Unlearning Strength, Relearning Feeling

Have you ever given the right response to a question—said the thing you knew you were supposed to say—while quietly silencing what you actually felt?

I have.

And lately, there’s been an ache in my chest I’ve been too busy, too responsible, too functional to acknowledge.

In real life, I’ve been carrying a lot.

Supporting another teacher’s classroom every single afternoon. Navigating significant behaviors. Trying to teach nonverbal students with minimal support. Pouring out more than I feel poured into. Feeling communication go silent in places where I once felt called. Watching a ministry that used to feel like home become a place where I suddenly feel invisible.

It’s been a slow, quiet unraveling.

One foot forward… then ten steps back.

And something in me has been whispering, “Hey… you’re hurting.”

As the firstborn daughter raised in a single-parent household, I learned early that responsibility was my survival. When my mother left, I was eight years old—and overnight I stepped into shoes bigger than my body could hold.

I dressed my siblings.

Cooked for them.

Protected them.

Held thier tears and swallowed my own.

I learned quickly that obedience and performance were valued more than my emotions. There wasn’t room to feel scared, overwhelmed, sad, confused, lonely, or exhausted.

So I didn’t.

And even now, decades later, when life feels heavy—my default is the same:

Show up. Do what’s right. Be strong. Keep moving.

But recently, God interrupted that pattern in the gentlest, most disarming way.

In a dream, God asked me a simple question: “Michele… but how did you feel?”

I had just given Him my typical responsible-church-girl answer: “I’m going to fast and pray.”

But the question pierced through all my spiritual correctness. And without thinking—without filtering or performing—I answered from a place I didn’t even know was still alive inside me: “I felt a sense of community… and I liked it.”

I woke up stunned.

Because that confession wasn’t planned. It wasn’t polished.

It wasn’t the “right” answer.

It was honest.

And as I’ve been sitting with that brief conversation, I’ve realized something I’ve been avoiding: I am hurting and I am wounded.

I’ve been functioning.

Teaching.

Writing.

Serving.

Showing up.

Surviving.

But I haven’t allowed myself to feel.

And in the dream, God paused me long enough to ask the question I never ask myself: “How do you feel?”

The truth is this: I feel hungry.

Hungry for community.

Hungry for belonging.

Hungry for spiritual connection that nourishes me—not drains me.

Hungry for a place where I don’t just serve… but am seen.

Hungry for people who pray with me, not just pull on me.

Hungry for a home in the Spirit that feels like rest, not labor.

Maybe you’re there too.

Maybe you’ve been walking by foot—slow, tired, worn.

Maybe you’ve been following Jesus through a dim season.

Maybe you’ve been carrying more than anyone notices or acknowledges.

Maybe you’ve been missing the sense of belonging your soul was built for.

If so, you’re not alone.

And here is what God whispered to me—what I believe He wants you to hear too:

There is a community being prepared for you—a space where your soul can breathe again, where you don’t have to perform, where your heart can unfold, where you can be the child again, not the constant caretaker.

There are people being positioned who will meet your hunger with compassion, your weariness with prayer, your exhaustion with understanding, and your calling with partnership.

This transition is not punishment. It’s not abandonment. It’s not failure.

It is grace.

God is reorienting you toward a place where you will be known, not used. Supported, not stretched thin. Included, not overlooked. Loved, not drained.

This is the holy tenderness of God in transition.

This is…

Grace for the Shift.