Intimately Worded with Michelle

Tag: selflove

  • 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.

  • A Faith that Stays Present

    Early Mornings

    There are weeks when my work requires me to sit with people in places that are difficult to describe.

    Trauma. Grief. Relationships that have been bruised by years of disappointment. People trying to find their way back to themselves.

    I love my work. Deeply.

    But loving the work doesn’t mean it doesn’t take something out of me.

    So after a particularly tough, trauma-filled week, I have a little ritual I have come to appreciate: I wash my brain.

    I put on one of my favorite animated movies.

    Shrek.
    The Incredibles.
    Guardians of the Galaxy somehow made its way into the rotation too.

    And there is something about sitting there, knowing exactly what is going to happen, laughing at the same parts, letting my brain follow somebody else’s story for a couple of hours that does my heart well.

    It isn’t sophisticated.

    It isn’t particularly productive.

    And it isn’t therapy.

    It is rest.

    Maybe even a little brainwashing—in the best possible way.

    And then there are Sundays.

    Today, I went to church. I spent time with my children. We had brunch after church. I talked to my eldest in Virginia, who has apparently decided that his beard had run its course and shaved it off.

    And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I remembered that he is expecting his first baby in November.

    His first baby.

    My baby is having a baby.

    Life has a way of sneaking up on you like that.

    One minute you’re worrying about bills, work, clients, deadlines, the things you haven’t finished, the things you’re trying to build, the things you’re trying to release.

    And then somebody you gave life to is standing on the other side of the phone telling you that he’s preparing to become a father.

    And suddenly the things you were worrying about aren’t gone—but they’re no longer the only things occupying the room.

    Life is touching my heart in the greatest of ways.

    I’ve been thinking about that lately.

    About how easy it is to move from one week into the next without actually arriving.

    Sunday becomes Monday.

    Monday becomes Tuesday.

    Another session. Another note. Another email. Another responsibility. Another thing to figure out.

    And somewhere along the way, we can become so focused on surviving the next thing that we forget to notice what is already beautiful.

    But today felt serendipitous.

    Not because everything is perfect.

    Because everything isn’t.

    But because I was present enough to notice the good.

    The brunch.

    Church.

    My children.

    A shaved beard.

    A baby coming in November.

    A familiar movie waiting for me when the week gets heavy.

    These are not small things.

    Maybe they are the big things.

    And this has me thinking about faith.

    I’ve heard faith described as a shelter—something we run into when life becomes too much. And I believe there is absolutely a place for that kind of faith.

    Sometimes I need God to cover me.

    Sometimes I need somewhere to put the things I cannot carry.

    Sometimes I need to know that even when I don’t understand what is happening, I am not alone in it.

    But lately, I think I have a saving faith more than a sheltering faith.

    Not saving in the sense of expecting God to rescue me from every uncomfortable circumstance.

    Something deeper.

    A faith that saves me enough to stay.

    Stay present. Stay open. Stay hopeful.

    Stay soft. Stay connected to the people I love.

    Stay willing to believe that there can still be beauty after hard seasons.

    Sheltering faith gives me a place to hide when the storm comes.

    Saving faith, for me, feels like the kind that reminds me that I can eventually step back outside.

    It doesn’t promise me a life without trauma, disappointment, uncertainty or grief.

    It reminds me that those things don’t get to have the final word.

    Maybe that’s why my little rituals matter.

    Watching Shrek isn’t just watching Shrek.

    Going to church isn’t just going to church.

    Brunch with my children isn’t just brunch.

    Calling my eldest isn’t just a phone call.

    These moments become tiny declarations:

    I am here. I am alive. I am still becoming.

    There is still something to laugh about.

    There is still something to look forward to.

    There is still something being born.

    Literally.

    And maybe this is what I am learning as I enter another Monday:

    I don’t want to rush past my life on the way to the next thing.

    I want to notice the wins.

    I want to celebrate what is growing.

    I want to allow ordinary moments to touch my heart.

    I want to work hard without making work my whole life.

    I want to care deeply without carrying everything.

    I want to rest without feeling guilty about it.

    And I want a faith that doesn’t only shelter me from the world.

    I want a faith that helps me remain present enough to live in it.

    Because there will always be another Monday.

    Another hard week.

    Another client story.

    Another problem to solve.

    Another thing that needs my attention.

    But there will also be Sundays.

    There will be brunches.

    There will be children becoming adults.

    There will be beards shaved off for reasons I may never understand.

    There will be babies coming.

    There will be movies that make me laugh when my brain needs a break.

    There will be moments when life touches my heart in the greatest of ways.

    And I don’t want to miss them.

    So tonight, I’m grateful.

    Not because life has become easy.

    Because I’ve become more willing to notice that it is also beautiful.

    Being brave,

    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.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • Held by Grace…

    Poolside: Water Footprints

    There are weeks when being a therapist feels sacred.

    There are other weeks when it feels heartbreakingly human.

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

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

    That realization never gets easier.

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

    Humanity often suffers the souls of the lost.

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

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

    “No excuses, Momma.”

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

    The pool belonged only to us.

    She fussed at me the entire time.

    “Live a little, Momma.”

    “Look at the clouds.”

    “Float.”

    “Be free.”

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

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

    For once, I didn’t slip into reflection.

    I wasn’t searching for meaning.

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

    I simply watched my daughter laugh.

    And somehow, that was enough.

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

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

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

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

    Some Sundays are for prayer. Some are for rest.

    And some are simply for floating.

    Today was a good day. Have courage.

    Graced for more,

    Michelle 🌿

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

  • The Seventh Wonder: Grace

    The Seventh Wonder: Grace

    Graced for More

    There’s something special about July.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Gracefully, M.🌻

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

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

  • The Life I No Longer Want to Escape

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Koda Bear, in the Storms

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Loving brave,

    Michelle

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

    Sunflowers
    Staying Soft
  • Sunny with a Chance of Flowers🌺

    Sunny with a Chance of Flowers🌺

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

    Sunday Walks

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

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

    Awareness is funny that way. It often arrives quietly.

    This weekend was filled with little discoveries.

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

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

    Friends, stop sleeping on your facial hygiene.

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

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

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

    At one point, we found ourselves discussing retirement.

    Retirement.

    How did we get here?

    I am still chuckling about it.

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

    Sunday brought another gift.

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

    I love Sundays.

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

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

    Knowledge matters. Research matters. Interventions matter.

    But so does compassion.

    So does sitting with someone in the uncertainty of becoming.

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

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

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

    Can we notice what brings us joy?

    Can we recognize when our bodies need rest?

    Can we make room for friendships that nourish us?

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

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

    A walk.

    A conversation.

    A facial.

    A glass of wine with an impossibly charming name.

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

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

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

    Being brave,

    Michelle ✨🌿✨

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

  • 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

  • Softly: Holding Space for My Own Words

    Softly: Holding Space for My Own Words

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

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

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

    The Grounding and the Expounding

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

    The Shadow of the Teenager

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

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

    The Muse of the Blog

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

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

    “You Are Such a Michelle”

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

    “You are such a Michelle.”

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

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

    Being Brave,

    Michelle

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

  • Recovering + Healing Intimately Worded

    Something New: May Is Coming, and So Am I

    Essentials: Vitamins •Water •Writing

    There is something humbling about surgery.

    About being placed on a table. About surrendering control. About waking up and realizing your body has been altered in ways you cannot immediately see but can absolutely feel.

    My surgery was successful. I am healing. I am grateful.

    And yet.

    There is a quiet grief in realizing your body is no longer arranged the way it once was. Nothing cosmetic. Nothing dramatic to the outside world. But internally — something is missing. Removed because it was making me sick. Removed so I could live healthier.

    Still, the body keeps record.

    And sometimes, in the quiet of the evening, I feel like I am living in a body that is familiar… yet slightly foreign.

    I am told I will feel better. I am told my energy will return. I am told my body will thank me.

    I believe that.

    But healing is not just physical. It is relational. It is emotional. It is spiritual. And this is where my Tribe stepped in. There is nothing like being taken care of when you are the one who is usually strong. The helper. The therapist. The one holding space.

    To have meals brought. To receive check-in texts.
    To be told, “Rest. I’ve got this.” That kind of love softens something in you. Support is not a luxury. It is a lifeline.

    We were never designed to white-knuckle recovery alone. Independence is admirable. Isolation is not. My healing has been wrapped in the hands of people who showed up without being asked twice. That is sacred.

    And something else surprised me.

    Before surgery, I was placed on a restricted diet. Very clean. Very intentional. No rushing. No drive-through. No emotional snacking between sessions. And I liked it.

    I felt clearer. Lighter. More disciplined in a way that did not feel punishing. I enjoyed cooking at home. I enjoyed sitting with my meals. I enjoyed honoring my body instead of negotiating with it.

    There is a lesson there.

    Sometimes what feels like limitation is actually refinement.

    May is approaching.

    May carries warmth. Flowers. New light. But for many of us, it also carries the tender ache of Mother’s Day. The grief of what was. The grief of what wasn’t. The grief of what we hoped would be different by now.

    I feel that too.

    Healing in one area does not erase longing in another.

    But this quarter of the year — I want better.

    Better health. Better boundaries. Better nourishment. Better stewardship of my body and my time.

    Not perfection. Just better. More aligned.

    If surgery taught me anything, it is this: your body will force the conversation you have been postponing.

    Slow down. Eat differently. Let people help you.
    Grieve what changed. Welcome what remains.

    My body is not new. It carries scars. It carries history. It now carries absence. But it also carries resilience.

    And perhaps this is what May is offering — not reinvention, but renewal.

    A gentler strength.
    A supported healing.
    A deeper listening.

    If you are entering this month with hope and grief sitting side by side, you are not alone.

    Take the help. Eat the meal at home. Rest when your body whispers. Let love find you in your most human places.

    May is coming.

    And so are we. 🌿🌻🌿

    Being brave,

    XOXO 💕

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle