeling like I have to justify them. Sometimes grace looks like discovering that there is nowhere you have to be.

    And then there is friendship. I’m learning to appreciate friendship for exactly what it is: friendly, loving, accepting, expansive. There is a depth in being known over time that a stranger simply cannot replicate. A friend has witnessed versions of you. They have seen the becoming. They know some of the history behind the laughter. They remember who you were before you had the language for who you are now. There are places friendship reaches within us that a new connection cannot immediately reach. Period. And I’m learning not to minimize that intimacy simply because it isn’t romantic.

    Not every stranger needs to become a lover. Not every interesting conversation needs to become a relationship. Not every connection has to be pursued simply because there is potential. Some people are meant to pass through, some are meant to stay, and some relationships remind us that love doesn’t always have to be complicated to be profound. There is something deeply comforting about being loved by people who have had the opportunity to know you—and continue to choose you anyway.

    Maybe that’s why I’ve been thinking so much about something I said during the latest episode of Let’s Circle Back: God is in the pain. God is in the trauma. Even there.

    I’ve been sitting with those words because I don’t believe everything we’ve experienced was God’s desire for us. Trauma is traumatic. Loss devastates. Disappointment is deafening at times. Some things happen because we live in a complicated and broken world. People make choices that hurt other people. Systems fail us. Relationships end. Bodies become tired. Dreams change. Sometimes life simply hurts. But I do believe God is present there.

    Even there.

    He isn’t only present when the prayer is answered. He isn’t only present when the door opens, the relationship works, the money comes through, the career advances, or everything finally makes sense. He is present in the unanswered prayer, the disappointment, the trauma we are still learning to name, the boundary we finally found the courage to set, and the friendship that carried us when we couldn’t carry ourselves.

    He is in the unexpected Monday off. He is in the quiet smile. He is in the moment we realize, I’m different now.

    God is in all of our things.

    The beautiful things. The messy things. The ordinary things. The things we’re proud of. The things we’re still healing from. The things we understand and the things that still make absolutely no sense.

    Perhaps that is what I’m learning most in this season: His presence doesn’t require my life to be perfect. He meets me in the becoming. He is not waiting for me on the other side of everything I’ve struggled through. He is here, in the middle of it.

    And maybe some of my quiet wins are not evidence that life has finally become easy. Maybe they are evidence that I have become more aware of His presence within it.

    So I’m counting them.

    The discernment. The boundaries. The ability to walk away without anger. The unexpected day of rest. The friendships that feel like home. The willingness to let a connection simply be what it is. The growing understanding that choosing myself doesn’t require me to dislike anyone else. And the deeper knowing that wherever I find myself, God is there.

    Even there.

    Especially there.

    Maybe growth isn’t always becoming someone new. Maybe sometimes it is becoming more honest about who we are, more discerning about what we allow, more grateful for who loves us well, and more aware that we have never walked through any of it alone.

    Not the joy.

    Not the grief.

    Not the healing.

    Not the becoming.

    God is in all of our things.

    And for this week, that feels like more than enough reason to smile.

    Being brave,

    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.

  • Sacred Spaces

    Making Room for What’s Next

    Blackberries, Summer, Better.

    I didn’t do anything I planned to do today.

    There. I said it.

    I had plans. Things I wanted to accomplish. Things I thought I should get done before Sunday ended. Instead, I did some notes. I went to church. I took my daughter to the mall. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I took a Sunday nap. A good one.

    And when I woke up, I realized something: today was gentle.

    Nothing was wrong. Nothing was behind. Nothing needed to be rescued. It was simply a gentle day.

    And perhaps I needed one.

    I have been thinking a lot about the things I’m releasing lately. The commitments that no longer feel aligned. The expectations I’ve outgrown. The things I once thought I needed to carry simply because I had been carrying them for so long.

    There is something strange about releasing things that aren’t necessarily bad. Sometimes a thing doesn’t have to hurt you for you to let it go. Sometimes it has simply completed its assignment.

    A season ends. A responsibility runs its course. A relationship reveals what it was meant to reveal. A dream changes shape. A version of you that worked beautifully in one season no longer fits the woman you’re becoming in the next.

    And I am learning not to argue with that.

    I’m learning that making room for what’s next isn’t always about adding something new. Sometimes it begins with clearing the room.

    I’ve been doing a lot of “all the things” lately. Work. Writing. Building. Creating. Planning. Recording. Dreaming. Making decisions. Reconsidering decisions. Imagining what my life can look like from here.

    There is excitement in it. But there is also a responsibility that comes with creating a new space: I have to decide what gets to come with me.

    Everything cannot.

    Everyone cannot.

    Every commitment cannot.

    Every old expectation cannot.

    And perhaps most importantly, every version of me cannot.

    Some things belong to the woman I was. Some belong to the woman I am. And some things are making their way toward the woman I am becoming.

    I don’t want to rush that woman.

    I don’t want to fill every empty space simply because an empty space makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want to mistake stillness for stagnation. Or rest for laziness. Or a pause for failure.

    Today reminded me of that.

    I had things to do. Instead, I had church. I had my daughter. I had an ordinary afternoon. I had a nap. I had a gentle Sunday.

    And maybe that was enough.

    Maybe there are seasons when the most productive thing we can do is stop trying so hard to produce. Maybe sometimes God is doing some of His deepest work in the spaces where we aren’t doing anything at all.

    So tonight, I’m thinking less about what I didn’t accomplish and more about what I’m making room for.

    More peace. More intention. More creativity. More meaningful relationships. More rest. More space to hear myself think. More courage to say no without writing an entire dissertation about why. More willingness to let something end without needing to turn the ending into a tragedy. More trust that I don’t have to know exactly what’s coming to make room for it.

    I think that’s where I am.

    Not starting over. Not reinventing myself. Just clearing some space.

    Releasing what has run its course. Being honest about what no longer belongs. And becoming increasingly protective of the space I’m creating.

    Because I have a feeling something beautiful is going to need room.

    And this time, I don’t want to be so busy filling the space that I miss what is trying to enter it.

    So tonight, I am not disappointed about the things I didn’t get done. (Even forgetting to publish.)

    I’m grateful for the gentle day.

    Maybe it wasn’t a detour from what I needed.

    Maybe it was what I needed.

    And maybe making room for what’s next begins exactly here: with allowing today to be enough.

    Being brave, M.

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle.

  • Easy Like Sunday Morning

    We had plans for Sunday—church, a family movie, and a little time together before everyone scattered back into their own corners of life. The plan was simple, but it didn’t unfold the way we expected. We purchased our tickets to see The Odyssey, only to discover that the theater was full. Apparently, the rest of the world had the same idea.

    Sundays, Sunflowers, Solace.

    For a moment, I felt frustrated. We had made the effort, gotten ourselves together, and followed through on what we thought the day would be. But maybe there was something worth noticing in a theater full of people. Maybe we are all tired. Maybe we are all looking for somewhere to place our attention for a couple of hours that isn’t the news, the bills, the uncertainty, the grief, the division, or the weight of responsibilities we cannot control. It is hard out here. People are weary. And sometimes we just want to sit in the dark and let someone else’s story hold us for a while.

    So instead of fighting the interruption, we went home—and somehow, home became the better plan.

    We had a family Bible study on Job chapters 2 and 3, and it turned into a deeper conversation than I expected. It was the kind of moment where Scripture stops being something you simply read and becomes something you wrestle with together. We talked about adversity, about suffering that doesn’t always come with explanation, and about the temptation to assign meaning too quickly when someone is hurting. We sat with Job in the ashes, grieving what had been lost, and we talked about God—not the neat, packaged version that gives us answers for everything, but the God who remains present even when there are no easy answers.

    I found myself thinking about how often we try to escape discomfort. We scroll, we shop, we work, we watch television, we make plans, we fill our calendars, we stay busy. Some of it is healthy and necessary, but some of it is simply our way of saying, “Please, Lord, let me think about something else for a minute.” And I understand that impulse. But Sunday reminded me that sometimes interruption is an invitation—not necessarily to suffer more, and not to become overly spiritual about disappointment, but simply to be present.

    Because perhaps a softer life is not a life without disappointment; it is a life where disappointment doesn’t get the final word. That feels important to remember. A soft life does not mean everything goes according to plan. It does not mean the theater is always open, or that people will not disappoint us, or that life will not shift unexpectedly. Softness is not the absence of hard things. Maybe softness is what allows us to experience hard things without letting them consume everything else.

    We can be frustrated and still grateful, disappointed and still hopeful, tired and still tender. We can acknowledge that something didn’t go the way we wanted without deciding that the entire day—or our entire life—is ruined. There is freedom in that.

    The movie didn’t happen, but the family time did. And maybe that was the story we were meant to live that day. There is something sacred about allowing a day to become something different than what we planned without declaring it a loss. Maybe that is part of a softer life too—not a life without frustration or disappointment, but a life where disappointment does not get the final word.

    We came home, opened Job, talked, laughed a little, and wrestled with hard questions. For a few hours, we weren’t trying to fix the world; we were simply sitting together in it. Easy like Sunday morning—not because everything was easy, but because peace sometimes arrives when we stop insisting that the day go according to plan.

    Maybe God was not in the movie we missed. Maybe He was in the living room, in the conversation, in the willingness to stay. And maybe when life quietly closes a door, we don’t always need to immediately figure out why. Sometimes we can simply go home, be together, open the Word, and see what God might say there.

    Perhaps this is part of learning to live softly: not expecting life to always be gentle, but trusting that we do not have to become hard just because life is not. We can let disappointment be real without letting it become the story. We can loosen our grip on the plan and make room for what is actually happening.

    Because sometimes the blessing is not in getting what we planned. Sometimes it is discovering that what we received was enough. And sometimes Sunday morning feels easy not because life is easier, but because for a little while, we remember where to place our attention—home, family, the Word, God, and each other.

    And that, in the end, was enough.

    Being brave,

    Michelle 🌻🌻

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle.

  • 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

  • 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

  • #CrossingBridges:

    The Third Day Promises: Healing is Agency

    Nature Walk♥️

    Where Lent Found Me

    Lent met me in the present this year. Not in old wounds. Not in childhood memory. Not in something buried. But in something current.

    I was recovering from a breakup I was growing in; it had great potential. There was no explosion.

    No dramatic ending. Just the quiet understanding that something meaningful had run its course.

    And even when you accept that with maturity —there is still grief. The kind that lingers. The kind that shows up in ordinary evenings.

    While Falling Forward

    I felt the need for structure. So I went dry.

    I walked more. I paid closer attention to what entered my body. I thought I was already mindful.

    But intentional seasons reveal subtle attachments. It wasn’t about food. It was about comfort. It was about what I reached for when I didn’t want to feel the weight of missing someone.

    The Moments I Leaned In

    There were evenings when I felt the ache more than usual. I would stand in the kitchen —

    not hungry, just unsettled. And I sensed it quietly:

    Stay here.

    “Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10

    Stillness felt harder than indulgence.

    But stillness was where clarity lived.

    So instead of soothing myself outwardly,

    I turned inward. Instead of numbing, I walked.

    Instead of filling silence. I let it hold me. Solitude is a practice of extending self- grace.

    Easter Sunday: Third Day Promises

    The Third Day has always meant resurrection.

    But this year, it meant the in-between.

    The space between surrender and rising.

    The quiet before clarity.

    “And we know that all things work together for good…” — Romans 8:28

    Even this. Even endings that didn’t break me —

    but stretched me. I realized I wasn’t in collapse.

    I was in refinement.

    The Better of Things

    What surprised me most was not the discipline around my body. It was the clarity around my calling. There has been a gentle stirring in me —to expand professionally. To step more fully into my work as a therapist. To build with greater intention.

    There are rooms I feel called to walk into now — not from lack, but from readiness.

    Grief clarified my capacity. I am not shrinking.

    I am strengthening.

    What I Know

    Healing is Agency. It’s choosing differently, even when it’s hard. This season taught me, Healing this Lent wasn’t dramatic. It was disciplined. It was honest. It was present. Spiritual intimacy, for me, became alignment.

    Alignment between: what I feel

    what I release

    what I consume

    what I build

    The Third Day reminds me that resurrection is not always loud. Sometimes it looks like:

    acceptance,

    a long walk,

    a closed chapter,

    and quiet courage.

    I am still becoming.

    And that feels enough.

    Being brave,

    Michelle

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

  • The Quiet That Comes After Letting Go

    The Quiet That Comes After Letting Go

    There is a certain kind of quiet that only comes after emotional noise.

    Not the quiet of loneliness.

    Not the quiet of avoidance.

    But the quiet that returns when your spirit has decided it will no longer argue with what it already knows.

    Tonight the house is still.

    My phone is still.

    Even my thoughts feel softer than they did a few weeks ago.

    Healing does not always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it arrives in the smallest ways.

    You notice you laughed at something today.

    You realize your shoulders are no longer clenched.

    You stop replaying conversations that once felt like unfinished business.

    And somewhere in that noticing, you understand something important:

    You survived the moment that once felt unbearable.

    For a while, your heart held tension the way a fist holds onto something it is afraid to drop.

    Questions.

    Hopes.

    Words that were never fully returned.

    But eventually the body grows tired of holding on to pain that has already taught its lesson.

    So the hand opens.

    Not dramatically.

    Not all at once.

    Just enough for peace to slip back in.

    Tonight I am learning that healing is not always about replacing what was lost.

    Sometimes healing is simply the moment when your heart becomes quiet enough to remember who you were before the storm.

    And that woman is still here.

    Still thoughtful.

    Still discerning.

    Still capable of loving deeply.

    Only now she knows something she didn’t before:

    Peace is not something someone else brings into your life.

    Peace is what returns when you stop negotiating with what your spirit already released.

    And when that quiet comes…

    you finally rest again.

    Inner Reflection

    Some endings leave behind a strange kind of silence. At first, it can feel uncomfortable, even heavy. We may reach for distractions or explanations because the stillness feels unfamiliar.

    But sometimes that silence is not emptiness.

    Sometimes it is restoration.

    It is the sacred space where your heart regains its rhythm. Where your thoughts begin to settle. Where your spirit gently reminds you that you are not defined by what ended, but by the strength it took to release it.

    In this moment, if you find yourself in a quiet season, allow it to be what it is.

    You do not have to rush to fill the silence.

    Sometimes peace arrives softly…

    and asks only that you receive it.

    “The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.”

    — Exodus 14:14

    A Gentle Question for Your Heart

    Before you move into the rest of your day, take a quiet moment and ask yourself:

    What has my spirit already released that my mind is still trying to hold on to?

    Healing often begins the moment we stop wrestling with what God has already given us the strength to leave behind.

    Today, allow yourself to rest in the quiet. Trust the stillness, it’s a win. ✨

    Being brave,

    Michelle

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

  • Sunday Reflection: Advocating for Myself, Finding My Center

    Sunday Reflection: Advocating for Myself, Finding My Center

    Sundays have always been my sanctuary—the quiet pause, the slow swirl of coffee steam, the soft scratch of pen on paper. Today, I’m sitting with a truth I’m learning more intimately: self-advocacy is not optional. It is necessary. It is the bridge between hope and action, between fear and clarity, between my body and my spirit.

    Anchoring —Advocate

    This week, I found myself in a strange liminal space: my body insisting on attention, my mind navigating uncertainty, and the familiar ache of missing my mom whispering in the background. I was faced with the possibility of emergency surgery, yet something in me hesitated. I wanted guidance, but not without discernment. I sought the advice of my primary care physician, the solace of my adult children, the steady presence of my siblings. And through it all, I leaned into my partner, Reggie, whose care and calm felt like a cape draped over my shoulders in a storm.

    Through these moments, I kept returning to my faith. Spirituality has been my guide when life demands pivoting, when seeking clarity in confusion, and when life lifts me up and lays me low. The words of James 1:5 remind me: “If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all liberally and without reproach, and it will be given to him.” Leaning into that guidance, I found the courage to pause, reflect, and make decisions in alignment with my body, my mind, and my soul.

    Self-advocacy is sacred. It is the act of showing up for myself when life threatens to sweep me along. It is telling the world—and reminding myself—that my voice, my feelings, and my choices matter. Choosing to pause before surgery wasn’t indecision. It was discernment. It was a quiet, stubborn insistence that I would not let fear dictate my path.

    I share this because I know so many of us move through life forgetting to take our own hand, to speak our truth in the spaces where it matters most. Whether it’s in health, relationships, work, or our spiritual lives, advocating for ourselves requires courage, patience, and a fierce tenderness. It is not selfish; it is essential.

    Today, I write with gratitude for the support around me, for the faith that keeps me anchored, and for the hope that whispers, even when my body feels foreign to me. Advocating for myself is not just surviving—it is leaning into life fully, with awareness, presence, and love.

    May we all find the courage to speak our needs, honor our bodies, trust our wisdom, and lean into our faith when the path is uncertain.

    Be brave,

    Michelle

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

  • Loving Better

    Loving Better

    Loving—is being.

    Rainy Sundays, The Day After Valentine’s Day, and the Quiet Work of Agape

    There is something sacred about a rainy Sunday.

    The sky softens. The noise settles. The world feels like it has exhaled. And today — the day after Valentine’s Day — the roses are slightly tilted, the chocolate boxes half empty, and the performance of romance has quieted.

    What remains?

    This is where “loving better” begins.

    Not in the glitter of a single day, but in the ordinary, rain-soaked moments that follow it.

    Valentine’s Day often celebrates eros — the passionate, romantic love that thrills and sparks. But the day after invites something deeper. Something steadier. It calls us toward agape.

    Agape love is not flashy. It does not demand applause. It is patient, enduring, and generous in spirit. In the Christian tradition, agape is the highest form of love — the kind that reflects the heart of God. As described in 1 Corinthians 13, it is the love that is patient and kind, that keeps no record of wrongs, that bears and believes and hopes.

    Agape is the love that shows up on rainy Sundays.

    It looks like making breakfast slowly and staying at the table a little longer.

    It looks like checking in on a friend without needing anything in return.

    It looks like choosing gentleness when irritation would be easier.

    It looks like forgiving — even when no one posts about it.

    Loving better is not about loving perfectly. It is about loving consciously.

    The day after Valentine’s Day is honest. It asks: Who are you when the spotlight dims? Who are you in the quiet? Who are you when loving requires patience more than passion?

    Rainy Sundays are teachers. They remind us that intimacy is cultivated in stillness. That love deepens in consistency. That safety is built in small, repeated acts of care.

    For those of us who are healing, who are rebuilding trust, who are learning to receive and give love more softly — loving better may mean slowing down. It may mean refusing intensity that feels like chaos. It may mean honoring steadiness over sparks.

    Agape invites us to love from wholeness, not hunger. And that begins within.

    Because loving better also includes how you speak to yourself when no one else is around. It includes the grace you extend when you fall short. It includes the way you tend to your own heart on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

    Love is not proven in grand gestures alone. It is revealed in posture.

    So today, let the rain fall. Let the world move more slowly. Let your love be less performative and more rooted.

    Valentine’s Day may celebrate being chosen.

    But the day after celebrates choosing — again and again — to love well.

    Reflective Thought:

    On this rainy Sunday, ask yourself:

    Where in my life am I loving out of habit instead of intention? Do I offer myself the same patience I extend to others? What would it look like to practice agape — steady, generous love — in one small, concrete way this week? Am I loving from fullness, or from a desire to be filled?

    Sit with your answers.

    Loving better is not loud work.

    It is sacred, steady work.

    And it begins right here.

    Doing 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.