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Soul Story

It happened in a moment I wasn’t even supposed to hear. My mom had not hung up the phone all the way, and I overheard her husband say, “Why do you keep calling them? They don’t care about you.”

The words cut like a knife. Before I could stop myself, I called back. What began as a question became a shouting match. When my mom took the phone, instead of seeing my hurt, she said, “I don’t appreciate y’all disrupting my household.”

That was the moment years of silence erupted—the unannounced visits, the chaos, the times I felt undermined as a mother, and all the moments when her loyalty to the men in her life seemed to come before her children. I had swallowed the hurt to keep the peace, and suddenly it all came pouring out.

I am grown now. My children are grown. I have grandchildren. I thought I would be past “mommy issues.” I wanted to simply cherish her, but the ache kept getting in the way. When the anger settled and the tears came, I understood: this was not only about one sentence. My foundation was shaking. An old wound was asking to be seen.

Affirmation: I am rooted in truth. I can notice my hurt without becoming my hurt.

Soul Story

I once sat with a woman in her fifties who was moving through menopause. Her body was changing—hot flashes, sleepless nights, shifts in desire—but what unsettled her most was not the physical change.

It was the silence in her intimacy.

Her partner still touched her, but something felt different. His presence no longer felt anchored. His energy was not fully with her. She could not explain why, but her body whispered, “You are not the only one.”

She tried to silence it. She told herself she was imagining things, that perhaps menopause was making her more sensitive. But when the truth finally came out, her deepest pain was not only the betrayal. It was realizing she had abandoned herself. She had known something was wrong and doubted her own knowing.

That was her turning point: not deciding that every feeling was proof, but recognizing that her feelings deserved attention, honest questions, and clarity.

Changes in comfort and moisture can happen gradually. Sex may begin to hurt. Desire may retreat because the body is bracing for pain. The silence can affect intimacy and make a woman feel as though her womanhood has betrayed her.

But a changing body is not a broken body. It is a body asking for information, gentleness, and care.

Affirmation: My body is sacred in every season. Comfort and connection still belong to me.

Soul Story

A woman noticed that every raised voice made her body tense.

It didn't matter whether the voices were directed at her. Someone laughing loudly in another room. A disagreement between strangers. A television scene with people yelling. Even excitement could make her shoulders tighten.

Her stomach would knot. Her breathing would become shallow. Her heart would begin to race.

She told herself she was being too sensitive. “Why am I reacting like this?” “Nothing is happening.” “I'm safe.” Yet her body didn't seem to believe her.

For years, she judged herself for what she thought was an overreaction. Until one day, she learned something that changed the way she viewed herself forever.

Her body wasn't overreacting. It was remembering.

As a little girl, raised voices had often meant danger. Arguments were unpredictable. Silence after the yelling felt just as frightening as the yelling itself. She had learned to read every shift in tone, every slammed door, every sigh.

Her nervous system became an expert at protecting her. The little girl who once had to stay alert had grown into a woman whose body still sounded the alarm—even when the danger was long gone.

What once helped her survive was now making it difficult to feel safe.

That realization changed everything. She stopped asking, “What's wrong with me?” and began asking, “What happened to me?” That single question opened the door to compassion instead of shame.

Healing didn't mean pretending her body wasn't reacting. Healing meant gently teaching her body what her heart was slowly learning: You survived. You're safe now.

Affirmation: I release shame about my reactions. My body can learn safety now.

Soul Work Story

I used to wear a cover-up.

Not only because I liked the way it looked, or because I wanted something light over my bathing suit. I wore it because of words that had stayed with me for years:

“Look at your stomach. Aren’t you ashamed?”

Those words sat on my forehead like a label. They followed me to the mirror, into dressing rooms, and anywhere I had to choose clothes that might reveal the part of me I had been taught to hide. When it came time to wear a bathing suit, the cover-up felt mandatory.

I thought I was only hiding my stomach. But I was also covering my confidence, my joy, and the freedom to be present without wondering who might be looking at me.

Shame can do that. One sentence can become an inner voice. After enough time, we forget the voice belonged to someone else and begin repeating it as though it were our own truth.

Healing did not begin because I suddenly loved every inch of my body. It began when I questioned why someone else’s words still had permission to speak for me. I started choosing healthier habits because I wanted to honor my body—not punish it. I began taking one step at a time.

Some days I may still choose a cover-up. But I am learning to choose it because I want to wear it, not because shame told me I had to disappear.

Soul Work Story

There was a time during menopause when I needed a biopsy. The procedure itself wasn’t what weighed on me most—it was knowing I couldn’t drive myself home afterward.

I called my brother Ricky.

Without hesitation, he said yes.

He drove me to the hospital, waited with me, and made sure I got home safely.

Later, someone who had seen us together told my sister-in-law they had spotted Ricky at the hospital with another woman.

She laughed.

“That wasn’t another woman,” she said.
“That was his sister.”

We still laugh about that story today.

But underneath the laughter was a lesson I didn’t recognize at the time.

I’ve spent much of my life being the one others could count on. The caregiver. The helper. The dependable one.

Receiving help felt unfamiliar.

Almost uncomfortable.

That day reminded me that strength isn’t always about standing on your own.

Sometimes strength is trusting the people who love you enough to stand beside you.

Allowing someone to help you isn’t weakness.

It’s an act of trust.

Sometimes the people who love us are waiting for the opportunity to care for us the way we’ve cared for them.

Healing isn’t learning to do everything yourself.

Healing is learning that love flows both ways.

Sometimes we give.

Sometimes we receive.

Both are gifts.

Peace begins with me. 💜

Soul Story

There was a time when I didn't recognize myself. I wasn't the woman I had always been.

I was angry. Exhausted. Constantly fighting. I spent so much energy trying to save a marriage that was slowly breaking me. Every conversation became another argument. Every day felt like survival.

He had been constantly belittling me. Little cuts, over and over again, until I was carrying more hurt than I knew how to name. I kept trying to hold myself together, keep the peace, and make it work. But one day, I snapped.

Before I knew it, I had punched him in the nose. Blood went everywhere. It was not a moment I am proud of. It was a moment that showed me just how far from myself I had gotten.

My son had to witness that fight. Even now, that truth sits heavy with me. He saw the conflict that had been living inside our home, the pain that had been building, and the mother I had become while trying to survive it.

He called his parents. They came and separated us by taking me outside. It was raining, and as I stood in the rain filled with rage, my father-in-law looked directly at me and quietly said:

“Stop putting all your energy into my son. Put that energy into yourself and your children.”

Those words stopped me in my tracks. Imagine that—his own father. He wasn't defending his son. He wasn't blaming me. He simply spoke the truth.

In that moment, I saw something I had been too exhausted to recognize. My marriage wasn't just hurting me. It was changing me. I was becoming someone I no longer recognized. The woman who once laughed easily, dreamed freely, and found joy in simple moments had been replaced by someone living in constant conflict, always waiting for the next argument.

I had spent years trying to save someone else while quietly losing myself.

That conversation didn't erase my pain. It didn't magically fix my circumstances. But it gave me something I desperately needed: permission. Permission to stop believing that my worth depended on fixing someone who wasn't ready to change. Permission to pour the same love, energy, and compassion back into myself and my children.

From that day forward, the questions I asked began to change. Instead of asking, “How do I make him change?” I began asking, “How do I find myself again?”

That single question became the beginning of my healing.

Soul Work Story

Some friendships become part of your family.

That was ours.

I spent countless evenings at her house.

Family dinners.

Weekend sleepovers.

Vacations.

Her parents welcomed me as one of their own.

She was an only child, and her father adored her.

I loved watching their relationship because it reminded me of what every daughter deserves.

One afternoon I had a terrible headache.

Her dad said,

“Come upstairs. I'll get you some Tylenol.”

I didn't think twice.

I trusted him.

Instead of helping me...

he crossed a boundary that should never have been crossed.

I never told my friend.

I couldn't.

But I also couldn't go back.

I stopped coming over.

The friendship slowly disappeared.

Years later, we found each other again.

She looked at me and said something I'll never forget.

“I've been looking for you. When my dad died, I needed you so much.”

My heart broke.

Not because I wished I had done something differently.

But because I realized we had both lost something precious.

She lost her closest friend.

I lost someone I loved like a sister.

Neither of us caused that loss.

His choices did.

Soul Work Story

She walked into my job one day with a smile.

“You seem like someone I'd love to be friends with.”

I believed her.

I had recently moved and didn't know many people. She was warm, beautiful, easy to talk to, and she seemed genuine.

So we became friends.

We took our children to the movies.

We spent time together.

We laughed.

I trusted her.

At the same time, I was dating someone.

After a while, something started to feel strange.

He always seemed to know everything about my day.

Where I'd been.

What I'd said.

Who I'd spent time with.

I remember thinking,

“This man must be psychic.”

He wasn't.

Eventually, he confessed.

Before I met him, they had been seeing each other.

While I believed I had found a genuine friendship, she already knew exactly who I was.

She had given him an ultimatum.

Choose her...

or choose me.

He chose me.

Instead of walking away...

she chose to become my friend.

Not because she wanted friendship.

But because she wanted access.

Everything I shared...

Everything I trusted her with...

found its way back to him.

And I was the only one who didn't know.