Love In Due Season: Ch. 8

No More Hiding

The sun wasn’t fully up yet, but the sky was already pinking at the edges when Lailah stepped out onto the porch with her mug clasped between both hands. The air carried that cool early-spring promise — soft enough to breathe easy, warm enough to hope again.

She closed her eyes.

“Father… thank You for waking me up today,” she whispered. “And thank You for letting things fall into place the way they have. I just need wisdom. Timing. Peace. All of it.”

Her voice felt steadier than it had in months. Maybe years.

She exhaled slowly, watching the breath curl in the air.

Her mind drifted — uninvited but gentle — to last night. The way Julian had opened doors for her without making her feel small. The way he listened. The way he watched her like he was studying her strength, not her flaws.

She swallowed.

“Lord… is this You?” she asked softly. “Or is this just me wanting something I’ve been afraid to want for a long time?”

A train horn echoed in the distance, low and steady. She didn’t need an answer. Just the quiet reassurance that she was being held.

And for the first time in years, she felt it.

When she stepped back inside, Elijah was already up, leaning against the counter pouring cereal into a bowl.

He glanced at her — then did a double take.

“You’re smiling,” he said, narrowing his eyes like she was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

“I always smile,” she said.

“No you don’t,” he muttered, shaking the cereal box for emphasis. “But I like it.”

She ruffled his hair — or tried to. He had grown taller than her these past few months, shot up by Willie Mae’s cooking and this season of unexpected stability. He ducked away with a laugh.

“You ready for today?” she asked.

He nodded aggressively. “AJ and Jo-Jo said they’re gonna show me that hook shot again. And Uncle Ray said he’s gonna fix the net on the hoop before everybody comes over.”

The way he said it made her chest warm — their family. Their people. Like he had stepped into something that had room for him.

“You excited?” she asked.

He tried to hide it, but his grin betrayed him. “Kind of.”

Lailah leaned against the counter, studying her son’s face — looser, brighter, freer. “Me too,” she said quietly.

Her phone buzzed on the counter.

Selena.

Lailah braced herself.

“You going where?” Selena demanded before Lailah could say hello.

Lailah smiled. “To Julian’s parents’ anniversary celebration.”

“You got invited to the family function? The big one? Oh, honey, you’re in it now.”

Lailah rolled her eyes, though her smile stayed. “It’s not that serious.”

“Child, shut up before lightning strikes your phone. Julian practically took you home to meet the ancestors.”

“Goodbye, Selena.”

“No. No. You listen to me. Wear something nice. Like… nice nice. And do that soft thing you do with your hair. Men like that.”

“You don’t know what men like.”

“Exactly! That’s why you should listen to me — I’m objective.”

Lailah laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Girl, you better! And record something for me. I need updates.”

She hung up, still smiling as she slipped her phone into her bag.

Later that afternoon, she and Elijah stepped out of the car and onto the wide Carter family property — a spread of grass, towering oaks, tables already set up beneath strings of lights. The smell of barbecue drifted through the air. Willie Mae stood near the porch shouting instructions at grown men as if they were children.

“Ray! Don’t you burn that chicken! And Julian, Lord have mercy, lift with your knees, not your back. You ain’t twenty no more!”

Elijah ran off toward AJ and Jo-Jo before she even finished greeting him.

Julian turned at the sound of her voice — or maybe at the feeling of her presence — and walked toward her wearing a smile that felt like sunlight.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, voice low.

“Thanks for inviting me,” she answered.

“Inviting you?” Willie Mae cut in, appearing out of thin air. “Baby, you family. Now go fix yourself a plate before these grown boys eat up everything.”

Lailah laughed, warmth settling in her chest as the evening unfolded around her.

Hours passed in a whirl of food, laughter, and stories. Julian’s mom teased him about losing to one of his younger brothers in spades. His dad cracked jokes that made half the cousins groan. Elijah played basketball with the older boys, surprising them with his height and jump.

As the sun dipped low, the first round of music started — Al Green, Frankie Beverly, Luther — the kind of soundtrack that made everyone sway a little.

Lailah stepped back inside to help one of the cousins refresh the drinks, then carried two pitchers out toward the yard.

That’s when she saw Julian waiting under the lights.

He didn’t call her name.

He didn’t wave.

He just looked at her like he’d been waiting for the exact moment she’d turn toward him.

She approached slowly, a little breathless from something she couldn’t name.

“What?” she asked, smiling despite herself.

Julian shook his head a little. “Come here.” He reached out his hand.

Lailah chuckled as she put the pitcher down. Then she slid her hand into his.

They walked a few steps until they reached the open space under the lights. He stopped, turning fully toward her. The music swelled — something slow, familiar, timeless.

He searched her eyes for a long moment.

“Why not here?” he murmured. “As many times as we’ve watched other people dance… why not us?”

Her breath caught.

Before she could think, he pulled her gently into him, his hand warm at her waist. She rested her hand against his chest, the rhythm of the music blending with the steady beat beneath her palm.

They swayed — slow, unhurried, like the moment itself had decided not to rush.

After a few minutes, Julian leaned back just enough to look at her face fully, the lights flickering in his eyes.

He moved a stray curl from her cheek.

Lailah blinked. “What?”

He didn’t answer.

He just kissed her.

Soft at first. Testing. Then deeper when she curled her fingers into his shirt, pulling him in the way her heart had been threatening to for weeks.

And just as the world narrowed to the space between their mouths—

“I KNEW IT!”

They broke apart to see Elijah standing with both arms raised like he’d just won a trophy.

Willie Mae shouted from somewhere behind him, “Well, PRAISE GOD, it’s about TIME!”

Lailah hid her face in Julian’s chest while he laughed — loud and warm and sure — one arm circling her waist, the other rubbing her back gently.

More teasing followed. Cousins clapping. His mama waving a napkin in the air. Someone yelling, “Go on, nephew!”

Julian lowered his voice, leaning close to her ear.

“No more hiding,” he said softly.

And for the first time in a long time, Lailah didn’t want to.

Love In Due Season: Ch. 4

The Warmest Table

The January air still carried the sharp edge of winter when Lailah turned down the narrow road toward the address Julian had texted. Elijah had mentioned something about a biology project, group work, and “Mr. Julian’s grandma’s house.” She’d agreed, assuming it was just a quiet place for the boys to finish their experiment.

She was early. She planned to pick him up, thank whoever was hosting, and head home. But as she parked, the sound of laughter rolled across the yard, and the smell of something rich and savory drifted from the open window.

Before she could knock, the door opened.

“Mom, you’re here!” Elijah grinned, hair damp with steam from the kitchen. “Can we stay? Please? Mrs.—I mean, Grandma Willie said dinner’s almost ready!”

A voice boomed from inside. “Don’t you dare make that boy leave hungry. You too, baby. Come on in before the cold catches your bones.”

Lailah blinked. “I don’t want to intrude—”

Willie Mae appeared, small but commanding, a towel slung over one shoulder. “Intrude? I invited you by extension of him.” She jerked a thumb toward Elijah. “You raised him right. Now come see if I raised my grandson right.”

Lailah laughed, following her down the hallway lined with family photos. The kitchen was a burst of motion—pots bubbling, music humming low, and at the stove, Julian.

No apron this time, just a dark shirt rolled to the elbows, stirring something that smelled like heaven.

“Evening,” he said, flashing that quiet smile.

“Evening,” she answered, setting her purse on the counter. “I was just coming to pick up Elijah.”

“Too late,” Willie Mae said, already pulling bowls from a cabinet. “You’re in it now. Dumplings don’t make themselves.”

Lailah started to protest, but Julian tilted his head toward the counter. “You might as well. Grandma doesn’t lose too many arguments.”

Willie Mae gave a satisfied sniff and swatted his arm with the towel. “Keep stirring, Jules, and stop acting like you run this kitchen.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His grin widened, boyish and unbothered.

He handed Lailah a bit of dough. “Here—roll it just enough to hold together.”

She followed his lead, unsure but willing. He stepped behind her, guiding her hands once, briefly, showing how to shape the dumpling before dropping it into the simmering broth.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just let it slide.”

Willie Mae looked over, hands on hips. “You better make sure those dumplings taste as good as that moment looks.”

Julian’s mother breezed in then, brushing snow from her hair. “Lord, Mama, what are you two whispering about in here?” Her eyes landed on Julian, then on Lailah, still close enough that his hand rested lightly at her waist as he reached for the spoon.

“Well, well,” his mother teased, eyes sparkling. “I turn my back for one holiday and my son finally brings home a woman who can cook.”

“Ma,” Julian said quickly, stepping back, color rising to his cheeks. “She came to pick up Elijah and volunteered to help, that’s all.”

Lailah covered a smile with her hand. “Helping under strict supervision.”

“Mm-hmm,” his mother said, winking at Willie Mae. “That’s what we’re calling it.”

Willie Mae only laughed. “Lord, I’ve been praying for this one to stop measuring his life by work. Maybe heaven heard me.”

Julian shook his head, but the faint flush stayed as he turned back to the stove.

Lailah glanced over. “So you work that much?”

He met her eyes with a grin that was equal parts proud and gentle. “I’m building something that I can share.”

Something in his tone made her pause. It wasn’t boastful. It was steady. Purposeful. Like he already saw the shape of what he was creating. And maybe who he hoped to share it with.

When the food was ready, the house filled with voices. Chairs scraped, dishes passed, and laughter layered over every sound. Lailah tried to keep to the edge, but the family drew her in. Someone handed her a plate before she could decline. Julian’s father told a joke that made Elijah laugh until he snorted. One of the brothers offered seconds before anyone had finished firsts.

The food was good. Better than good. The table was alive. Lailah hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this: the noise, the teasing, the way love could fill a room so easily.

Partway through the meal, Willie Mae began to hum an old hymn, the kind that carried memory in every note. Lailah found herself humming along without thinking, soft at first, then clearer. The room quieted, the way people do when something true starts happening in front of them.

When she finished, a burst of applause met her. She laughed, embarrassed, cheeks warm.

“Now that’s dinner music,” Julian’s father said, raising his glass.

“She’s got heaven in her throat,” Willie Mae added proudly. “You hush and let her sing next Sunday.”

“Oh, no, no,” Lailah said, standing to gather plates. “I’m better at washing dishes than taking encores.”

Julian followed her into the kitchen with a small smile. “You sure about that? Because you just put my whole family in a trance.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Please Jules,” she teased. “They were just being kind.”

Julian blushed more hard, playing it off with a laugh. “My family calls me that.”

Lailah’s eyes widened. “I apologize. I was only teasing.”

He gave a small smile, still a little flushed. “It’s fine. I…like it coming from you.”

The air shifted. It was gentle but unmistakable. Lailah turned back to the counter with a small smile. “Then I’ll be careful how I use it.”

Before he could reply, Willie Mae’s voice called from the dining room. “Jules, stop hiding and bring out that pie before your brothers do!”

He grinned. “Duty calls.”

They carried dessert to the table together, hands brushing once, light as a promise. The rest of the evening moved in laughter and seconds and the comfortable noise of people who loved being in the same room.

When it was finally time to go, Elijah hugged everyone like they were cousins he’d known forever. Willie Mae pressed leftovers into Lailah’s hands and kissed her on the cheek, “Next time, don’t wait for an invitation.”

Outside, Elijah beamed. “Mom, that was the best dinner ever.”

“It really was,” she said softly, watching the warm light spill from the windows.

Back home, Elijah fell right to sleep after a bath. Lailah stood in her small kitchen, touching the pendant at her neck. She thought about the music, the food, the laughter, the way Julian had steadied her hand over the dough.

For the first time in years, she didn’t feel hungry for anything.
She felt full.

Love In Due Season: Ch. 3

What You Carry

The sound reached her before she saw him.
Elijah’s voice was soft, muffled through the half-closed door, a child’s prayer said with the weight of a grown man’s worry.

“God, can You help us get the money sooner?” he whispered. “So my mom doesn’t have to work so much. And can You give her a good man? One that talks to You like she does? I know that’s what she wants. And…”

Lailah froze in the hallway, the words pressing against her chest until it hurt to breathe. She’d come to kiss him goodbye before heading out for another shift, but now all she could do was stand there.

For a long moment she watched the small shape of him beneath the blanket, his shoulders rising and falling in that slow rhythm of trust only children seemed to have. She turned away quietly, wiping at her eyes before the tears could fall.

By the time she slipped her shoes on, her heart felt heavy. Grateful, but heavy.

Selena honked twice from the driveway.

Lailah grabbed her bag and called softly, “I’ll be home late, baby. Love you.”
There was a sleepy murmur in return.

In the car, Selena glanced over as Lailah buckled her seat belt. “You good?”

Lailah nodded. “Just tired.”

“You’ve been saying that since August,” Selena said. “You sure it’s not something else?”

“Just tired.”

Selena didn’t push, but she reached over and squeezed her hand before turning the radio up. “Well, good news. Tonight’s crowd looks generous. Let’s make some grocery money.”

Lailah managed a small laugh. “You always know how to spin it.”

“Somebody’s got to.”

The drive to the venue was quiet after that. She watched the trees blur by in the fading light and tried not to think about her son’s words. A good man. What did a boy his age know about that?

Still, it stayed with her.

The night air smelled of rain when they stepped out of the car. String lights stretched across the open patio, and laughter drifted through the doors. Inside, the staff rushed to finish the dinner service. The usual hum of noise filled the space, but Lailah couldn’t shake the ache in her chest. She moved through her tasks on instinct, smiling when she needed to, speaking when spoken to.

Julian was there, as always, steady in the middle of it all. He gave his quiet instructions, checked plates, sent servers out with calm efficiency. Once or twice their eyes met across the kitchen, and she thought she saw a question in his. She didn’t have the energy to answer it.

When the last entrée went out, the chaos faded to a lull. There was still cleanup ahead, but for now, most of the crew slipped outside to smoke or scroll through their phones. Lailah stayed behind, wiping her hands on a towel before stepping toward the back of the hall.

The bride and groom were dancing under a canopy of lights, lost in their own world. Lailah watched from a distance, head resting on the wall watching a scene that felt like a movie. The music was slow, something about forever, and for a few seconds she let herself imagine what it would feel like to be wanted like that. Then she caught herself and looked away.

“Pretty sight, isn’t it?”

Julian’s voice came from just behind her. She turned to find him leaning against the wall, sleeves pushed to his elbows, a towel slung over one shoulder.

“It is,” she said quietly. “They look… free.”

He nodded, eyes still on the couple. “Hard to find that these days.”

She smiled faintly. “Maybe it’s not about finding it. Maybe it’s just about not giving up on it.”

He glanced at her then, studying her face for a moment longer than casual conversation required. “You okay tonight? You seem… somewhere else.”

“I’m fine,” she said automatically. Then, softer, “It’s just been a long day.”

He waited, not pressing, just standing there in that quiet way of his that somehow made people talk anyway.

Lailah sighed. “I overheard my son praying earlier. He wants me to be home more. Wants me to find someone good. It’s just a lot sometimes, trying to be everything at once.”

Julian’s expression softened. “Sounds like you’re raising a boy who knows how to care about people.”

“He’s a sweet kid. Too observant for his own good.”

He chuckled. “That’s not the worst problem to have.”

Something about his tone eased her enough to breathe. For the first time that night, she didn’t feel like she had to keep her guard up.

“I didn’t know you had a son,” he said. “How old?”

“Thirteen.”

He nodded. “So you started early.”

She raised a brow. “That supposed to be a polite way of calling me old?”

He laughed under his breath. “I was guessing close to my age, actually. You don’t act like the other women who come through here.”

“And how old is that?”

“Thirty-five.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “I have you by five years.”

“I’m good with that.”

“Nah. I like my men a little older,” she teased.

“Why is that?” he smiled, playing along.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I think they’re more mature.”

“I think the best sign of maturity is knowing what you want. Not age.”

She was caught off guard by his comment, flushed even. For a moment she didn’t know where to look, so she focused on the bride’s gown swirling under the lights.

He cleared his throat, gentling the moment. “You should get out more. There are a few good spots around here. Places you’d like.”

“Between two jobs and my son? I don’t think so.”

“Doesn’t have to be tonight.” He straightened, adjusting the towel over his shoulder. “Next time you get a weekend off, you should go into town. I know there’s some good stuff there.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“I don’t know. Clothes. Shoes. Spas,” he said simply. “Something that’s for you, not just for work.”

Lailah shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You trying to tell me my uniform needs help?”

“Not at all.” He met her eyes. “Just think you deserve to have things that fit the woman wearing them.”

She felt the warmth rise to her cheeks before she could stop it. “You’re full of lines tonight.”

“Let’s do it this way then,” he chuckled. “Does your son go to CMC Middle or CMC High?”

Lailah hesitated but answered, “High.”

“Okay, so he’s in there with my nephews.” Julian stepped a little closer so no one could overhear. “What if I grab my nephews and your son and take them to the Winter Fair? That way he can hang out and make friends, and you can have a day to yourself.”

She paused, caught off guard by his thoughtfulness. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“I’m the one who asked you,” he said gently.

She didn’t know what to say after that. For a woman used to carrying everything alone, the offer felt both foreign and kind. Her fingers found the small pendant at her neck, turning it slowly between them as she nodded once, quietly.

Lailah stayed where she was after he walked away, watching the newlyweds twirl under the lights. For the first time all evening, the heaviness in her chest eased. She didn’t know what to make of Julian or his words, but she knew how they made her feel.

Seen.

When the song ended, she turned back toward the kitchen, ready to finish the night. Her feet still ached, her heart still hurt a little, but there was something else there too. A spark she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Maybe hope was stubborn like that. It showed up even when you tried to leave it behind.

Love In Due Season: Ch. 2

Small Light

By the end of the first month, the extra money had started to show.
Not in new shoes or a better phone—just in the small envelope she kept tucked behind the flour canister. $1,245. She wrote the number on a scrap of paper and underlined it twice. It wasn’t freedom, but it looked like daylight.

Most weeks were the same now: work the school day, change shirts in the car, show up on whatever weekend worked best for her. The first few shifts had left her shaky and sore; now her body knew the rhythm. Clock in, polish, fill, set, serve, repeat. The young servers still drifted in late or whispered about weekend plans. Lailah kept her head down. She didn’t correct anyone unless a mistake was about to spill onto the floor—then she’d step in, quiet as breath, fix it, and slip back out of the way.

After a while even CJ noticed.
“Lailah, you keep the whole line calm. Appreciate that.”
She only nodded. Praise still felt foreign.

The ballroom smelled of flower and warm bread. Candles trembled in tall glass vases. Lailah balanced a tray of glasses against her hip, weaving between tables. She’d leaned to smile without thinking about it and to listen for small things, like ice rattling low in a cup, or laughter near the bar.

Every now and then she caught sight of the chef.

Julian. Always in motion, sleeves rolled, voice steady even when everything around him roared. She’d told herself the first night that his nod meant nothing. Weeks later, she still remembered it.

She was stacking empty glasses near the kitchen door when his voice reached her.

“You look like you’ve been training for a marathon back there.”

It took her a second to realize he was talking to her.

“Feels like it,” she said, breath short but polite.
“Don’t worry,” he added, eyes glinting just enough to count as humor, “no medals tonight—just carbs.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth before she could stop it. She wasn’t sure laughter was the right response, so she let the moment hang.

Julian gestured toward the line of servers waiting for trays.

“You’re the one who keeps them moving,” he said. “They follow your pace more than mine.”
She blinked. “I just try not to get in the way.”
“That’s what makes it work,” he said, already turning back to the plates.

He didn’t linger, but the words did. No one had told her she made anything work in a long time.

Saturday morning she woke before sunrise, the ache in her calves still pulsing. Elijah slept on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes, sneakers on the floor. She smiled, easing the blanket higher over his shoulder.

On the counter, the envelope waited. She added forty more dollars—tips from a private dinner—and whispered, “Thank You.” It wasn’t habit this time; it was gratitude.

Later, while folding laundry, she thought about Julian’s attempt at a joke. It hadn’t been funny, really, but the effort had cracked something open, proof that he saw her in the middle of all that motion.

A week later, another wedding. She arrived early, tying her tie while the younger servers debated who would handle champagne service. Nobody volunteered.

“I’ll take it,” she said, grabbing the tray before they could argue. They didn’t protest; they never did anymore. When the music swelled and guests flooded the dance floor, Lailah moved through them like she’d been doing this for years—efficient, invisible, steady.

In the kitchen doorway, Julian watched long enough to catch CJ’s comment.
“She keeps everybody calm,” CJ said. “Even me.”
Julian only nodded.

When she returned the empty tray, he looked up from the cutting board.

“Nice timing out there,” he said. “You make chaos look organized.”
She wiped her hands on her towel. “Comes from raising a teenager.”

His laugh, low and genuine, surprised her. It rolled through the kitchen and disappeared into the clatter of dishes. For a moment she let herself enjoy it, then slipped back toward the hallway before anyone could notice her cheeks warming.

That night, Elijah asked, “You think we can move soon?”
“Maybe,” she said. “We’re getting there.”

She didn’t tell him about Julian’s comment or the laughter that still echoed in her head. Some things felt too fragile to name.

After he went to bed, she sat at the kitchen table, notebook open beside the envelope. The numbers hadn’t changed much since last week, but her handwriting looked steadier.

She wrote in the corner: Starting to see light.

Then she closed the book, leaned back in the chair, and smiled.
Hope didn’t always arrive loud. Sometimes it showed up in small talk and tired feet—and in the sound of someone laughing for the first time in a long while.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 6

Chapter Six: Always Home Court Advantage

Michelle and Carlton

Michelle had stared at the team logo on the paperwork for most of the flight.
She tried to be casual about it, folding the packet into her bag, then pulling it out again, then tucking it under the in-flight magazine. But her eyes always found it. Bold lettering. Team colors. The insignia of a franchise she’d only ever seen on jerseys and TV broadcasts.

Now her name was typed beneath it — Lead Physical Therapist.

Her thumb traced the sharp outline of the logo until the paper edges wore soft. She leaned back against the seat, headphones resting but silent, heart knocking with a steady rhythm.

When Reese had first told her about the contract, she hadn’t believed him. Even as he showed her the signed documents, even as the clinic’s letterhead branded the deal, it had felt… hypothetical. Now, thirty thousand feet in the air with the paperwork heavy in her lap, it felt real in a way that squeezed her chest.

On the descent, she pressed her forehead against the cold window. Clouds gave way to lights glittering below, and her breath fogged the glass. She whispered under it, almost like she was making a pact with herself:

Don’t forget this moment. Don’t forget how it feels.

The airport, the shuttle, the hotel drop-off, it all blurred. What cut sharp was the credential.

It was heavier than she expected when security clipped it onto her lanyard. Heavier, too, when it thumped against her chest as she walked through the back corridors of the arena. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, staff rushed past with radios and clipboards, voices weaving into a low hum.

She caught her reflection once in a narrow glass door: hair braided back, team jacket zipped, badge catching light. For a second, she stopped walking. The image startled her. She didn’t look like an outsider anymore. She looked like she belonged.

The guide ahead waved her along, and Michelle quickened her pace.

The first sound of the court reached her before the sight did. Sneakers squeaking. A ball snapping against hardwood. Coaches barking instructions. The familiar rhythm hit her chest like a drum.

And then the tunnel opened.

She stepped forward, and her breath caught.

The court stretched wide and impossibly bright under the house lights. The empty arena loomed massive, thousands of seats climbing into shadow. The jumbotron glowed faintly, screens rotating through logos. The floor gleamed — polished, proud, almost sacred.

Her throat tightened. She hadn’t expected to feel small here, but she did. Not in a way that shrank her, but in a way that reminded her how big this dream really was.

Carlton noticed her first.

He was mid-drill, catching a pass at the wing, when movement in the tunnel pulled his eyes. Michelle.

Credential swinging, jacket zipped, eyes wide as they swept the arena.

His chest seized. For a half second, the ball in his hands didn’t exist.

He’d pictured this moment a hundred times since Reese called him about the contract, but reality still cracked something open inside him. She wasn’t visiting. She wasn’t sneaking into his world for stolen hours. She was here.

When her gaze finally landed on him, she smiled; small, almost private. He had to force himself not to cross the court and grab her.

A staffer ushered her down the sideline.

“Michelle, this way. Coach wants to meet you.”

The introductions were quick but warm. The head coach clasped her hand with a nod of respect. “We’ve heard a lot. Carlton swears by you. But even without him, your work speaks loud. Welcome to the team.”

The players crowded around, offering handshakes, shoulder bumps, half-jokes about finally getting someone who could fix their ankles right.

Carlton brushed her hand as she passed him. Barely a touch, but it sparked all the way up her arm. Her head tilted just slightly, eyes catching his. Later, that look said.

Malik, of course, couldn’t resist.

“Ayo, Carlton!” His voice cut through practice noise like a trumpet. “Don’t start getting soft on us now!”

The sideline cracked up. Carlton cut him a look sharp enough to kill. “Not now, Malik.”

Michelle flushed, eyes darting down, pretending to adjust her badge. Her pulse betrayed her.

Hours later, the arena emptied.

Michelle wandered onto the hardwood, sneakers quiet on the shine. The stands rose like a mountain around her, lights gleaming, space humming with silence. She turned slowly, letting herself soak it in. Tomorrow this place would be packed and she would be sitting on the sidelines. In person.

This was bigger than she had imagined. Heavier. But the bounce under her shoes felt the same as any gym she’d ever been in.

She drifted toward center court, lifted her face to the rafters, and let her chest loosen.

That’s when the echo came. A ball. One clean bounce.

She turned. Carlton, now alone at the arc, sent it spinning her way.

It rolled to a stop at her feet.

“Can you make it on the big stage?” His voice carried, low and teasing, but something lived underneath it.

Michelle bent, fingers curling around leather. Her palms remembered the grooves like muscle memory. Tears welled, uninvited but inevitatable. She dribbled once, rose into her midrange shot, and released.

Back of the iron. Bounced high. Net. Clean.

The ball bounced back. She caught it, tears welling unbidden, and laughed through them. “It’s the same feel,” she said softly, turning toward him. “Just a different location.”

But he wasn’t where he had been.

He was closer now. On one knee. A ring catching the arena light.

Her breath snagged. The ball slipped from her hands, echoing as it rolled away.

Carlton’s eyes never left hers.

“You’ve been my teammate since the day you walked into the clinic,” he said, voice steady, filling the cavernous space. “We’ve been running plays together without ever calling them. We’ve carried each other when the other was tired. There were games we’ve won that nobody else even saw.

“But I don’t want it to stay there. I don’t want to keep stealing time or living in separate worlds. I don’t want to try to fit you in. I want one life. Ours. Together.” He swallowed, then pushed the last words out clean. “Michelle… be my teammate for life.”

Tears blurred her vision. She covered her mouth, laughing and crying all at once, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

“Ay yo!” Malik’s laugh bounced off the rafters. “I knew you had something up your sleeve, man. Couldn’t even wait ‘til after the playoffs?”

Carlton stood quickly. Michelle groaned, hiding her face in Carlton’s chest. He shot a look over his shoulder, sharp enough to slice. “Malik, if you don’t—”

But Malik only grinned wider, holding his hands up. “Alright, alright! I’m gone. Y’all do your fairytale thing.” He jogged off, still chuckling, his voice fading down the hall. “Teammates for life… boy, you corny as ever.”

Michelle shook with laughter against Carlton, tears and giggles tangled together now. Carlton kissed the top of her head, muttering, “I’m trading him next season.”

She tipped her chin up, smiling through the blur. “No you’re not.”

He sighed, pretending to be irritated. “Fine. But will you marry me? We don’t have to invite him to the wedding.”

Laughter burst out of Michelle before she could tame it. She hushed herself with her hand covering her mouth. “Deal.”

He slid the ring onto her finger, and it fit like it had been waiting.

She pulled him into a kiss that swallowed everything. The months of waiting. The late-night calls, The aching hearts.

It was deep, unhurried, certain.

When they broke apart, Michelle pressed her forehead into his chest, laughter shaking through tears.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you more,” he said, holding her like the promise was already complete.

The arena stayed quiet. Just two people, center court, choosing forever where the world came to play.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 4.2

Chapter Four: November Stretch

Carlton

The office still smelled faintly of coffee and copier ink, the kind of mix that clung to walls when a long day refused to end. Reese leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, listening while I tried to keep my tone even.

“You’re telling me you haven’t put in for the contract yet?” I asked.

Reese rubbed his jaw. “I’m running numbers, CJ. I need to make sure—”

“No.” I cut him off, sharper than I meant. “I told you Coach is in the market. Why haven’t you done anything?”

His eyes narrowed. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple.” I leaned forward, hands pressing into my knees. “You’ve got the talent, the team, and the track record. You’re scared, Reese. You’re acting like you’ve got something to lose when all you’ve done this year is win.”

He exhaled hard, like the truth stung. “We lost two therapists in a month.”

“And you replaced them with Michelle,” I shot back. “Who you just admitted is a game changer.”

His silence was answer enough.

“You ran the numbers,” I pressed. “And?”

“And…” He shifted in his chair, finally letting the words out. “This year we’ve had more clients than the last four combined. Word of mouth is crazy. People ask for Michelle by name. She’s getting them back faster than I can track. She’s building a reputation across the city.” He shook his head, half proud, half worried. “That’s the problem. What if she leaves, CJ? What if this pace burns her out and I lose the very person holding us together?”

I felt my jaw tighten. “You already are burning her out. I see it. You gave her the weight of two people and she’s still standing. That’s not a reason to hold back, it’s a reason to go bigger. Get her help. Build around her. That’s what leaders do.”

Reese frowned. “You sound like you’ve got all the answers.”

“I don’t.” I leaned back, gave him space. “But I know this: you throw your name in for that contract, I’ll back you with Coach myself. You got me back on the court three weeks sooner. That’s leverage. Just throw me the lob—I’ll finish it.”

For a second, he stayed stone-faced. Then a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, despite himself. “Alright. I’ll look into it. If I throw our name in, you better back me up.”

I grinned back, voice firm. “You know I will.”

The air loosened after that. We let the tension bleed off the way old teammates do—naturally, like a muscle unclenching after the final whistle. Reese leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

“You always did get worked up when you believed in something,” he said. “Back in college, you’d chew a whole locker room out just because one guy missed a rotation.”

“And we won, didn’t we?” I shot back.

He laughed, pointing at me. “See? Same Carlton. Only difference is now you’ve got someone making you this fired up off the court, too.”

I shook my head, smiling despite myself. “Don’t start.”

“Nah, I’m serious,” he said, eyes narrowing in that way that meant he’d already connected the dots. “I haven’t seen you like this since Tiffany Caruthers.”

That name pulled a laugh out of me, low and unplanned. “Man, don’t bring up high school.”

Reese smirked, enjoying it too much. “You were gone over that girl. Walked around like you had a permanent pep in your step.”

“Yeah, well… this isn’t high school.”

His grin softened, genuine now. “I know. That’s why I can tell it’s real.”

I didn’t bother dodging the truth. My voice dropped, steady as I said it: “Yeah. I’m in love with her.”

Reese leaned back again, watching me like a man who’d just confirmed what he already knew. “I figured,” he said simply.

We sat in the quiet a beat, the kind that only exists between brothers who’ve run suicides together and earned each other’s scars.

Finally, he clapped his hands together, breaking the spell. “Alright. I’ll look into this contract. No more pump fakes. But if this blows up, I’m sending Michelle to you with the complaint form.”

I laughed, standing to leave. “She’d probably write it in triplicate.”

“Exactly why I need her around.”

We shared a look, the kind that said more than the words. Then I headed out into the November night, knowing Reese would follow through—not just because I pushed him, but because deep down he wanted to win, too.

By the time I left his office, the night air hit sharp against my skin. November had settled into the kind of cold that reminded you basketball was an indoor game. I sat in the car for a while, engine off, thumb hovering over my phone.

Three months we’d been together. Nine months I’d known her. And still, nights like this, the distance pressed harder than a full-court press.

The season was a machine—four games a week, two cities in three days, hotel beds that all felt the same. I’d learned to live with the rhythm. But loving her inside of it? That was new. And harder.

Finally, I hit call.

She picked up on the third ring, voice soft like she’d been working too long again. “Hey.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No. Just finished some paperwork. Trying to convince myself to turn my brain off.”

“Any luck?”

A little laugh, weary but real. “Not so far.”

I leaned against the headrest, shutting my eyes. Just hearing her did more for me than sleep ever could. “You need to stop taking it all home.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” I paused, then said it straight: “I had a conversation with Reese tonight.”

“Oh?” she asked, careful.

“Yeah. Contracts. I pushed him.”

“Pushed him how?”

I hesitated, then softened. “Doesn’t matter right now.”

I gripped the steering wheel, wishing distance could collapse on command. “Michelle, put the paperwork down.”

She chuckled. “You sound like you’re giving me orders.”

“I am. Put it down. Right now.”

Another shuffle. Then a sigh. “Fine. It’s down.”

“Good.” I smiled. “Now lay back.”

“I’m on the couch already.”

“Perfect. Stay there. I’ll watch film so the TV doesn’t get lonely, and you…” I let the quiet stretch. “…you just breathe.”

We stayed like that, neither rushing.

“You always do this,” she said softly after a while. “Sneak past my walls.”

“Maybe your walls were never built for me,” I answered before thinking.

Another pause. This one heavy enough to make me wonder if I’d said too much. Then she whispered, “Maybe not.”

We didn’t say much after that. Didn’t have to. She drifted, her breathing evening out, while I sat in the car listening like it was music.

By the time we said goodnight, it was past midnight. I carried her voice upstairs with me, through brushing my teeth, through watching film with the sound off, through laying in bed staring at the ceiling.

The season would keep spinning. Flights, practices, games. But for the first time in a long time, I knew what I wanted off the court. And I wasn’t about to pump fake when the lane was wide open.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 4

Chapter Four: November Stretch

Michelle

I thought Monday mornings were supposed to move slow. Coffee, emails, easing into the week.
This one came like a wrecking ball.

By 9:15, two resignation letters hit Reese’s desk back-to-back. Both therapists—good ones, steady hands—decided they were done. Different reasons. Same result.

The first letter came from Jordan, who was one of our longest-tenured therapists. His mom was sick, and he needed to move back home to help. No one could fault him for that. The second came from Alyssa, who’d been on the fence for months, saying she wanted to try her hand at teaching full-time.

Two at once, though? It was a gut punch.

By 9:30, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Clients called to ask if their sessions were still on, if their programs would stall, if they’d be reassigned. Some were understanding. Others were already frustrated.

By 10:00, one therapist stormed into Reese’s office, demanding to know how he was going to redistribute the caseload. Another hovered near the front desk, muttering about burnout.

And by 10:15, I felt it—chaos, thick in the air, like humidity that made it hard to breathe.

I didn’t have time to think about how tired I was, or how long my weekend had been, or how little sleep I’d managed. I just moved.

I rerouted two clients to therapists I trusted to take them on without complaint. I grabbed the schedule binder, cross-referenced it against the app, and patched holes before anyone could trip on them. I picked up the phone myself and called three clients personally, just to assure them they weren’t forgotten.

“Hi, this is Michelle from the clinic. I just wanted to let you know we’ve already set you up with another therapist. Your program won’t miss a beat.”

Calm voice. Steady tone. Smile on my face even though they couldn’t see it.

One woman actually sighed in relief. “Thank you. I was nervous. I don’t want to lose momentum.”

“You won’t,” I promised. And I meant it.

Behind me, another therapist barked something about overbooking. Reese’s door clicked shut because he was on a call trying to patch up the business side of the fallout.

So I kept going.

By noon, I only had a sip water. By 1:30, I just had a bite of a protein bar that Jasmin gave me for lunch.

I was running on adrenaline and stubbornness. A strange kind of calm lived in me when everything else was breaking apart.

Reese finally caught me near the front desk while I was printing an updated schedule. His tie was loose, his forehead lined.

“Michelle,” he muttered, low enough so only I could hear, “you’re holding this place together. Thank you.”

It stopped me for half a second.

“Just doing my part,” I said, because I didn’t know how to take a compliment when everything inside me felt like duct tape holding a cracked foundation.

He gave me a look—one that said he saw through me—and walked off to take another call.

The rest of the week blurred.

Every morning, I walked into a storm. Every evening, I walked out feeling like I’d left part of myself behind.

The clients didn’t see it, though. They just saw order, structure, reassurance. The therapists, at least most of them, relaxed once they saw the load spread out. Reese got some breathing room to focus on salvaging the contracts.

But me? I was running on fumes.

By Friday night, my hands were still trembling from the constant back-and-forth of typing, texting, and adjusting schedules. My eyes burned. My brain felt like static.

And still, I said yes when Carlton texted.

Carlton: Fly out tomorrow morning. You free?

I looked at my phone for a long time before I typed.

Me: Exhausted.

The three dots bubbled on the screen. Stopped. Started again.

Carlton: Come anyway...please?

I closed my eyes. It was already late. I should’ve gone home, eaten something frozen, collapsed into bed.

But my heart typed before my head could argue.

Me: On my way.

His place wasn’t far, which is probably the only reason I actually went. I still had my work bag slung over my shoulder when he opened the door.

He smiled, soft but steady. “Long week?”

“Extremely.”

I dropped my bag on the floor like it weighed a hundred pounds. My phone buzzed in the side pocket. I ignored it for three seconds before the reflex kicked in and I reached for it.

Carlton stepped forward and gently took it from my hand.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, the kind of low that doesn’t demand. It invites. “Didn’t you tell me once you do this? Bring work home?”

My throat tightened. “I have to make sure—”

He shook his head, not unkindly. “Not tonight.”

And just like that, the dam broke. Tears hit before I even knew they were coming. The kind that burned hot because they’d been waiting too long.

Carlton didn’t flinch. He just pulled me close, one hand on the back of my head like he’d done it a thousand times in his mind before tonight.

“Michelle.” He said my name like it was safe here. Like I was safe here.

I pressed my face into his chest and finally let myself fall apart. Weeks of holding everything together poured out in the span of minutes. The chaos, the exhaustion, the ache of balancing this thing between us with the weight of everything else.

“This is hard,” I whispered into the fabric of his shirt. It wasn’t just about work. It was us.

“I know,” he said simply.

When the tears slowed, he tipped my chin up gently.

“Come lay down,” he said. “I’ve got film to catch up on anyway.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a soft directive, one that carried care, not control.

I let him lead me to the couch. He sat first, remote in hand, and pulled me down beside him. Not against him, not yet, but close enough that when I leaned, I found his shoulder waiting.

The TV flickered to life, some preseason reel playing, voices analyzing plays I barely heard.

He didn’t move much. Didn’t ask for anything. Just sat there with me, solid and warm, a steady rhythm of breath against my temple.

At some point, I drifted. The exhaustion finally caught up, heavier than gravity.

The last thing I remember was his thumb brushing my hand once, almost absentmindedly, like a reminder that I wasn’t alone.

I woke up to silence.

The TV was off. The blanket tucked over me wasn’t mine.

But the air carried something warm—eggs, maybe, and toast. The faint scent of coffee.

Carlton wasn’t in the room.

I blinked, tried to orient myself, then heard the sound of drawers opening down the hall.

He came out a minute later, dressed for travel: joggers, team duffel slung across his back.

“Hey,” he said softly, seeing me stir. “Sorry. I tried not to wake you.”

“What time is it?” My voice was rough with sleep.

“Early.” He set his bag by the door. “I’ve got to head out soon. But—” he nodded toward the kitchen, “I made you something. Please eat before you leave, okay?”

I followed his eyes toward the counter. A plate sat there waiting, steam curling into the air.

My throat tightened. “Already?” I managed, trying to keep my voice even.

“Yeah.” He crossed the room, crouched down so we were eye-level. “Hey. It’s fine. We’ll figure this out.”

Tears pricked my eyes again, uninvited. I hated how easily they came the last few weeks.

He caught it, though. Of course he did.

“I think this is worth the figuring out, Michelle.”

He brushed a hand against my cheek, quick, before standing.

I watched him sling his bag over his shoulder, open the door, and step into the dark morning.

And for the first time, I realized I didn’t just like him around.
I wanted him.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 2.2

Chapter Two: The Space Between pt. 2

Carlton

It’s easier to do the right thing when no one’s watching you do it. The hard part is sitting with yourself afterward.

Jasmin is excellent. I knew she would be. Her notes are precise in the app. Her hands find the spots that bark and coax them into something like cooperation. We move through progressions clean. No slack. No showboating.

But there are details I miss and pretend not to. The way Michelle says “let it settle” when a muscle wants to argue. The way she laughs when I act like a single-leg RDL is personal. The way she catches the micro-wince before I admit it’s a six out of ten and says, “Let’s back you off two degrees,” saving me from my own pride.

I keep all of that to myself because I chose this. Choosing means owning the stretch that follows.

The weeks after I told Reese, the schedule flipped like a page. We finally landed on Jasmin. New hands, new voice, new routine. Professional. Clean. No lines to worry about crossing. But absence is loud if you know how to listen to it.

My body was coming back to me in ways I trusted—shoulder stable, footwork cleaner, lungs remembering. The film didn’t lie. Neither did the mirror. But my head? It kept sliding toward her at odd angles: when a cue landed and I wanted to tell someone who would appreciate the precision, when a song in the weight room sounded like the one we joked about in session three, when recovery felt like prayer and I wanted to show it to someone who would treat it like church.

Reese and I had lunch out of habit on Wednesdays. Same little spot where the owner calls you “chief” even if you look like you’ve never captained anything. He ordered whatever he always ordered; I ordered protein like I was trying to convince my cells I still loved them. We ate in the comfortable quiet of men who’ve run suicides together and don’t need words to prove they did.

“You’re doing that thing,” he said, eventually.

“What thing?”

“Staring through food like it owes you money.”

I snorted. “I’m here.”

“Not fully.” He dipped a fry in something orange and sinful. “How’s the new setup?”

“Fine.” I shrugged. “Good work is still good.”

He waited, because he’s the kind of friend who can wait and still get an answer.

I rolled the condensation between my fingers. “She listens better than anybody I’ve worked with. That’s rare.”

Reese nodded, eyes on me, not the fries. “You told me that two months ago without the extra sentence you just didn’t say.”

“What sentence is that?”

“That you like her.”

I tilted my head. “I told you that already.”

“You told me the professional version.” He grinned. “I’m fluent in both.”

I laughed, because he earned it. Then I said the thing I’d learned to say when it was true: “I’m being careful.”

“Careful’s good.” Reese wiped his hands. “Also: no one ever won a game with only pump fakes.”

“I’m not pump faking.”

He lifted his palm. “I know. All I’m saying is when the lane opens, take it.”

I nodded, filed it, and changed the subject to the only thing that could ever hold equal weight for me: the work. We mapped the next two weeks like you map a road you can already see with your eyes closed: route, rest stops, exits you promise not to take.

Later that week, I swung by Reese’s sister’s coffee shop to help her unload a shipment. She’d asked me once before, and I never minded lending a hand. The place had its own rhythm—mismatched mugs stacked by the espresso machine, paperbacks that smelled like rain and glue, sunlight spilling lazy across wooden tables.

I came in through the back, carrying a box on my shoulder, and that’s when I saw her.

Front corner by the window, hair down, a dress I’d never seen her wear in the clinic. She was with another woman—her sister, I guessed. She’d mentioned her once during a session, in that offhand way you mention home when you’re still trying to figure out what “home” even means in a new city.

Michelle didn’t see me. She was laughing at something her sister said, head tipped, shoulders loose. Free. And in that split second, I understood a new kind of unfair: how someone could be breathtaking just by existing in their own joy.

She wasn’t taped into bands or counting reps or measuring degrees of flexion. She was just a woman with sunlight in her hair and the kind of smile you don’t earn by accident..

I dropped the box on the counter in the back, leaned against the shelves, and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

I’d seen her a hundred times before. Hair pulled back. Black polo. Black pants. Focused. Professional.

But this? This was different. Dress soft against the light, and falling on every curve. Her laugh spilling like she’d been saving it.

She looked… free. And it wasn’t freedom from me or from anything else. It was freedom in herself.

And I wanted in on that. Not to take it, not to own it—but to be near enough that when she smiled like that, I could be the reason, even if only part of it.

Just months ago, I was thinking about angles and rehab protocols. Now I was thinking about what it would take to deserve that kind of closeness.

And that scared me in the best way. Because it meant this wasn’t a distraction. This wasn’t a passing thought. It was a shift.

I stayed in the back longer than I needed to, pretending to sort boxes so I wouldn’t risk bumping into her. But every sound from the front—her laugh, the scrape of her chair—pulled at me like magnets under the floor.

Eventually, I slipped out the side door. Some things you don’t interrupt, not when they’re that pure.

Back at the facility, Malik coasted beside me on a scooter someone had probably bought with poor judgment and a coupon code. “CJ,” he said, “you look like a man with a plan.”

“I’m a man with conditioning,” I said. “Big difference.”

He grinned, his favorite expression. “You still thinking about that PT?”

“She’s not my PT anymore.”

“Yeah,” he said, rolling the word like gum. “Exactly.”

I shook my head to chase him off and hit the court to shoot.

Ten makes from each spot, no move-ons until the net agreed. The ball felt clean in my hand. I don’t know how to describe the moment when your body and your will remember each other’s phone numbers again, except to say it’s like a city turning its lights back on.

Back to the grind.

My Kind of Therapy – Ch. 2

Chapter Two: The Space Between pt. 1

Michelle

It’s wild how a single empty hour can echo.

The thing about losing a client, especially one you’ve seen twice a week for months, is that the rhythm of your week changes. Not just the schedule, but the way the hours feel.

Carlton’s hour used to anchor my Saturday mornings. I’d come in, grab my tea, and know that the first real conversation of the day would be with someone who understood what it’s like to miss the thing you love doing most.

My first appointment is fifteen minutes late, and I hate that I notice the difference.

I pour hot water over the same tea bag twice and it still tastes strong. The clinic is calm at opening—sunlight cutting long rectangles across the lobby floor, the printer whispering to itself, the front door giving that soft hydraulic exhale every time someone comes in. I take a breath like the building’s doing it with me, slow and measured, and remind my body: we’re fine.

I add two lines to a treatment plan for someone else. I erase one and write it back, because indecision looks better typed.

When my client finally arrives, apologies tumble out of her like a dropped bag of marbles—sorry for the traffic, sorry for the no-show last week, sorry for the shoes squeaking on the floor. I steady her, settle her, and in fifteen minutes we’re working, the room doing that thing it does where time narrows to muscles and breath and what’s possible right now. That part always saves me. The work is a rope you can grab when your thoughts want to go wandering.

But the quiet moments in between, cleaning a headrest, switching out a band, the turn of my body toward the door because it used to open, that’s where the echo lives.

Jasmin passes by while I’m wiping down the table. She taps the doorframe. “Your nine became your eleven. You good?”

“Always,” I say. It lands a little too bright.

She lingers, the way people do when they’ve decided to care even if you won’t say you need it. “Carlton’s a machine,” she adds. “He did the tempo work without cheating. You must’ve trained that into him.”

I huff a laugh. “He came wired that way.”

“He asked me to keep the band sequence,” she says. “The wording. Said he likes how you describe it so I wrote it into his chart.”

I pretend to rearrange the towels so I don’t have to manage my face. “Consistency helps the nervous system,” I offer, like we’re at a conference and I’m a bullet point.

“Why’d he switch?”

I shrug. “No idea.” Which is true — and also not true. I don’t have the facts, but my gut says there’s more to it. And that unsettles me more than I want to admit.

Jasmin tilts her head, studying me like she can read the thought I’m trying to bury. “Uh-huh,” she says, eyes kind. “You want my last protein bar? It tastes like a cinnamon candle but in a good way.”

“I’m good.” I’m not hungry. I am… something.

My phone lights up with a message from my sister.

How’s the new city, Coach?

She still calls me that.

I thumb a reply: Learning the plays.

I don’t tell her there’s a hole in my Saturday shaped like a person I only know from a table’s distance.

By closing, the eucalyptus has faded to the smell of clean cotton and the faintest bite of disinfectant. I shut down the treatment notes, wash my hands longer than necessary, and tell the mirror over the sink that we’re fine, which is the first sign that maybe we aren’t.

On my way out, Reese is counting cash for petty expenses, lips pursed like the numbers might run away if he doesn’t pin them down with concentration. He glances up. “Good day?”

“Productive,” I say. It’s safe and true.

He nods. “You settling in?”

“Mostly.” I hesitated, then shrugged. “Still figuring out where everything is. I think I’ve been to three different grocery stores this week trying to find one that doesn’t feel like a maze.”

Reese smirked. “You need to hit GreenWise over on Mattison. Smaller than Publix, better produce. Trust me.”

That earned a small laugh from me. “Noted.”

There’s a space where he could ask the other question—Are you okay about the switch?—and I could say the safe thing. He lets it pass. I’m not sure if I’m grateful or annoyed.

Outside, the evening air shifts the hair at the back of my neck. My car is warm in the sun. I sit for a minute before starting it, hands at ten and two like a stereotype, and I’m surprised to feel a sting behind my eyes. I blink it away. I’m not sad, exactly. I’m… aware.

Pain is the body yelling. Awareness is the body clearing its throat. I’d told him that. Now my chest is a throat I can’t seem to clear.

I drive to the community center and run the indoor track until my legs shake. On the third lap, I catch myself counting the beats between breaths the way I counted the beats between our jokes, and I hate that the math is the same.

When I finally stop, sweat dripping into my eyebrows, I press my palms against the cool painted cinderblock and let the wall take my weight for a minute. Then I straighten, slide my hair tie a little tighter, and go again.

The hour passes.

The echo softens.

But it doesn’t go silent.

4 Ways Movement Saved My Life

I’ve been away for a while. I’m sorry.

I was in between passion and providing. Having to provide won over for a bit. Trying to merge passion and income has been tough for me but I’ve finally reached a place where I have nothing left but to try this out. For real this time.

It didn’t dawn on me how much I needed to move. It kept me on track. It kept me optimistic.

The moment I stopped moving, the more the weight of life really started to settle on me.

But thank God I got up and exercised!

I figure I would share four ways that movement saved my life.

Goal Setting.

It may not sound like much but it’s amazing how your day, week, month, or year can be shaped when you sit down and write out your goals.

The funny thing? I had written out goals. I generally write down my goals for the year, but that was it. I left them collecting dust on my nightstand. I never revisted the goals I had written and therefore lost my focus. It has bee easy for me to do that trying to raise a boy. I thought I was super mom at one point. But I was failing miserably because I had lost sight of my goal!

I was consumed by my current circumstances that I didn’t allow myself to dream again. Have you ever done that?

Things just wasn’t fun anymore. I was losing a grasp on what was important. All because I didn’t have something to look forward to.

When I finally sat down after being unhappy with being 50lbs over weight, I set a goal. I wanted to start by losing 5lbs and see how I felt from there. I lost the 5lbs but I knew I had to go further.

2. Weight Bearing.

I was used to taking the easy way out of things. I was hypersensitive as a child so a bit of that carried over into adulthood. Anytime I felt challenged, I cried. I felt that it was a personal attack. I was a light weight, if you will, on dealing with life and all that came with it.

After having my son, I knew it wasn’t about me. It couldn’t be. Motherhood was heavy! It still is sometimes, but I had to carry the weight of it.

Sometimes carrying our own weight is hard enough. That’s before we even take on anyone else’s. When I learned what I could handle, it helped me master that.

After losing 5lbs, I knew I could do 10. Gradually, I started increasing repetitions or the physical weight that I was lifting.

I had a slip up because I was trying to lift more than I could carry. I was going too soon too fast. But eventually I caught my stride. It brings me to my next point.

3. Progression.

Again, I had to master carrying the weight that was already in front of me. It wasn’t a challenge any more. I had finally reached a point where I knew I could do more.

The same was true for motherhood. That is quite an adjustment for any woman to go through. I don’t know if it was the environment or just me, but I was trying to rush back into the ‘normal’ things. But anything new comes with the need for a new normal.

Lifting 5lbs became easy. Not long after, 10lbs became easy, too. But I gave myself grace and allowed myself to adjust to the changes.

One reason I was feeling stuck is because I was running away from a challenge. A challenge is the stairway to a new level. Often times we think of it as a way to expose a weakness.

It’s not. Take it one step at a time, but keep moving forward.

Ok. Last point.

4. Consistency.

One way to really frustrate yourself is to be inconsistent, but expect the results that only consistency can bring. That was me for a while. If anything, I was consistently inconsistent. Remember, I did admit to writing out goals and not looking at them again! I also admitted to crying at the sight of any thing seemingly challenging.

Choosing to show up once in a while is not going to get you anywhere. Just like this blog, for instance. I enjoy writing, but I wasn’t writing.

This was probably the biggest lesson I learned.

Getting up and moving helped me realize this. With consistency, I lost 50lbs. Even today, I’ve kept it off and I’m blessed to help other women do the same.

There is power in movement. It not just about losing weight but it can help every area of your life. Maybe you need to move on an idea. A t-shirt line. A business venture. Maybe you’re feeling heavy because you’re going in a circle with no goal.

Whatever you’re dealing with, I know that these four things can help you move forward because it helped me. It’s more than just fitness for me.

I have a 21 Day Challenge coming up in October and I’d love to see you in it! More details will come, but I wanted to give you my very first e-book for FREE. I thought it was a flop but a lot of people have found it useful. Click the link to get yours! https://bit.ly/3rbgdFC

Come back for more about wellness and life!

Love ya!

Crystal