Then somebody replies with one terrifying little word:

“OK.”

And suddenly your boundary is on trial.

Have you ever finally said no to something…

and then spent the next hour trying to convince yourself to say yes?

That’s what I call the people-pleaser hangover.

It’s the guilt after the boundary.

The overthinking after the no.

The immediate urge to explain yourself, apologize, change your answer, or figure out whether the other person is upset.

And sometimes it’s ridiculous.

Someone texts:

“OK.”

Two letters.

That’s it.

Meanwhile, my brain has opened an entire FBI investigation.

Was that an angry OK?

Why are both letters capitalized?

Why isn’t there an emoji?

Did I upset them?

Should I send another message?

😂

But underneath the humor is something I’m still learning:

Someone else being disappointed does not automatically mean I did something wrong.

In this episode, I also talk about one of the biggest people-pleasing lessons I learned years ago.

I volunteered because I genuinely wanted to help.

Then helping slowly became responsibility.

Responsibility became carrying too much.

And eventually I had to recognize that there was a difference between contributing to something I cared about…

and becoming responsible for keeping the entire thing afloat.

That experience taught me something I still have to remind myself:

Being needed does not automatically mean I am the person who has to do it.

I can care.

I can help.

I can contribute.

And I can still have limits.

Maybe healing from people-pleasing doesn’t mean I’ll never feel guilty after saying no.

Maybe it means I can feel the guilt…

and leave the boundary exactly where I put it.

✨ IN THIS EPISODE

* Why saying yes can sometimes feel easier than saying no

* Saying “no problem” when it is absolutely a problem

* Why a simple “OK” text can trigger hours of overthinking

* The urge to immediately take a boundary back

* Learning to pause before automatically agreeing

* The difference between helping and becoming responsible for everything

* What an overwhelming volunteer experience taught me about capacity

* The guilt that can come after stepping away

* The thought pattern: “If I don’t do it, who will?”

* Resentment caused by saying yes when you really mean no

* Why other people’s disappointment can feel like an emergency

* Learning that everyone does not have to agree with your decision

* Why guilt isn’t always an instruction

* Setting a boundary even when it still feels uncomfortable

💌 A NOTE FROM ME

People-pleasing is something I’m still learning my way out of.

I don’t want to become someone who stops caring.

I like helping people.

I like being dependable.

I like contributing.

The problem comes when caring turns into carrying everything.

Or when saying no makes me so uncomfortable that I change a perfectly reasonable decision just to make the guilt disappear.

I’m learning that discomfort doesn’t always mean something is wrong.

Sometimes it simply means:

I’m doing something differently than I used to.

And maybe that’s enough reason to leave the boundary where I put it.

— Michelle

Why I wanted to wear something comfortable.

Why I could spend hours reading.

Why I needed quiet.

Why I said no.

Why I changed my mind.

Why I wanted to get my nails or hair done when those things weren’t technically “necessary.”

And sometimes explaining myself eventually turned into changing myself.

In my past marriage, there were times when something as simple as wanting to wear jeans and a T-shirt or leggings and a T-shirt became an argument.

Eventually, sometimes I would change what I was wearing.

Not because I wanted to.

Because I wanted the fighting to stop.

Looking back now, I keep asking myself:

Why did my comfort require someone else’s permission?

Reading was another one.

From the time I was young enough to understand books, I could disappear completely into a story. If there was another book in the series, I needed it. Then the next one. Then the next.

Some people saw that as unproductive.

Now I wonder whether books sometimes gave younger me somewhere safe to go mentally when real life felt like too much.

And then there are things as simple as getting my nails done.

I like doing it at least once a month.

And every few months, I like getting my hair done.

Yes, those things make me feel a little more put together.

But mostly?

They make me feel good.

And that matters more to me now because I’ve realized how much of my life I’ve spent taking care of everyone else.

My kids.

My significant other.

My family.

The people I love.

I want them to have what they need.

And when I can, I want them to have things they want too.

But I’ve done that to the point where I’ve put myself last.

I’ve gone without.

I’ve postponed things for myself.

I’ve spent on other people first.

I’ve told myself:

“I’ll worry about me later.”

So when I want to keep one little thing for myself…

why do I have to defend it?

Why is it okay to give so much of myself to everybody else, but somehow selfish when I keep something small for me?

I don’t believe that anymore.

Why does everything I do for myself have to qualify as a necessity before I’m allowed to enjoy it?

It doesn’t.

And I’m learning the same thing about boundaries.

About needing space.

About saying no.

About changing my mind.

About asking questions.

About protecting my peace.

None of this means I’ve stopped apologizing.

If I hurt someone, I want to own that.

If I’m wrong, I need to be able to admit it.

But someone being disappointed by my decision and someone being harmed by my behavior are not automatically the same thing.

I spent too many years treating them like they were.

I’m trying to stop.

Because I can say:

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

without saying:

“I’m sorry I’m me.”

And maybe most importantly…

I’m allowed to keep a little bit of myself for myself. 💗

🎧 IN THIS EPISODE

I talk about:

• Spending years feeling like I had to explain myself

• Apologizing without actually saying “I’m sorry”

• People-pleasing and avoiding conflict

• Being pressured to dress differently in my past marriage

• Choosing comfort without feeling guilty

• Getting my nails done once a month because it makes me feel good

• Getting my hair done every few months

• Struggling with how I’ve viewed my appearance

• How other people’s comments can make insecurities worse

• Spending my life taking care of everyone around me

• Putting myself last while making sure others have what they need and want

• Why doing something small for myself shouldn’t require an explanation

• My lifelong relationship with books

• Reading intensely and moving through entire series

• Wondering whether books sometimes gave me an escape during difficult periods

• Needing quiet and alone time

• Not being available 24/7

• Saying no without writing an essay explaining why

• Changing my mind

• Asking questions instead of staying quiet

• Feeling things deeply

• Loving and protecting the people in my life

• Learning to include myself among the people I take care of

• Protecting my peace

• Setting boundaries people may not like

• Looking at younger versions of myself with understanding instead of shame

• Learning the difference between causing harm and simply disappointing someone

💗 A NOTE FROM ME

I don’t want to become someone who never apologizes.

I want to become someone who understands when an apology is actually mine to give.

There’s a difference.

I can care about another person’s feelings without automatically handing them control over my decisions.

I can spend my life loving and caring for other people without completely neglecting myself.

And sometimes the healthiest response isn’t:

“I’m sorry.”

Sometimes it’s:

“This is what works for me.”

Or even:

“This is something I’m doing just because it makes me happy.”

And then letting that be enough.

In this lighter—but surprisingly personal—episode of Radiant Rise, I’m talking about everyday life with ADHD and autism: executive dysfunction, hyperfocus, random obsessions, impulse buying, food phases, binge-watching, abandoned projects, studying, social exhaustion, sensory overload, and the intensity behind all of it.

I also explore the other side of that intensity: loving and protecting the people in my life so deeply that I sometimes forget to take care of myself.

This episode is funny, messy, honest, and very much a tour inside my brain.

After unexpected breathing complications, postoperative hypoxia, oxygen, atelectasis, and a hospital admission, I’m finally home. But now that the adrenaline is wearing off, my mind is beginning to process everything my body just went through.

In this deeply personal episode, I talk about survival mode, fear after the fact, needing help, losing independence, the pressure to bounce back, and why sometimes we don’t realize how scared we were until we’re finally safe enough to feel it.

I’m still waiting until my post-op appointment before discussing the surgical findings.

For now, this chapter is about something different:

The emotional crash after the crisis.

My breathing and oxygen problems began while I was still under anesthesia. What was supposed to be surgery followed by recovery at home became breathing treatments, postoperative hypoxia, supplemental oxygen, atelectasis and an unexpected hospital admission.

In this deeply personal episode, I talk about the two weeks leading up the surgery, the fears I carried into the operating room, what happened when breathing became the biggest concern, finally coming home, and what recovery actually looks like five days later.

I don’t have all the answers yet - and that’s part of this episode too.

Sometimes we have to tell our stories while we’re still living them.

Rest. Breathe. Heal. One day at a time. 🩷

As you’re listening to this episode, tomorrow is my surgery.

I don’t know exactly what my recovery will look like or when I’ll be able to return to writing, recording, and sharing updates, but before that chapter begins, I wanted to leave one final message.

This episode is a heartfelt letter to my family, my friends, and every listener who has walked beside me throughout this journey.

Thank you for every message.

Every prayer.

Every encouraging word.

Every act of kindness.

Every moment you’ve reminded me that I wasn’t walking through this alone.

This isn’t goodbye.

It’s simply a short pause while I focus on healing.

And when I’m able…

I’ll be back.

In this deeply personal episode of Radiant Rise, Michelle shares an honest look at the emotional and physical reality of preparing for surgery while living with chronic illness.

From iron infusions, low blood pressure, exhaustion, and hospitalizations to preparing her home, caring for Luna, navigating financial stress, and facing the unknown of what surgeons may find in the operating room, this episode captures the part of the journey that many people never see.

This isn’t an episode about having answers.

It’s about learning to live in the waiting.

Whether you’re facing surgery, living with chronic illness, supporting someone you love, or simply walking through an uncertain season of life, I hope this conversation reminds you that you don’t have to carry it alone.

Sometimes the most meaningful moments are the quiet ones we almost miss.

In this episode of the Radiant Rise Podcast, Michelle shares why slowing down has helped her appreciate life’s simple blessings—from enjoying a warm cup of coffee to finding comfort in the people and moments that make a house feel like home.

If you’ve been rushing through life, constantly chasing the next goal, this episode is a gentle reminder to pause, breathe, and embrace the beauty already surrounding you.

Because the ordinary moments often become the most extraordinary memories.

Radiant Rise | Michelle Baldwin is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Welcome back to Radiant Rise.

Today, I want to go deeper into something that has affected nearly every part of my life.

My health.

My body.

My work.

My relationships.

My emotional well-being.

And the way I imagine my future.

Today, we are talking about endometriosis.

Not the simplified version.

Not the version where someone says, “Oh, so you have painful periods.”

I want to talk about what it can actually feel like to live with this disease.

Because endometriosis is so much more than a painful period.

And for many of us, the pain does not disappear when the bleeding stops.

In my case, I no longer even have a uterus.

I had a hysterectomy.

And yet endometriosis is still part of my life.

That fact alone is something I wish more people understood.

Before I continue, I want to remind everyone that I am speaking from my own experience. Endometriosis can look different from one person to another, and this is not medical advice.

This is my story.

For me, endometriosis has meant years of pelvic pain.

Lower-back pain.

Abdominal pain.

Pain that can move, change, intensify, and sometimes become difficult to describe.

It has meant gastrointestinal symptoms.

It has meant pain that can affect my ability to sit comfortably, work, sleep, eat, use the bathroom, or focus on anything else.

It has meant appointments.

Scans.

Emergency-room visits.

Hospital stays.

Procedures.

Surgeries.

Medications.

And long stretches of uncertainty.

It has also meant constantly asking myself:

Is this symptom coming from endometriosis?

Is it coming from my digestive system?

Is it coming from adhesions?

Is it coming from chronic pain and central sensitization?

Is something new happening?

Or is this another part of a disease that has already affected so much of my body?

Living with overlapping medical conditions can make it extremely difficult to separate one source of pain from another.

Sometimes there is no simple answer.

Sometimes several things may be happening at once.

And that uncertainty can become exhausting all by itself.

In 2021, I had surgery where endometriosis was found and removed.

The procedure included treatment of pelvic endometriosis and adhesions, along with additional work involving areas around my reproductive organs and pelvic anatomy.

For a while, I hoped surgery would be the turning point.

You enter surgery hoping that once the visible disease is removed, you will finally be able to move forward.

But endometriosis does not always give you a clean ending.

In February 2023, I had another major surgery.

I underwent a hysterectomy, along with additional treatment for endometriosis and an ovarian cyst.

My uterus was removed, but my ovaries were retained.

That distinction matters.

A hysterectomy can stop uterine bleeding because the uterus is gone, but it does not automatically remove every endometriosis lesion or prevent every future symptom.

For me, the pain did not simply disappear.

The surgery changed my body.

It changed certain symptoms.

But it did not erase the disease from my story.

And that was emotionally difficult to accept.

One of the things people often assume is that a hysterectomy cures endometriosis.

I wish it were that simple.

When people hear that I had a hysterectomy, they sometimes assume the problem should be over.

But I continue experiencing chronic pelvic pain.

I continue having abdominal and lower-back pain.

I continue needing specialists.

I continue facing the possibility of more surgery.

That can feel incredibly isolating.

Because once people believe you have already received the “big solution,” they may struggle to understand why you are still sick.

You may even begin questioning yourself.

Why am I still hurting?

Why did the surgery not fix everything?

Why am I back in another doctor’s office?

Why does my body still feel like it is fighting me?

But a body is not a machine where one part is removed and every connected problem automatically disappears.

Endometriosis can involve tissue outside the uterus.

It can be connected to inflammation, scar tissue, adhesions, nerve sensitivity, and changes throughout the pelvis.

And every person’s disease is different.

For me, removing my uterus did not mean removing every source of pain.

One of the most frightening parts of my current journey is the possibility that endometriosis may be affecting areas near my bowel or deeper structures within my pelvis.

I have experienced severe gastrointestinal symptoms.

Urgent diarrhea.

Abdominal cramping.

Bleeding.

Pelvic pressure.

Pain during bowel movements.

Pain that can feel like several systems inside my body are reacting at once.

I also have other diagnosed gastrointestinal conditions, so I cannot say that every digestive symptom is caused by endometriosis.

That is part of what makes this so complicated.

But my endometriosis specialist has taken the possibility of deeper or bowel-related disease seriously enough to continue evaluating and planning my care.

And honestly, that brings both relief and fear.

Relief because someone is considering the full picture.

Fear because of what surgery may reveal.

When endometriosis may involve the bowel, ovaries, appendix, pelvic sidewalls, scar tissue, or other nearby structures, surgery can become more complicated than simply removing one visible lesion.

You begin preparing for possibilities.

What if more disease is found than expected?

What if an ovary cannot be saved?

What if another organ is involved?

What if recovery is longer than planned?

What if surgery helps some symptoms but not all of them?

These are not abstract questions when you are the person signing the consent forms.

I currently have another surgery scheduled.

And this one carries a great deal of emotional weight.

The plan includes looking for and treating endometriosis, but there are also possible decisions that may need to be made depending on what the surgeons find.

There is a possibility that my right ovary could need to be removed.

There is also a possibility of appendix involvement and removal if medically necessary.

Those possibilities are frightening.

Even when you understand why something may need to happen, that does not make it emotionally easy.

There is a strange kind of grief that comes with preparing for surgery when you do not know exactly what you will wake up without.

You try to be practical.

You review paperwork.

You ask questions.

You arrange time away from work.

You prepare your home.

You communicate with family.

But underneath all of that planning, there is fear.

Fear of complications.

Fear of pain.

Fear of what they may find.

Fear of what they may not find.

Fear that the surgery will confirm how serious the disease has become.

And fear that even after surgery, some pain may remain.

Endometriosis comes with grief that people do not always recognize.

There can be grief connected to fertility.

Grief connected to organs you have lost.

Grief connected to the possibility of losing more.

Grief for the energy you once had.

Grief for the version of yourself who did not have to plan life around symptoms.

Grief for missed workdays.

Canceled plans.

Interrupted intimacy.

Lost sleep.

Hospital visits.

And the constant need to explain yourself.

Sometimes I grieve how much of my life has been organized around pain.

Not because my life has no joy.

It does.

I have people I love.

I have meaningful work.

I have Radiant Rise.

I have writing, advocacy, and dreams I am still building.

But gratitude does not erase grief.

I can love my life and still mourn what illness has taken from it.

Both can be true.

Endometriosis pain does not politely wait for a convenient time.

It does not check whether I have work.

Whether I have plans.

Whether someone needs me.

Whether I already missed too many days.

Whether I can afford another medical bill.

It arrives when it arrives.

Sometimes it builds gradually.

Sometimes it hits hard.

Sometimes it feels like pressure, cramping, pulling, burning, stabbing, or a deep ache that settles into my pelvis and back.

Sometimes it becomes difficult to stand upright.

Sometimes I can still smile and function while hurting.

And that can make the illness even harder for other people to understand.

Because they see me speaking.

Working.

Writing.

Laughing.

Posting online.

They do not see what happens afterward.

They do not see me lying down.

Using heat.

Taking medication.

Canceling the rest of my day.

Trying to recover enough to do it again tomorrow.

A person can look composed and still be in significant pain.

One of the hardest realities is trying to maintain employment while living with an unpredictable disease.

My job does not stop because my pelvis hurts.

Tenants still need help.

Applications still need to be processed.

Calls still need to be answered.

People still expect me to be present, professional, and productive.

And most days, I want to be there.

I want to work.

I want financial stability.

I want to fulfill my responsibilities.

But there are days when my body makes that incredibly difficult.

There is also the anxiety of wondering how people perceive you.

Do they think I am unreliable?

Do they think I am exaggerating?

Do they understand that I am trying?

Do they realize how much effort it sometimes takes for me to simply remain upright and focused?

Living with chronic illness can make you feel as though you must constantly prove your work ethic while also proving that your illness is real.

That is an exhausting position to live in.

Endometriosis is also connected to a long history of people having their pain minimized.

You may be told that painful periods are normal.

That cramps are something everyone experiences.

That the symptoms are caused by stress.

That the tests look fine.

That the pain cannot possibly be as severe as you describe.

And when you hear those messages repeatedly, you can begin doubting your own body.

You start asking:

Am I overreacting?

Should I wait longer?

Should I stop talking about it?

Am I being difficult?

But pain is information.

Bleeding is information.

Changes in bowel or bladder function are information.

Severe fatigue is information.

A patient should not have to become critically ill before their symptoms deserve attention.

I have learned that advocating for yourself is not being dramatic.

It is not disrespectful.

It is not attention-seeking.

It is survival.

Living with chronic pain affects mental health.

The uncertainty affects mental health.

The medical appointments affect mental health.

The fear of another flare affects mental health.

The loss of control affects mental health.

There are days when endometriosis does not only hurt my body.

It hurts my confidence.

My patience.

My ability to imagine the future without fear.

It can make me feel trapped inside a body I cannot predict.

It can make me angry.

It can make me sad.

It can make me feel isolated, even when people love me.

And then there is the pressure to stay positive.

To be inspirational.

To turn pain into purpose.

I believe deeply in hope.

But hope does not require pretending.

I can choose hope and still admit that this disease has broken my heart in certain ways.

I can be strong and still be tired.

I can advocate and still be afraid.

I can be grateful and still feel angry about what my body has endured.

Support does not always require the perfect words.

Sometimes support looks like believing someone.

Not questioning whether their pain is “really that bad.”

Not comparing their illness to someone else’s.

Not offering a miracle cure they did not ask for.

Sometimes it means understanding that canceled plans are not rejection.

That fatigue is not laziness.

That needing accommodations is not special treatment.

That a person may be grieving even while they are still moving forward.

Support can look like asking:

“What would help you today?”

It can look like sitting nearby.

Helping with a meal.

Driving to an appointment.

Allowing someone to rest without making them feel guilty.

Or simply saying:

“I believe you.”

Those words can mean more than people realize.

I want people to understand that endometriosis is not just a difficult menstrual cycle.

It can remain active and painful even after major surgery.

It can affect people who no longer menstruate.

It can involve more than reproductive organs.

It can affect digestion, mobility, intimacy, sleep, employment, relationships, and mental health.

It can require multiple surgeries.

And even after treatment, some people continue living with chronic pain.

I also want people to understand that the severity of pain does not always match what is visible from the outside.

Someone can be dressed.

Working.

Speaking clearly.

Smiling.

And still be fighting intense pain.

The absence of visible proof does not mean the absence of suffering.

To the person listening who has spent years trying to get someone to believe you:

I believe you.

To the person who is waiting for surgery:

Your fear is understandable.

To the person who had surgery and is still in pain:

You did not fail.

To the person grieving a body, future, or choice that changed:

Your grief is valid.

To the person who feels guilty because illness has affected work, relationships, parenting, or plans:

You did not choose this disease.

You are doing the best you can inside circumstances you never asked for.

And to the person who is newly diagnosed:

Your life is not over.

Your path may look different than you imagined.

There may be difficult days.

But you are still you.

You are still worthy.

You still deserve love, support, proper medical care, and a future that holds more than pain.

Right now, I am preparing.

Preparing emotionally.

Preparing physically.

Preparing my family.

Preparing for work leave.

Preparing questions for my doctors.

Preparing for the possibility that surgery may bring answers I want—and answers I do not.

I am hopeful.

But I am also scared.

I am ready for relief.

But I know recovery may be difficult.

I want clarity.

But I understand that surgery may reveal a complicated picture.

And I am trying to give myself permission to feel all of that.

I do not need to be fearless to move forward.

Courage is not the absence of fear.

Sometimes courage is signing the paperwork while your hands are shaking.

Sometimes it is showing up to the hospital even though you know how much recovery may hurt.

Sometimes it is trusting yourself enough to say:

I deserve a better quality of life.

Endometriosis has changed my body.

It has changed my plans.

It has taken time, energy, comfort, and pieces of the future I once imagined.

But it has not taken everything.

It has not taken my voice.

It has not taken my ability to love.

It has not taken my purpose.

And it has not taken my hope.

I do not know exactly what the next surgery will reveal.

I do not know what recovery will look like.

I do not know which symptoms may improve or which ones may remain.

But I know that I will continue asking questions.

I will continue advocating.

I will continue telling the truth about this disease.

Because endometriosis is more than a painful period.

It is a whole-body, whole-life experience for many of us.

And everyone living through it deserves to be believed.

Until next time, be gentle with yourself.

Listen when your body tells you something is wrong.

Keep asking questions.

And remember:

Your pain is real. Your story matters. And you are more than what this disease has taken from you.

This is Michelle Baldwin, and this is Radiant Rise.

Healing. Hope. You.

Radiant Rise | Michelle Baldwin is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Welcome back to Radiant Rise.

I’m recording this episode from home.

And honestly, even saying those words out loud feels emotional.

Because the last time I spoke to you, I was sitting in a hospital bed in the middle of the night. It was around four in the morning. I had just been awakened for another round of bloodwork, and I couldn’t fall back asleep.

I was exhausted.

I was scared.

I was frustrated.

I was hurting.

And I was still waiting for answers.

From the very beginning, I promised that Radiant Rise would be real, raw, and unfiltered.

I promised that I would share the good, the bad, and everything in between.

So today, I’m keeping that promise.

This is not going to be a perfectly polished version of what happened. I’m still physically tired, emotionally drained, and trying to process everything.

But I am home.

I was discharged from the hospital.

And I want to talk honestly about what that means, because being discharged does not always mean being healed.

It does not mean the pain is gone.

It does not mean every question has been answered.

It does not mean your body immediately returns to normal the moment you walk through your front door.

Sometimes discharge simply means that you are considered stable enough to continue recovering somewhere else.

And that is where I am right now.

Recovering.

Waiting.

Following up.

Trying to understand my body.

And learning, once again, that healing is rarely simple.

Before I continue, I want to remind everyone that I am sharing my personal medical experience. I am not giving medical advice, and another person’s symptoms, diagnosis, or treatment may look completely different from mine.

This is simply my truth.

The last couple of weeks have felt like one long medical emergency, interrupted by very brief attempts to return to normal life.

My symptoms became severe.

I was experiencing intense abdominal pain, especially in my lower-right abdomen, along with lower-back pain.

I had repeated episodes of diarrhea, including bloody diarrhea, and I became weak and lightheaded.

At one point, I felt like I might pass out.

My body was clearly telling me that something was wrong.

I went to the emergency room, where I had bloodwork, imaging, ultrasounds, monitoring, medication, and hours of waiting.

Eventually, I was admitted.

During that hospital stay, I received medication to help control the pain because it had reached a level I could no longer manage by simply trying to push through it.

My blood pressure was also low at times, and my entire body felt depleted.

After several days, I was discharged.

And like so many people who live with chronic illness, my first instinct was to think about everything waiting for me.

Work.

Family.

Appointments.

Responsibilities.

Radiant Rise.

The podcast.

My writing.

All the things I wanted—or felt obligated—to return to immediately.

But my body had other plans.

I was home, but I was not well.

The pain continued.

The exhaustion continued.

The stomach symptoms continued.

The medication I had been prescribed made me extremely groggy, so I felt caught between needing relief and needing to remain functional.

That is a very difficult position to be in.

You want the pain to stop, but you also want to stay awake.

You want to rest, but you are thinking about every responsibility you are missing.

You want to recover, but you feel pressure to prove that you are ready to return to normal.

My body was not ready.

Within days, ongoing medical concerns led me back to the hospital.

And I was admitted again.

I want to begin with the difficult parts, because those are often the things people do not see after someone posts, “I’m finally home.”

The bad was the pain.

The kind of pain that makes it difficult to think clearly, sleep comfortably, or focus on anything beyond making it through the next hour.

The bad was the repeated bloodwork.

Being awakened in the middle of the night for more labs.

Watching new bruises appear on my arms.

Trying to rest while knowing that someone could enter the room at any moment for medication, vital signs, testing, or another round of questions.

The bad was the loss of privacy.

In the hospital, your body no longer feels entirely like your own.

People need to examine you.

Ask deeply personal questions.

Monitor what you eat and drink.

Track your symptoms.

And you repeat the same story to nurse after nurse and doctor after doctor, sometimes wondering whether the full picture is actually reaching the next person responsible for your care.

The bad was the waiting.

Waiting for results.

Waiting for a doctor.

Waiting for another test.

Waiting to learn whether something new had been found.

Waiting to know whether I would be discharged.

Waiting to understand what I was supposed to do next.

The bad was the uncertainty.

There is something terrifying about knowing that your body is struggling while not having one clear explanation that ties everything together.

People often assume the most difficult part of illness is receiving a diagnosis.

But sometimes not having a complete answer is just as frightening.

There is another part of this hospital stay that I need to explain more clearly, because this did not begin with a new or unexplained procedure.

On May 1, my colorectal surgeon performed hemorrhoid banding because hemorrhoids were believed to be the source of my ongoing bleeding.

For a few days after the procedure, the bleeding improved.

Then it came back.

About two weeks later, I followed up with my colorectal surgeon and explained that I was still bleeding. I was told that some continued bleeding could be normal for up to a month after the procedure.

I tried to be patient.

I tried to give my body time to heal.

But now more than two months have passed, and the bleeding has not stopped.

It has continued, and at times it has been heavy.

I attempted to get another appointment with my colorectal surgeon, but she did not have availability until August.

So I did what I believe any person experiencing ongoing pain and significant bleeding would do.

I went to the hospital for help.

I was not trying to bypass my surgeon.

I was not asking another doctor to take over my long-term treatment plan.

I was not demanding that someone repeat or reverse the procedure.

I was asking for an evaluation of what was happening to me now—more than two months after the banding—because I was still bleeding, still in pain, and unable to obtain a timely appointment with the specialist who had treated me.

During my admission, I experienced an episode of heavy bleeding that hospital staff personally witnessed.

This was not something I was only reporting from home.

It happened in front of them.

They saw it.

And even after that episode, I was told that because another surgeon had performed the hemorrhoid banding at a different hospital, no doctor at the hospital where I was currently admitted would “touch me.”

Those were the words used.

Hearing that was devastating.

The procedure had taken place more than two months earlier.

The bleeding had returned after only a few days of improvement.

The follow-up I needed was not available until August.

And I was now sitting inside a hospital, actively bleeding, after going there because I needed help and answers.

I was not asking anyone to interfere with another doctor’s work.

I was asking someone to evaluate whether what was happening was still an expected part of recovery, whether something had changed, or whether another source of bleeding needed to be considered.

Instead, I felt as though the fact that another surgeon had performed a previous procedure became a reason not to meaningfully address the symptoms happening in front of them.

I felt trapped between two medical systems.

My surgeon was unavailable for a timely appointment, yet the hospital I turned to for immediate help made me feel that my condition belonged to someone else.

That experience made me feel abandoned.

It made me feel unsafe.

It left me wondering what I was supposed to do.

Wait until August while continuing to bleed?

Return home and hope it did not become worse?

Wait until I became unstable before someone felt able or willing to intervene?

Those questions have stayed with me.

I understand that hospitals have different specialists, privileges, policies, and relationships with outside physicians.

I understand that one doctor may be cautious about interfering with another surgeon’s treatment plan.

But there has to be a difference between taking over someone’s long-term surgical care and evaluating a patient who is currently experiencing significant bleeding.

From where I was sitting, that difference did not seem to matter.

I want to be careful and accurate about how I describe this.

I can only speak about what I experienced, what hospital staff witnessed, and what I was told.

But I know how it made me feel.

Dismissed.

Frightened.

Powerless.

And completely unsure of where I was supposed to turn for help.

I did what patients are told to do.

I followed up after the procedure.

I waited through the expected recovery period.

I tried to schedule another appointment.

And when the pain and bleeding continued beyond that period, I went to the hospital.

I should not have been made to feel that seeking help was the wrong decision.

A patient should not feel punished because a previous procedure was performed at another hospital.

A patient should not be left without meaningful options because their specialist has no timely availability.

And a patient should not feel that active symptoms are someone else’s responsibility simply because another doctor was involved earlier in their care.

Sometimes the hardest part of being sick is not only what your body is doing.

Sometimes it is doing everything you are supposed to do and still finding yourself caught between doctors, hospitals, and systems while your symptoms continue.

The bad was also the emotional weight of everything.

I felt afraid.

Frustrated.

Helpless.

Angry.

Overwhelmed.

And guilty.

Guilty because I was missing work.

Guilty because other people had to help me.

Guilty because I could not keep up with everything I had planned.

Guilty because I was tired.

Guilty because my body required care.

Chronic illness can make you apologize for circumstances you never chose.

And I am trying to stop doing that.

I did not choose to become sick.

I did not choose the pain.

I did not choose the bleeding.

I did not choose the hospital stays.

I did not choose to have my plans interrupted.

Needing medical care is not a personal failure.

Even with everything that hurt, frightened, and frustrated me, I also promised to share the good.

Acknowledging what went wrong does not mean I cannot recognize the people who helped me or the care that did make a difference.

Both truths can exist at the same time.

The good was receiving pain relief when my body desperately needed it.

The good was being monitored when my blood pressure, heart rate, symptoms, and overall condition required attention.

The good was having medical professionals continue checking my labs and evaluating parts of what was happening instead of expecting me to endure every part of it alone.

The good was the individual nurses, technicians, doctors, and staff members who showed kindness.

The people who explained what they were doing.

The people who listened.

The people who treated me like a human being instead of just another room number.

The good was also the people outside the hospital who showed up for me.

The people who checked on me.

The people who helped with practical things.

The people who supported my family.

The people who reminded me that I did not have to handle everything by myself.

The people who cared about Michelle the person—not only Michelle the employee, author, advocate, creator, partner, mother, or person who always tries to keep everything moving.

The good was realizing that I have become stronger at advocating for myself.

Not because I never get scared.

Not because I always know exactly what to ask.

But because I keep speaking.

I keep describing what I feel.

I keep asking questions.

I keep following up.

I keep requesting records.

I keep trying to make sure that every doctor involved in my care understands what has been happening.

The good was being home with the people I love.

That means more to me than I can fully express.

After days of hospital rooms, alarms, blood draws, interrupted sleep, fear, and uncertainty, being back near the people who make me feel safe has been one of the most meaningful parts of coming home.

Being able to hear familiar voices, sit in my own space, and simply be surrounded by love reminded me that home is not only a place.

It is the people who help you breathe a little easier when everything feels overwhelming.

It is being able to rest without feeling completely alone.

It is knowing that even when my body feels weak, I am still held by the people who love me.

Being home with my loved ones does not erase the pain, the unanswered questions, or everything that happened in the hospital.

But it gives me comfort.

It gives me strength.

And right now, that means more to me than I can put into words.

The good was coming home.

Walking out of the hospital.

Returning to my own bed.

Being around familiar sounds.

Having more control over my environment.

Not being awakened every few hours for another blood draw or vital check.

Those things may seem small until you have spent days wishing for them.

And then there is everything in between.

The part that does not fit neatly into “good” or “bad.”

I am grateful to be home, but I am still recovering.

I am relieved to have been discharged, but I remain concerned about my health.

I am happy to be out of the hospital, but part of me is afraid the symptoms could become severe again.

I want to move forward, but my body is telling me to slow down.

I want to feel like myself again, but I am not entirely sure what “myself” looks like immediately after two hospital stays.

That is the in-between.

It is gratitude mixed with fear.

Hope mixed with exhaustion.

Relief mixed with uncertainty.

Coming home does not erase what happened.

Your body remembers.

Your nervous system remembers.

Your mind continues replaying moments from the hospital.

A symptom returns, and you wonder whether it is part of recovery or the beginning of another emergency.

You look at the bruises from IVs and blood draws.

You see the discharge papers.

You review medication instructions.

You check upcoming appointments.

You try to explain everything to your family, your employer, and your doctors while you are still trying to understand it yourself.

That is the part of recovery people do not always talk about.

The hospital stay ends.

But the medical journey continues.

One of the most important things I have learned is that discharge is not a finish line.

It is a transition.

You leave one form of care and enter another.

Now there are follow-up appointments.

Records to send.

Symptoms to monitor.

Questions to ask.

Medication effects to manage.

Decisions to make.

And daily life is still demanding your attention.

There can be pressure to immediately return to the person you were before the hospital.

But my body has been through a lot.

It deserves time.

It deserves patience.

It deserves gentleness.

Recovery is still work, even when it happens quietly at home.

Resting is part of recovery.

Eating when you are able is part of recovery.

Drinking enough fluids is part of recovery.

Taking medication as directed is part of recovery.

Following up with your doctors is part of recovery.

Sleeping is part of recovery.

Saying, “I cannot do that today,” can also be part of recovery.

I wish I could end this episode by saying that every question was answered.

I cannot.

There are still things my doctors and I need to discuss.

There are still symptoms requiring follow-up.

There are still appointments ahead.

There are still decisions connected to my ongoing care and my upcoming surgery.

And I am still carrying the memory of being told that no doctor there would touch me, even after hospital staff witnessed the bleeding themselves.

Being discharged does not erase that.

I am trying not to force certainty where it does not yet exist.

That is difficult for me.

I want a clear answer.

A clear plan.

A clear reason.

A clear timeline.

But medicine and chronic illness rarely work that neatly.

So right now, I am focusing on the next step—not every step at once.

The next appointment.

The next conversation.

The next question.

The next day.

Sometimes that is the only way to move through medical uncertainty without becoming completely overwhelmed.

This experience reminded me that listening to my body matters.

I have spent years pushing through pain, fatigue, and symptoms because I did not want to disappoint anyone.

But there are moments when pushing through is not strength.

It can become dangerous.

Strength can look like going to the emergency room.

Strength can look like telling a doctor, “Something is wrong.”

Strength can look like asking someone to stay with you.

Strength can look like taking time away from work.

Strength can look like sleeping all day because your body has nothing left to give.

Strength can look like crying.

Strength can look like admitting that you are scared.

Strength can look like documenting what happened when you felt dismissed.

And strength can look like sharing the truth before the story has a perfect ending.

To the person listening who recently came home from the hospital:

You do not have to prove that you are fully recovered.

To the person waiting for answers:

Your fear is understandable.

To the person who feels guilty for needing care:

You are not a burden.

To the person whose body has changed their plans:

Your worth has not changed.

To the person who keeps saying, “At least I’m home,” while quietly struggling:

You are allowed to feel grateful and still admit that this is hard.

To the person who felt dismissed or abandoned while seeking care:

What happened to you matters.

You deserve to be heard.

You deserve clear communication.

You deserve to ask questions.

And you deserve to document and discuss your concerns with the appropriate people.

Two truths can exist at the same time.

You can be thankful and exhausted.

Relieved and afraid.

Hopeful and uncertain.

Strong and hurting.

Being honest about the difficult parts does not erase gratitude.

It simply tells the whole story.

Right now, I am home.

I am resting.

I am trying to regain some strength.

I am reviewing what happened and making sure the appropriate doctors receive my hospital records.

I am preparing for follow-up appointments.

I am continuing to monitor how I feel.

I am trying to understand what comes next.

I am taking things slowly, even when part of me wants to jump back into everything all at once.

And I am reminding myself that recovery is not laziness.

It is not wasted time.

It is not something I need to apologize for.

My body is asking for care.

I am trying to listen.

Thank you for giving me the space to share this.

Thank you for caring about the good, the bad, and everything in between.

Thank you for being patient during the days when I cannot write, record, post, or respond the way I normally would.

Radiant Rise was never created to show only the beautiful moments.

It was created for the hospital rooms.

The sleepless nights.

The unanswered questions.

The moments when you feel heard.

And the moments when you feel dismissed.

The difficult recoveries.

The days when hope is loud.

And the days when hope is barely a whisper.

Today, hope looks like being home.

It looks like taking the next breath.

It looks like accepting help.

It looks like being surrounded by the people I love.

It looks like speaking honestly about what happened.

It looks like allowing my body to rest without treating that rest like failure.

I do not know exactly what comes next.

But I am still here.

I am still advocating.

I am still asking questions.

I am still healing.

And I am still choosing hope—one day at a time.

Until next time, please be gentle with yourself.

Listen to your body.

Speak up when something does not feel right.

Give yourself grace for everything you cannot do today.

And remember:

Being discharged does not always mean being healed. Being dismissed does not mean your experience was not real. And coming home can still be the beginning of the next part of healing.

This is Michelle Baldwin, and this is Radiant Rise.

Healing. Hope. You.

⸻

Thank you for listening and for continuing to support me through this difficult medical season. I am home and grateful, especially to be surrounded by the people I love, but recovery, follow-up care, and unanswered questions remain. I may respond more slowly while I rest, attend appointments, share records with my doctors, and prepare for the next steps in my care.

Welcome back to Radiant Rise.

It is a little after 4:00 in the morning, and I am recording this while sitting on my hospital bed.

I was woken up not long ago so the medical team could draw yet another series of labs. The room is quiet again, the lights are low, and I cannot fall back asleep.

So instead of lying here alone with everything running through my mind, I decided to talk to you.

This episode is not polished.

It is not perfectly planned.

I do not have a meaningful lesson neatly prepared or a hopeful ending tied together with a bow.

I am recording this from the middle of it.

The last 15 days have been physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausting. They have included severe pain, bloody diarrhea, weakness, lightheadedness, hospital stays, appointments, medications, tests, unanswered questions, and now another admission.

Tonight—or technically this morning—I am tired.

I am tired in a way that sleep alone does not fix.

I am tired of blood draws.

I am tired of being awakened for vital signs and testing.

I am tired of explaining my symptoms repeatedly.

I am tired of waiting for answers.

And I am tired of trying to convince myself that I am okay when I am not.

But I promised that Radiant Rise would be real, raw, and unfiltered.

So this is the truth of where I am right now:

I am sitting in a hospital bed after 4:00 in the morning, unable to sleep, trying to process everything my body has been through over the last 15 days.

I am not sharing this for sympathy.

I am sharing it because this is what chronic illness can look like behind the scenes.

It is not always an inspirational quote.

It is not always a brave smile.

Sometimes it is fluorescent hospital lights.

Bruised arms from repeated blood draws.

Interrupted sleep.

Fear.

Frustration.

Pain.

And quietly wondering how much more your body can handle.

Sometimes the most honest thing you can say is:

I am still here—but this is hard.

Before I go any further, I want to make it clear that I am sharing my personal medical experience. I am not offering medical advice, and everyone’s health situation is different.

But this is what has been happening to me.

About two weeks ago, my body reached a point where I could no longer keep pushing through.

I was experiencing severe abdominal pain, especially in my lower-right abdomen, along with intense lower-back pain.

I had more than ten episodes of diarrhea, including bloody diarrhea. I became weak, lightheaded, and felt as though I might pass out.

I went to the emergency room.

There were labs.

Ultrasounds.

Imaging.

IV fluids.

Pain medication.

Hours of questions.

Hours of waiting.

And eventually, I was admitted to the hospital.

That hospital stay lasted several days.

During that time, doctors continued testing and monitoring me while trying to manage the pain and understand what was happening.

My blood pressure was running low at times, and my body felt completely drained.

There is something frightening about living inside a body that is clearly telling you something is wrong while you are still waiting for a clear explanation.

You lie in a hospital bed listening to machines.

You watch people enter and leave the room.

You answer the same questions again and again.

You wait for the next test.

The next result.

The next doctor.

The next possibility.

And somewhere inside yourself, you keep hoping that this will finally be the moment when everything makes sense.

Eventually, I was discharged.

And like so many people living with chronic illness, I immediately began thinking about everything I needed to return to.

Work.

Appointments.

My family.

My responsibilities.

Radiant Rise.

The podcast.

The blog.

Everything that continues moving, even when your body has forced you to stop.

I tried to return to some version of normal.

But my body was not ready.

I was still dealing with pain, exhaustion, weakness, stomach symptoms, and the emotional weight of everything that had happened.

I was prescribed pain medication after leaving the hospital, but it made me extremely groggy.

I found myself trying to balance two difficult choices:

Do I take something strong enough to help control the pain and risk barely being able to function?

Or do I avoid it and try to tolerate pain that has already become overwhelming?

There were moments when I became frustrated with myself because I wanted to do more.

I wanted to work.

I wanted to write.

I wanted to record.

I wanted to keep my commitments.

I wanted to feel like myself again.

But wanting your body to cooperate and having your body actually cooperate are two completely different things.

Over the days that followed, I continued attending appointments and trying to understand what was happening.

Yesterday morning, I went to another medical appointment.

After evaluating what was going on, the recommendation was that I return to the hospital.

So I came back.

And I was admitted again.

That is where I am now.

Back in a hospital room.

Back to bloodwork.

Back to monitoring.

Back to interrupted sleep.

Back to waiting.

Back to wondering what the next test or conversation will bring.

Some of my blood-pressure and heart-rate readings have also been concerning.

One of those readings was taken while I was lying down—not standing, walking, or physically exerting myself.

I think that detail matters because my body was not reacting to activity.

I was resting.

And still, something did not feel right.

The last 15 days have been exhausting in every possible way.

Physically.

Mentally.

Emotionally.

There have been moments of fear.

Moments of frustration.

Moments when I have wondered how many times I can rebuild after my body knocks me down again.

There have also been moments of guilt.

Guilt for missing work.

Guilt for needing help.

Guilt for not posting consistently.

Guilt for sleeping.

Guilt for being unable to give everyone the version of me they are accustomed to receiving.

And I know I am not the only person who feels that way.

When you live with chronic illness, you can begin apologizing for things that are not your fault.

You apologize for canceling plans.

For resting.

For being tired.

For needing help.

For not responding quickly.

For not being productive.

For having a body that requires more care than other people may understand.

But I am trying to remind myself of something I say to this community all the time:

Rest is not failure.

Needing care is not weakness.

Being sick is not something I need to apologize for.

I do not know yet what the full answer will be.

I do not know what the next few days will look like.

I do not know when my body will feel steady again.

And I am not going to pretend that I have already reached some beautiful moment of clarity just because I am recording this episode.

Right now, I am still living through it.

That is part of the honesty of Radiant Rise.

Sometimes we share the lesson after we have healed.

Other times, we speak while we are still sitting in the hospital room trying to understand what the lesson could possibly be.

This is one of those times.

I wanted to share this update because I do not want anyone listening to think that I disappeared, stopped caring, or gave up on everything I am building.

I have been fighting for my health.

I have been trying to listen to my body.

I have been asking questions.

I have been showing up for appointments.

I have been trying to advocate for myself, even when I am exhausted.

I have been doing the best I can with circumstances I did not choose.

Radiant Rise was created for moments like this.

Not only for the hopeful days when everything feels possible.

But also for the frightening days when getting through the next hour is the victory.

This community was never supposed to be built around perfection.

It was built around truth.

And the truth today is that I am tired.

I am scared.

I am frustrated.

I am still in pain.

I do not have every answer.

But I am also still here.

Still asking questions.

Still advocating for myself.

Still allowing the people who love me to support me.

Still choosing hope, even when hope feels quieter than usual.

To anyone listening from a hospital bed, a doctor’s waiting room, your bedroom, your car, or anywhere else where you are trying to hold yourself together:

I see you.

You are not failing because your body needs rest.

You are not weak because you are frightened.

You are not a burden because you need care.

You do not have to turn your suffering into inspiration every single day.

You do not always have to find the positive lesson.

You do not always have to be the strong one.

Sometimes you are allowed to simply survive the moment you are in.

That is enough.

For now, I am taking things one test, one conversation, one breath, and one day at a time.

Thank you for being patient with me.

Thank you for caring about me as a person and not only as someone who creates content.

Thank you for continuing to be part of Radiant Rise while I navigate this difficult chapter.

I will share more when I know more and when I have the strength to do so.

Until then, please take care of yourself.

Listen when your body whispers so it does not have to scream.

Give yourself grace for what you cannot accomplish today.

And remember:

Even during the days when hope feels small, it is still there.

This is Michelle Baldwin, and this is Radiant Rise.

Healing. Hope. You.

Welcome back to Radiant Rise.

I’m so glad you’re here.

Today’s episode is one I think almost everyone can relate to because it revolves around a question we hear all the time…

“How are you?”

And how many times have we answered…

“I’m fine.”

Even when we weren’t.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that struggling should be hidden.

We smile through the pain.

We tell everyone we’re okay.

We keep working.

We keep showing up.

We keep taking care of everyone else.

And then we wonder why we’re exhausted.

Not just physically…

Emotionally.

Mentally.

Spiritually.

Pretending takes energy.

Sometimes more energy than simply being honest.

There have been so many moments in my life when someone asked how I was doing…

And I automatically answered…

“I’m fine.”

Not because I was.

But because I didn’t know how to explain everything.

How do you explain chronic pain?

How do you explain emotional exhaustion?

How do you explain grief?

How do you explain a battle that has no visible scars?

Sometimes “I’m fine” felt easier.

But over time, I realized something.

Every time I hid my struggles…

I felt a little more alone.

Healing hasn’t taught me to be strong all the time.

It’s taught me that honesty is strength.

Sometimes courage looks like saying…

“Today is hard.”

“I need to rest.”

“I’m overwhelmed.”

“I need help.”

Those words don’t make us weak.

They make us human.

Maybe today…

You’re not okay.

Maybe you’re overwhelmed.

Maybe you’re exhausted.

Maybe you’re grieving.

Maybe you’re carrying something nobody else knows about.

If that’s you…

I want you to hear this.

You don’t have to earn your worth by pretending you’re okay.

You are worthy of compassion on your hardest days.

Not just your best ones.

Before we end today’s episode, I want to leave you with this reminder.

It’s okay to not be okay.

It’s okay to ask for help.

It’s okay to rest.

It’s okay to feel.

And it’s okay if your healing doesn’t happen overnight.

Take one step.

One breath.

One moment at a time.

Thank you for spending this time with me.

Until next time…

Be gentle with yourself.

Give yourself grace.

And remember…

You never have to face life’s invisible battles alone.

Welcome back to Radiant Rise.

I’m so grateful you’re here.

Over the last two episodes, we’ve talked about what Radiant Rise is and I’ve shared a little about the person behind the microphone.

Today, I want to talk about something that has shaped my life more than almost anything else…

Invisible battles.

When people hear the word “battle,” they often imagine something obvious.

A cast.

A wheelchair.

Bandages.

Something they can see.

But some of the hardest battles leave no visible evidence.

Chronic illness.

Chronic pain.

Depression.

Anxiety.

PTSD.

ADHD.

Autism.

Grief.

Burnout.

Loneliness.

Trauma.

These are all things someone can carry while still smiling at work…

Going to school…

Taking care of their family…

Or answering, “I’m fine,” because it’s easier than explaining everything.

There have been so many days where people looked at me and thought…

“You look fine.”

What they couldn’t see…

Was the pain.

The fatigue.

The doctor’s appointments.

The fear.

The tears after getting home.

Or the mental energy it took just to make it through the day.

And I know I’m not the only one.

Maybe you’ve experienced that too.

Maybe someone has questioned your pain because they couldn’t see it.

Maybe you’ve questioned yourself because of it.

If so…

I want you to hear this today.

Your experience is real, even if it’s invisible to someone else.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is this…

We never truly know what someone else is carrying.

The cashier who seems distracted.

The coworker who’s quieter than usual.

The parent who looks exhausted.

The friend who stopped replying to messages.

They may be fighting a battle we’ll never know about.

That’s why kindness matters.

Not because everyone deserves perfection…

But because everyone deserves compassion.

If you’re listening today and you’re carrying something invisible…

I want you to know…

I believe you.

I see you.

You don’t have to prove your pain here.

You don’t have to convince anyone that your struggle is real.

You belong here exactly as you are.

Before we end today’s episode, I’d like to leave you with a challenge.

The next time you interact with someone…

Choose kindness.

Choose patience.

Choose compassion.

Because you never know whether your smile, your words, or your understanding might be the thing that helps someone make it through another day.

Thank you for spending this time with me.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself.

Give yourself grace.

And remember…

The hardest battles are often the ones no one sees—but you never have to face yours alone.

Welcome back to Radiant Rise.

If you listened to the first episode, thank you for taking that first step with me.

Today I thought I’d answer a question that you might already be wondering…

Who is Michelle?

Not the author.

Not the advocate.

Not the person behind a microphone.

Just…Michelle.

Because if we’re going to spend time together every week, I think it’s only fair that you know who’s sitting on the other side of this conversation.

I’ve Never Been Good at Talking About Myself

I’ll be honest…

Talking about myself has never come naturally.

Writing does.

Writing gives me time to think.

To process.

To find the right words.

Speaking them out loud is a little scarier.

But if Radiant Rise is going to be built on honesty, then I can’t ask you to be vulnerable if I’m not willing to be vulnerable first.

Like so many people, my life hasn’t gone the way I imagined it would.

There have been seasons filled with joy…

And seasons filled with pain.

For years I struggled with symptoms that people couldn’t see.

Pain.

Exhaustion.

Brain fog.

Medical appointments.

Questions without answers.

Being told things were “normal.”

Feeling like maybe I was imagining what my body was screaming at me.

Eventually I received diagnoses that helped explain parts of my journey, but they didn’t magically make life easier.

They simply gave names to battles I’d already been fighting.

Along the way I also learned I have ADHD and later received an autism diagnosis as an adult.

Looking back, so many pieces of my life suddenly made sense.

Things I had blamed myself for…

Things I thought were character flaws…

Were actually pieces of how my brain has always worked.

That realization didn’t erase the challenges.

But it helped me begin replacing shame with understanding.

Writing became my safe place.

It became the place where I could say the things I didn’t always know how to say out loud.

I never imagined that those words would eventually become books…

Or a blog…

Or a community…

Or now…

A podcast.

Radiant Rise didn’t start because I had all the answers.

It started because I knew what it felt like to desperately need someone to say…

“I understand.”

My goal isn’t to tell you how to live your life.

It’s to walk alongside you while you live yours.

Some weeks we’ll celebrate together.

Some weeks we’ll cry together.

Some weeks we’ll learn something new.

Some weeks we’ll simply remind each other that getting through today is enough.

If this podcast can become a place where even one person feels seen…

Then every moment spent writing, recording, and sharing will be worth it.

Before we end today’s episode, I want to leave you with this.

Your story doesn’t have to look like mine to matter.

Your pain doesn’t have to match someone else’s to be real.

And your healing doesn’t have to happen on anyone else’s timeline.

Thank you for spending a little time with me today.

If something in this episode resonated with you, I’d love to hear from you.

Until next time…

Be kind to yourself.

Give yourself grace.

And remember…

You are not alone.

Welcome to the very first episode of Radiant Rise. My name is Michelle Baldwin, and before we talk about anything else, I just want to say…thank you.

Thank you for pressing play.

Out of all the podcasts you could have listened to today, you chose to spend a little bit of your time here with me. That means more than I can put into words.

I have to be honest with you…

I’m really nervous recording this.

Writing has always been my safe place. It’s where I’ve shared my heart, processed some of the hardest seasons of my life, and found words when speaking them out loud felt impossible.

Sitting here with a microphone is a completely different experience.

I’m wondering if I’ll stumble over my words.

I’m wondering if my voice will shake.

I’m wondering if I’ll forget what I wanted to say.

And if I’m being completely honest, there’s a part of me that’s wondering if anyone will even listen.

But then I reminded myself why I started Radiant Rise in the first place.

It was never about being perfect.

It was never about having all the answers.

It has always been about showing up honestly.

So that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

If you’ve followed my writing for a while, you’ll probably notice something about this podcast that’s different from a lot of others.

You may hear my dog, Luna, bark because someone knocked on the door.

You might hear kids laughing outside.

A motorcycle driving past.

Someone talking in the background.

Maybe my chair squeaks.

Maybe I lose my train of thought for a second.

And you know what?

I’m okay with that.

Because life isn’t recorded inside a perfect studio.

Life happens.

Healing happens.

The messy moments happen.

And I don’t want to edit those moments out just to create the illusion that life is always quiet and put together.

I want this podcast to feel like you’re sitting across the table from me with a cup of coffee.

Just two people having an honest conversation.

Because that’s what Radiant Rise has always been.

Which brings me to the question I wanted to answer today…

What is Radiant Rise?

People often think it’s my website.

Or my blog.

Or my books.

Or my Substack.

Or now…my podcast.

But Radiant Rise is so much more than any one of those things.

Radiant Rise is a community.

It’s a reminder that no matter what you’re carrying, you don’t have to carry it by yourself.

It’s a place for the people whose battles aren’t always visible.

The people living with chronic illness.

Chronic pain.

Mental health challenges.

Neurodivergence.

Grief.

Burnout.

Trauma.

Or simply the weight of trying to hold everything together while the world keeps expecting you to keep going.

I know what that feels like.

I’ve lived it.

And I still do.

There are days when my body hurts.

Days when my mind feels exhausted.

Days when I wonder if anyone really understands what life is like behind the scenes.

Maybe you’ve had those days too.

Maybe that’s why you found this podcast.

If so…

I’m really glad you’re here.

Radiant Rise isn’t about pretending everything gets better overnight.

I don’t believe healing works that way.

Some days healing looks like getting out of bed.

Some days it looks like asking for help.

Some days it looks like resting instead of pushing yourself.

Some days it looks like laughing after you’ve spent hours crying.

Healing isn’t one big moment.

It’s thousands of tiny moments where we choose to keep going.

That’s what this podcast will be about.

Some episodes will be educational.

Some will be deeply personal.

Some will be conversations with incredible guests.

Some might simply be me checking in with you after a hard week.

We’ll talk about chronic illness.

Mental health.

ADHD.

Autism.

Endometriosis.

Fibromyalgia.

IBS.

Medical gaslighting.

Caregiver burnout.

Relationships.

Grief.

Healing.

Hope.

Books that inspire us.

Life lessons.

And probably a little bit of everything in between.

But above all else…

We’re going to be real.

I’m not interested in pretending I have life figured out.

I don’t.

I’m still learning.

Still growing.

Still healing.

And maybe that’s exactly why this podcast exists.

Because we’re allowed to grow together.

One of the reasons I wanted to start this podcast is because I know not everyone consumes content the same way.

Some people love reading blog posts.

Others listen while driving to work.

Some listen while folding laundry, sitting in a doctor’s office, walking their dog, or lying awake when sleep won’t come.

I wanted Radiant Rise to be available in whatever format helps someone feel supported.

If reading is your thing, I’ll still be writing.

If listening feels easier, I’m so happy you’re here.

Wherever you found me, I hope you know this:

You belong here.

You don’t have to earn your place.

You don’t have to explain your pain.

You don’t have to prove how hard you’re trying.

You don’t have to hide the parts of yourself that you’ve spent years feeling embarrassed about.

This is a place where honesty is welcome.

Where healing doesn’t have to look perfect.

Where we celebrate progress instead of perfection.

And where no one has to pretend they’re okay just to make other people comfortable.

As we wrap up this first episode, I want to leave you with one thought.

You don’t have to have everything figured out to begin.

I certainly don’t.

This podcast isn’t launching because I finally reached the finish line.

It’s launching because I decided I didn’t want to wait until I felt fearless.

Sometimes courage simply means pressing record while you’re still nervous.

And that’s exactly what I did today.

Thank you for taking this first step with me.

I truly can’t wait to see where this journey takes us.

If today’s conversation resonated with you, I’d love for you to follow the podcast so you don’t miss future episodes. If you know someone who might need a little encouragement today, consider sharing Radiant Rise with them.

Until next time, be gentle with yourself.

Take things one moment at a time.

And remember…

The hardest battles are often the ones no one sees.

But here, you’ll never have to face them alone.

Thank you for listening.

I’ll see you in the next episode.