Intimately Worded with Michelle

Tag: wisdom

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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

  • Staying Present with God

    Sacred Spaces: Coffee & Time

    We often meet God in our worry—in the before and the after. We cry out when we’re waiting, and we rejoice when the prayer is answered. Yet somewhere in between, we can miss the quiet ways He has been carrying us all along.

    We fight harder and longer than necessary, trying to control the narrative. We pray for what we want, often imagining the best version of what we hope life will become. We hold tightly to outcomes, believing we know what will bring us peace.

    But God is not only concerned with our destination. He is deeply invested in our becoming.

    Somehow, with tenderness only He possesses, God caresses the heart into what is necessary for our lives. He gently loosens our grip on what we thought we needed and teaches us to trust what He is cultivating instead. His work is rarely rushed. It is intentional. It is loving. It is holy.

    This week reminded me that God is rarely as loud as my worries. There were moments I wanted answers, reassurance, and certainty. Instead, He gave me enough grace for the next conversation, the next client, the next morning, the next breath. Looking back, I realized He wasn’t waiting for me at the end of the week. He had been walking with me through every ordinary moment I almost overlooked.

    Perhaps that’s what staying present with God really is—not waiting until the blessing arrives to recognize His faithfulness, but noticing Him while the story is still unfolding.

    Staying present with God means resisting the urge to live only in yesterday’s regrets or tomorrow’s possibilities. It means recognizing that His grace is meeting us here—in this ordinary moment, this unanswered prayer, this quiet morning, this unexpected detour.

    Perhaps the miracle is not only that God brings us through, but that He never leaves us while we’re in it.

    May we become people who notice His presence before the breakthrough, within the process, and beyond the blessing. Because when we remain present with God, we discover He has been present with us all along.

    Being brave,

    Michelle 🌿

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

    Journal Prompt

    Where have I overlooked God’s presence because I was focused on His promises?

    Take a few moments today to reflect on your own “in-between.” Where has God quietly sustained you, redirected you, comforted you, or carried you before the outcome arrived? Write down three moments—no matter how ordinary—that reveal His presence was with you all along.

  • Navigating Healing, Solo-Entrepreneurship & All the Feels

    Navigating Healing, Solo-Entrepreneurship & All the Feels

    Sunday is feeling like thriving, good hope and reset.

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

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

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

    Building something meaningful alone is isolating. Lonely. Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

    Sometimes SoftGirl. Sometimes dinosaur. ✨

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Both matter.

    — Intimately Worded

  • When Loss Becomes Structure, and Grief Becomes Growth

    Forever Bloom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Being brave,

    Michelle

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle

  • The Sacred Weight of Saturday

    Leaning in when it hurts

    Sacred Spaces

    There is a sacred weight that comes after a full week of holding space. Not heaviness in the sense of burden — but weight in the sense of responsibility. Reverence. Witnessing.

    As a trauma-informed therapist, my weekdays are filled with stories that require careful hands. Stories of betrayal. Survival. Attachment wounds. Quiet resilience. Women untangling patterns that have lived in their nervous systems for decades. Couples learning to speak without armor. Individuals confronting memories that once silenced them.

    I hold tears.

    I hold silence.

    I hold breakthroughs that tremble on the edge of becoming.

    And when the week ends, I can feel it in my body.

    The sacred weight.

    The Saturday Morning Ritual

    This morning, I woke up thinking about healing.

    Journal prompts floated through my mind.

    Therapeutic tools. Conversations that are still unfolding in my clients’ lives.

    When you are called to this work, it does not clock out at 5:00 p.m. It lingers — not because of poor boundaries, but because you care deeply. Because people trust you with their most fragile truths.

    But Saturday arrives differently. Saturday invites ritual. The slow pouring of coffee. The warmth of the mug resting in my palms.

    The unhurried light slipping through the window.

    The deliberate inhale — not for grounding a client — but for grounding myself.

    This is not accidental. It is intentional decompression.

    Trauma work requires regulation. And if I teach nervous systems how to settle, I must model that practice in my own body.

    Saturday mornings have become my personal re-entry.

    I move from “holding others” back into “inhabiting myself.”

    Persona Work: Processing the Week

    There is a quiet internal processing that happens on Saturdays. Not clinical documentation. Not treatment planning. But persona work.

    I gently ask myself:

    What did I carry this week? What did I absorb? What stirred something in me? Where did I feel especially protective? Where did I feel tender?

    This is the part no one sees — the therapist tending to her own interior world.

    Because trauma-informed care is not just a framework. It is a posture. And posture requires alignment. Saturdays allow me to realign. To release stories that are not mine. To return prayers back to God. To loosen the subtle muscular tension that comes from being steady for others.

    The Permission to Pause

    But today… I pause.

    Because the same God who calls me to pour out also calls me beside still waters. If I only embrace the “pouring out,” I distort the calling. Rest is not indulgence.

    It is obedience.

    The joys of the journey are not only found in the breakthroughs. They are in the restoration. In the quiet laughter. In music playing softly through the house. In a walk with no agenda.

    In breathing deeply enough to feel my own soul again.

    •Saturday Selflove looks like choosing myself without guilt.

    •SelfCare looks like trusting that the world will not collapse if I am not actively fixing it.

    •Slow downs look like surrender — not striving.

    Making Room for Joy

    Trauma work can be sacred.

    But joy is sacred too.

    And Saturdays make room for it.

    Room for softness. Room for celebration. Room for delight that has nothing to do with productivity.

    I am learning to love what Saturdays bring.

    Not just productivity… but presence.

    Not just healing for others… but restoration for me. Not just discipline… but delight.

    Because restoration is not separate from purpose.

    It sustains it.

    “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…

    He restores my soul.” — Psalm 23:1–3

    The sacred weight of the week is real. But so is the still water. And the joys of the journey are here too.

    And maybe Saturday is an invitation for you too.

    Not to do more. Not to become more.

    But to return.

    Return to your breath.

    Return to your body.

    Return to the quiet places where God meets you without performance.

    Let today be enough.

    Let rest count.

    Let joy be holy.

    Being brave,

    Michelle

    ©️Intimately Worded, Michelle