During one of the “leavings” (IYKYK) of my life’s journey, I asked the Creator for something very specific.

As I began again, I pleaded with Him to fill my heart with so many good memories that they would erase the bad ones.

He did not let me down.

That chapter of my life held some sweet, sweet memories.

Yes, bad things happened too, but they weren’t stacked on top of all the bad ones I had carried with me.

Fast-forward 27 years.

I drove my daughter to the dealership where her car was being serviced. In the waiting area was a modest but classy selection of snacks, coffee and teas meant to comfort the waiting customers.

She chose her tea, and I began preparing it for her.

The moment I tore open the wrapper, the scent released a floodgate of emotions and memories. It was so overwhelming, it gave me chill bumps.

In my hand was a Constant Comment tea bag.

But in my mind’s eye, I saw my mother.

She was sitting with her cup in her hand, steam rising toward her nose as she sipped. Her legs were stretched out to catch the warmth coming from one of those old Chicago radiators and wiggling her toes after a hard day’s work as a letter carrier for the U.S. Postal Service.

I’ll save the other memories that arrived with that wave for my memoir.

But if you saw my interview on ’s The Living Room, you heard me share that leaving my mother’s space wasn’t simply leaving.

For me, it was running away.

The wave that came over me through a cup of Constant Comment tea was filled with love.

But it was also filled with sadness.

When I prayed for the bad memories to be erased, I hadn’t considered that some of the sweetest ones were tangled up inside them.

Momma had her rough edges.

But Momma was also warm, sweet and spicy.

Momma was cinnamon and cloves.

She was a high-vibrational spirit—both a magnet and a shield.

My magnet.

My shield.

So, be careful what you pray for.

And perhaps my sharing this will inspire you to tell the story of one of your answered prayers.

I’d love to read it while enjoying a hot cup of Constant Comment.

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I was officially divorced.

And free!

I finally had the power I had longed for and imagined, for the last two years of that journey.

I could vacation when and where I wanted.

Cook whatever I wanted for dinner.

Wear what I wanted, when I wanted.

Let my hair down…figuratively and literally.

I was in control of what happened next for Joi Milhous.

That party was short-lived.

No, I had no regrets whatsoever about my decision. Our parting ways while I still had respect for him was, hands down, the right choice.

That respect was important to me. It was also a critical part of how I wanted us to co-parent our children.

The party ended when I came face-to-face with choices.

Choices!

I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of them.

For years, my choices were built around the needs and wants of our children, my then-husband, and the life we were building together.

Suddenly, there was no “we” to consider.

What did I want?

What did I like?

What was best for Joi…and no one else?

I almost shut down.

My problem wasn’t that I couldn’t make a choice. My problem was that there were so many choices. So many options. And it took time for me to figure out what I liked, what I wanted, and what actually felt right for me.

In some areas, I’m still learning what I like.

So yes, there has been some trial and error.

But I’m also at peace…

Even with the errors.

Because learning how to choose yourself takes practice too.

If you’re standing in front of your own sea of choices and trying to hear yourself clearly again, this is the work I do.

Through The Joi of Courage, I help women over 50 sort through what has ended, what they want now, and what their next right step could be.

Start here: www.thejoiofcourage.com

They really help when I feel stuck in a project or an idea, especially when I’m writing.

For example, when I’m working on my memoir, I usually set a word-count goal. But on the days when my thoughts are slow to flow, I identify a tiny win instead.

Maybe I write one scene.

Or my reaction to one specific memory.

That’s my tiny win.

And I emerge feeling unstuck. Like I accomplished something.

But more importantly…I kept a promise to myself.

And every time I keep a promise to myself, Joi’s trust in Joi grows stronger.

Your next courageous life may begin with one tiny win.

Clarity Creates Courage

Memoir Monday…

Though there was an eleven-year gap between my last two children, I celebrated the youngest leaving the nest like it was the most important day of my life… not hers.

Newly divorced, her father and I sat in separate sections of the auditorium at her high school graduation.

I didn’t feel alone.

I felt liberated.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I whispered to myself, “I made it.”

I had committed myself to that marriage until the children finished school.

Mission accomplished.

My divorce was finalized in the summer of 2015, and my last child graduated in 2016.

Those tears represented the ending of a role I began in 1984: mother of little people who needed me. Little people who required my participation in their lives, day and night, so I could deliver them into a world where they would learn to live and thrive without my physical presence.

I was no longer “the wife of…”

And I was no longer simply “the mother of…”

I was just Joi Milhous.

Of course, my children still need me—especially now that my circle of four children includes sixteen grandchildren.

It’s just that those are no longer my primary roles.

The end of that identity felt like I could finally take a deep, deep breath.

And in that moment, a soft light appeared for me.

No, I won’t fill your head with some poetic description of what I saw myself becoming.

The light wasn’t that bright.

And the vision I had for myself wasn’t that clear.

What I did see were possibilities.

Opportunities to explore.

Space for Joi Milhous to step forward.

I was scared as hell and excited beyond words.

It was a new beginning.

You’re not looking for courage.

It’s already within you.

Courage has been a major ingredient in everything you’ve survived, built, changed, and accomplished so far.

I don’t give women courage. I create the space for them to recognize the courage they’ve carried all along and put it to work for themselves.

Let’s make order out of what feels like chaos.

Schedule your Clarity Call at www.thejoiofcourage.com.

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Once, while hosting a high-level group of dignitaries from Ghana, West Africa, the director of our NGO (the man I supported by doing the work of seven people by my one self) lost his cellphone somewhere near the Damascus Gate of the Old City in Jerusalem.

That was a serious problem.

The phone held all the critical contacts we needed for the rest of our tour of the Holy Land.

We had already escorted our guests onto the van when he realized it was missing. He patted his pockets while I dialed the number repeatedly.

Now, if you’ve ever lost a cellphone, you know the first few minutes are critical.

It was still ringing.

That was a good sign.

Once it stopped ringing, I knew the search might be over.

Bound and Determined…

With the focus and determination of a police detective, I asked him the last time he remembered having it in his hands.

He recalled setting it down while we shopped for strawberries inside the city walls.

I grabbed him by the arm and told him to show me where, all while calling the phone over and over again.

Because as long as it was still ringing, I believed I could find it.

We retraced our steps.

He looked down, as though the phone might be lying somewhere on the ground.

I looked around me, into the faces of the many souls surrounding us.

We arrived at a table covered with mountains of fresh strawberries. He reenacted setting the phone down while picking through the fruit and filling his bag.

He began moving berries around, searching underneath them.

I kept hitting redial.

If the phone was still ringing, and whoever had it had not silenced it yet, I still had a chance.

While my director moved the mountain of strawberries, I stood still.

Looking.

Listening.

Carefully. Intensely.

And then I heard it.

Open Market Noise

That ringtone I had heard over and over again while serving as his assistant was calling out to me.

It was faint, but I knew that sound.

Then the captive of that very distinct ringtone locked eyes with me.

I hit redial again.

The ringing became louder.

I walked straight up to him and demanded that he give me the phone.

He pretended not to understand my forceful, focused Chicago South Side English.

Maybe he didn’t understand my words.

But he understood my voice.

He understood my determination not to walk away empty-handed.

The guilty captor reached into his pocket and handed me the phone, now ringing even louder, as though it were thanking me for rescuing it.

I snatched it from his hand as if he were a guilty child and passed it back to my director.

Then I grabbed my director’s arm again, and we returned to the van, where our anxious dignitaries were waiting.

A Superhero is Born

He retold the story to our guests, giving me superhero status.

Years later, people still tell that story as though I performed some heroic act.

I never saw it that way.

I wasn’t trying to be impressive.

I was trying to make sure our guests never felt the disruption happening behind the scenes.

I was determined to see the tour succeed.

The contacts we needed were stored in that phone.

Failure was not an option.

Success wasn’t an accident.

It was paying attention.

Looking where others weren’t looking.

Listening for what everyone else had tuned out.

That is what protocol taught me.

And looking back, it may have been preparing me for the work I do today.

Making order out of chaos.

Listening beneath the noise.

And helping people find what they thought they had lost.

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I recently posted this question for my Facebook friends to answer:

“Is there a question you’ve always wanted to ask me? Ask it.”

Why Facebook?

Because they know me there.

My friends there are really my friends. People I’ve known across the four continents of my journey.

They were my high school classmates.
They were my sisters on a spiritual journey.
They are my children, and even some of my grandchildren.

They know me, even during the years when I didn’t fully know myself.

Most responses came openly in the comment section. A few came through private DMs.

What did I hope to learn from asking that question?

I was curious.

Curious about what they were most curious about.
What they admired.
What confused them.
What moments from my life had stayed with them.

The trade-off was that I got to ask them one question in return.

And I didn’t limit myself.

Neither did they.

Some questions came in just a few words. Others came wrapped inside a short story. Whatever it took to express the question. Whatever it took to give the answer.

The results touched my soul.

I was remembered.

They took time to reflect on me, and in doing so, they revealed a little something about themselves too.

I learned that when I felt weak, they saw courage.

I learned that when I felt like a ball of confusion, they saw calm.

I learned that when I felt ugly, they saw beauty.

I am still processing the gift this gave me, but I know this much: I emerged more courageous.

I also saw, even more clearly, that pretending to have a perfect social media life would never be the right approach for me.

Not for my memoir.

Not for my work.

Not for the women I feel called to walk with.

She doesn’t need a polished performance from me.

She needs me to keep it real so she can feel safe enough to do the same.

I’m not here to fix her.

I’m here to walk with her while she reconnects with herself.

If you are in a season of trying to recognize yourself again, I invite you to join my Memoir List or book a Courage Call.

We don’t have to pretend here.

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Did you know that?

I used to know it, but somehow it fell by the wayside.

For years, I associated anything labeled holy with religion.

Religion and I broke up.

It wasn’t who I thought it was.

Or at least it wasn’t what it presented itself to be.

But holiness isn’t owned by religion.

God owns it.

And God decides how it shows up in my life.

Saturday reminded me of that.

Recently, I’ve felt a growing urge to get out more. Not socially, but purposefully. I wanted to be in the company of other small business owners, authors, speakers, and people building something meaningful in their communities.

I’ve searched before, but everything seemed to lead me to Atlanta. Since I live in Northwest Georgia, I was determined to find something closer to home.

So I gave ChatGPT a job.

It returned a list of ten events in my area, and I was impressed.

Number two on the list was happening just three days later and was right in my price range.

As I tried to register, the link didn’t work, so I reached out to the organizer, Ms. Gigi Parker. Her kindness came through immediately in her response. She quickly sent me a new link.

To my surprise, the price listed there was twice what I expected.

I thanked her, told her I wouldn’t be able to attend, and wished her a successful summit.

She wrote back almost immediately:

“I have six sponsored seats left. If the cost is an issue, please don’t let it. I don’t want you to miss whatever God has for you. I will gladly make sure there is room at the table for you on Saturday.”

Her generosity touched my heart.

But even more than that, her belief that God might have something there for me filled my soul.

Substackers, Gigi is a woman of her word.

She had room for me at the table.

I sat beside a wonderful elder from the Bahamas, Miss Constance. She welcomed me as though I’d grown up in her home. She explained the items set before me, outlined the events of the day, and sat proudly on her throne as the mother of one of the many angels assisting Gigi throughout the summit.

I’ll resist the urge to tell you every detail.

But I will tell you this:

It was holy.

And it was healing.

Along with words of strength and fortitude from Gigi herself, the panel of speakers addressed healing from many directions—mental healing, physical healing, financial healing, relationship and marriage healing, trauma healing, addiction recovery, and even the role prescriptions can play in a healing journey.

What moved me most was realizing that God didn’t just provide something for me.

He provided something for me to carry back to others.

People I love.

People who are hurting.

People who are healing.

From the moment I arrived until the moment I pulled into my driveway twenty-five minutes later, that experience felt sacred.

Saturday exceeded my expectations.

I stepped out hoping to expand my wings.

Instead, God met me there.

He lifted me out of my shell and reminded me that healing is not weakness.

Healing is not selfish.

Healing is holy.

Healing isn't the cure.

Healing is the courage to keep walking until the cure finds you.

Thank you, Gigi Parker, for your generosity and benevolence.

May God bless you tenfold and magnify your light so that other women can find their way to it too.

Have you ever experienced a moment that felt both holy and healing?

I’d love to hear about it in the comments.

And if you’re enjoying these glimpses into my story, join my Memoir List for behind-the-scenes reflections, early excerpts, and updates on A Memoir of Refusing to Betray Myself Just to Survive. Click below.

The Memoir List

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I have lived several lives across four continents.

Along that journey, there are people whose lives became deeply connected to mine.

The kind of connection that transcends miles. The kind that time itself cannot sever.

This morning, I received news that shook me.

One of my dearest friends lost her husband.

Her first love.

Her only love.

The man she built her life around for nearly thirty years.

As soon as I heard the news, the tears came.

And they haven’t stopped.

I know she’s hurting.

I know she’s grieving.

Part of me wishes I possessed the power to transcend time and space. I’d be standing beside her right now. Hugging her. Holding her hand. Listening. Sitting in silence if that’s what she needed.

But as the tears continued to fall, I found myself asking a different question.

Why does this hurt so much?

Of course my heart breaks for my friend.

But I wonder if the tears are also touching something deeper.

Maybe they carry memories of another life.

Another country.

Another chapter.

People I loved.

People I lost.

Versions of myself that existed only in those places and times.

Grief has a way of opening doors we didn’t know were still unlocked.

Sometimes we think we’re crying for one thing, only to discover we’re grieving many things at once.

Today, I’m not searching for answers.

I’m simply allowing the tears to tell their story.

Life has taught me that tears are honest teachers, revealing a lesson to be learned.

What have your tears taught you lately?

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Last summer looked productive from the outside.

Summer 2025 was the summer I launched The Joi of Courage. I joined Arlan Hamilton’s YF5K community. I was determined to build a coaching business that would help women find the courage to begin again.

I had a vision.

I had plans.

I had notebooks full of ideas.

And I spent most of the summer glued to my computer.

Learning.

Testing.

Tweaking.

Building.

Trying.

Failing.

Trying again.

I’ve learned so much.

The truth is, I fed The Joi of Courage.

But I didn’t feed Joi.

Somewhere between building a business and becoming a business owner, I forgot that I was also a woman who needed nurturing.

I forgot that dreams aren’t the only things that need watering.

People do too.

This summer feels different.

I’m pivoting my focus toward writing my memoir.

In fact, that’s the soil where all these business ideas sprouted from.

For the first time in a long time, I feel myself returning to the thing that has always sustained me: writing.

Not writing for algorithms.

Not writing for engagement.

Not writing for growth.

Writing because it helps me make sense of my life.

Writing because it helps me remember who I am.

Writing because some stories deserve to be told before they disappear.

As I thought about the summer ahead, a question came to me:

What if I spend so much time watering my dreams that I forget to water myself?

And then another thought followed close behind:

I wonder how many other women are doing the same thing.

How many women are taking care of aging parents, grandchildren, spouses, jobs, businesses, churches, communities, and everyone else around them?

How many women are pouring and pouring and pouring from a cup that hasn’t been refilled in years?

How many women are entering this summer exhausted, not because life is bad, but because they have forgotten they matter too?

If that’s you, consider this your permission slip.

Not permission from me.

Permission from yourself.

This summer doesn’t have to be about productivity.

It doesn’t have to be about proving anything.

It doesn’t have to be about becoming a completely different person.

Maybe this summer is simply about watering the woman you’ve neglected while taking care of everyone else.

So I created a simple checklist.

Not because you need another thing to do.

But because sometimes we need a reminder that we are worthy of care too.

The Summer 60+ Courage Checklist

☐ Spend one day doing exactly what you want.

☐ Try something you’ve been saying “one day” about.

☐ Have the conversation you’ve been avoiding.

☐ Create a new memory instead of reliving an old one.

☐ Write down 10 dreams you still have.

☐ Let go of one thing that no longer fits.

☐ Do one thing every week that makes you feel like YOU again.

As for me?

I’ll be writing my memoir.

I’ll be spending time at the library.

I’ll be taking long drives when I need to think.

I’ll be making room for quiet.

And I’ll be trying my best to remember that Joi is not just the founder of The Joi of Courage.

She’s also a woman still becoming.

Maybe you are too.

So before this summer slips away, ask yourself one question:

What would it look like to water yourself this season?

I’d love to hear your answer in the comments.

I'm writing my memoir, a story spanning four continents, reinvention, faith, motherhood, loss, love, and finding the courage to begin again. If you'd like to be among the first to know when it's available, join the list.

Afraid to Leave, More Afraid to Stay

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My life is in transition.

Moving from a good place to an even greater place is on the horizon.
And I can feel it, see it, smell it, and taste it.

In the meantime, I’m being cradled in the most loving arms one could imagine.

Sharing a bedroom with my 4-year-old granddaughter was a humbling thought at first.
Especially coming from a brand-new 4-bedroom home with only two souls living in it.

I’ve always been early to bed because I’m an early riser.
A carryover from raising four children and years of devotion to a job.

These days, being early to bed puts me in the right place at the right time for the BEST part of my day.

My first night in transition was tough.

I was so tired, but I couldn’t sleep.
The wheels of my mind were turning...
processing the past, planning the future.

So I laid there in the darkness, a soft warm light creating a gentle glow.

“Nana, can I sing you a lullaby?” my precious granddaughter whispered.

How did she know I needed that?

“Sure. Come on with it then,” I responded with a smile, pulling the covers up over our shoulders.

No, it’s not a song you’ve heard before, nor is it a sound that would be familiar to you.

It comes from innocence, love, excitement, and pure joy.

And it goes straight to my heart...
the storehouse of all that’s within me.

Everything God needed to make me,
then bless me to make her mother,
and then on to make all of my grandchildren.

The song usually starts off with the same three verses,
but from there it climbs the ladder of a 4-year-old’s creativity.

Her mind weaves in the events of the day,
but most importantly...
gratitude.

I could go on and on about this precious and sacred time of day.

A bedtime ritual I’ve come to look forward to like a 4-year-old child myself.

I hope you’ll have time today to listen to the recording of one of our evenings.

But I warn you...

Her voice will relax you,
soothe you,
and carry you gently into gratitude.

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The triumphs.
The heartbreaks.
The decisions that changed everything.
The chapters we survived quietly.

Today I found myself wondering…

If you finally told your story honestly…
what would the title be?

And whew…what chapter would almost write itself because it still lives in your bones?

I think memoir writing is less about becoming an author…
and more about becoming honest with yourself.

Drop your answers in the comments if you feel brave enough. 💜

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Share The Joi of Courage

Some of my new beginnings were initiated by me, but most were thrust upon me...just like this one.

Now that the dust has settled a bit I can tell you about it.

I recently ended a 9 year relationship, packed up my belongings from the 4 bedroom house we shared and moved in with my daughter’s family. In fact, I’m writing this from a quiet corner I’ve organized for myself in the bedroom I share with my 4 year old granddaughter who sings lullaby songs to me every night before we fall off to sleep.

I’m not sharing this to pull at your heart strings. It’s something how my fears of the unknowns of tomorrow fuel my drive to push forward. To value the time ahead of me and not spend my precious energy crying over what was.

I know right now how crippling the thought of starting over can be. More than that I know the monstrous knot of regret that grows when you don’t even make the effort.

At nearly 62 years old, it’s not too late. In fact we’re free of many of the burdens we carried when we were younger.

This reminds me of taking the road test for my CDL when the instructors responsible for preparing me for success had suddenly turned against me and were rooting for my failure. I whispered a prayer, gripped that wheel, and parallel parked that bus perfectly. Not one cone touched.

I’m not built like that. And neither are you.

I have one thing I’m offering right now to the woman who’s ready to stop circling and start moving forward. A Courage Clarity Call. One hour. Just us. $97. If that’s you, book it here:

https://calendly.com/thejoiofcourage/courage-activation-session-60-minute-private-call

You can begin again. Without apology.

— Joi

Some conversations stay with you long after the recording ends.

This was one of them.

In today’s Courage Conversation, shares what it means to survive seasons where your own words, your identity, and even your motherhood are challenged in devastating ways.

But this conversation is not just about pain.

It’s about surrender.
Faith.
Endurance.
And the quiet courage of finally letting go of the need to prove yourself.

One sentence kept echoing in my spirit after we finished recording:

“God is always in the room.”

Sis… if you’re walking through something heavy right now, this conversation may meet you exactly where you are.

🎥 Watch the full conversation here → The Courage to Stop Defending Yourself | Courage Conversation with Rebekah Pierce

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I learned a phrase in another lifetime from a very wise elder:

“Masters of mendacity.”

At the time, I didn’t fully understand it.

But I do now.

Mendacity means a tendency to be untruthful.

Habitual lying.

Deceit.

Falsehood.

So what is a master of that?

Someone who is skilled at it.

Someone who has practiced it.

Someone who moves in it so naturally… it almost feels like truth.

Let that sit for a moment.

Because the same elder taught me something else:

There is an effect

to exposing yourself

to masters of mendacity.

Their lies don’t just stay with them.

They spill over.

They impact your life…

your decisions…

your peace…

your ability to function clearly.

And if you stay around it long enough?

It starts affecting more than your circumstances.

It touches your body.

Your mind.

Your spirit.

You start second-guessing yourself.

Feeling off.

Carrying weight that was never yours to carry.

So listen carefully:

Not every battle is meant to be fought.

Some people are committed to the lie.

And you?

You don’t have to stay and prove anything.

Protect yourself.

Not just your time…

not just your energy…

Your life.

Because constant exposure to dishonesty

will drain you in ways you won’t even recognize at first.

And by the time you do?

You’ve already paid a price.

So let me say it plain:

Steer clear of masters of mendacity.

At all costs.

Have you ever had to distance yourself from someone whose truth didn’t match their words?

What did it cost you… before you walked away?

Book a Courage Clarity Call 💜

You did it.
You got her all the way to this moment.

She’s walking across that stage,
high school, maybe college…
and your heart is full.

Pride.
Joy.
Relief.

All of it.

There are hugs.
Pictures.
Celebrations.

And then…

You go home.

And it’s quiet.

Not peaceful quiet.
Not “finally I can rest” quiet.

A different kind.

No background chatter.
No “Mom, take me here.”
No “Mom, can you get me that?”

Just…

silence.

Take it in.

Because after a little while, something shifts.

That joy?
It fades into a question:

“Wow… my nest is really empty.”

Now what?

Do you fall into a routine?

But wait,
it’s not her routine anymore.

And when you look at your day…

You realize something unsettling:

You don’t have one.

So where do you begin?

What do you do first?

What do you even want to do?

And that silence that once felt full of joy…

starts to feel heavy.

Unfamiliar.

Almost haunting.

Like you’ve been dropped into a life
you didn’t prepare for.

So I’ll ask you…

Where do you begin… when everything that defined your days is gone?

Are you in this season… or approaching it?
Drop a 💜 or share one word that describes how it feels.

If you’re in this space right now, don’t sit in it alone.
I help women find their next chapter after seasons like this.
Start with one question: What do I want now?

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There’s a moment in this week’s episode that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.

Marcelle is on the floor. Her husband has just slapped her… hard enough to knock her glasses completely off her face. She’s thousands of miles from her family in South Africa. She’s been in the United States for nine months. She has two boys, ages 7 and 8, in the next room. She has no plan.

And in that silence, she hears her mother’s voice.

Get up.

So she gets up. She wipes her face before her son walks in. She asks him, calmly, to help her find her glasses. And then she says: Go pack your pajamas, a t-shirt, extra pants, and your school books. We’re leaving.

Her husband is standing right there. And he says what abusers say: You have nowhere to go. You have nothing. Nobody will come for you.

She looks at him and says: I don’t know where we’re going. But we’re going.

What made this conversation extraordinary wasn’t just the moment of leaving.

It was everything Marcelle shared about what came before it… and what came after.

Before: twenty years in a relationship she now understands, through therapy, was emotionally abusive long before it turned physical. A deeply patriarchal culture that had taught her, from girlhood, that the man was the head of the household. A belief system she had absorbed so completely that even she, an educated woman, a teacher, a woman with degrees… couldn’t see clearly what was happening to her.

He raised you by his hand, goes a South African saying in Afrikaans. It means he shaped you. He taught you what was acceptable. What you would do. What you would tolerate.

Marcelle was 18 when they met. He was her first boyfriend. She married him at 23. For twenty years, she lived inside a world he had built around her… and slowly, quietly, she disappeared inside it.

After: she rebuilt. She found support in the most unexpected places, a second-grade teacher who opened her home without hesitation. Strangers who showed up when she finally let people in. A community she hadn’t known she had.

And something else happened after… something she didn’t plan but that moves me deeply.

Her niece, years later, was out on a date when a man raised his hand against her. And she picked up the phone, called her parents, and said: Come get me. We’re done.

When people asked her what gave her the strength to leave so decisively, she said: I remembered what Auntie Marcelle did. I remembered that she got up.

That’s the thing about courage that I want you to sit with today.

You rarely know, in the moment you act, who is watching. Who is learning. Whose future you are shaping by what you do right now, even when you’re on the floor, even when you’re terrified, even when you have no plan and nowhere to go.

Marcelle didn’t leave because she was fearless. She left afraid. She left not knowing. She left with two little boys and a voice in her head and a refusal to let what just happened… happen again.

That is the definition of courage. Not the absence of fear… but the decision to move through it anyway.

At the end of our conversation, I asked Marcelle what she would whisper to a younger version of herself.

She didn’t hesitate.

I would tell her she is stronger than she thought. More capable. More resourceful. And that people love her… even when she can’t feel it.

And then she said something I want every woman reading this to carry with her:

We have to value ourselves more than anybody else values us. Before anything else, we have to give ourselves the value we so freely give to other people.

Marcelle’s full episode is live now on YouTube. If you know a woman who is afraid to leave or afraid to begin again, please share it with her. You never know whose get up moment this might be.

🦋 Watch here → She Got Up Off the Floor and Left | Courage Conversation with Marcelle Mentor

And if you’re ready to have your own Courage Conversation, I’d love to be in your corner. Click here to book your Courage Clarity Call … I’m waiting for you.

With love and courage, Joi

The Joi of Courage | TheJoiOfCourage.com

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Let me ask you something…

How many times have you checked your horoscope this week?

Or listened to a tarot reading…
hoping somebody, somewhere…
would tell you what’s next?

Mmm. I know that place.

But listen…

You don’t need another sign.

You need clarity.
You need a decision.

You’re not addicted to horoscopes…
you’re craving certainty.

You don’t actually want control…
you want relief from the pressure of not knowing.

Maybe I’m not supposed to know.

Maybe that’s not the assignment.

Maybe the assignment…
is courage.

The courage to move.

Because your next chapter?

It’s not waiting to be revealed.

It’s waiting on you.

I thought I needed control.
But what I really needed… was trust.

If I take the step, He’ll magnify it beyond anything I can measure.

So I’ll take the step.

God can handle the outcome.

Let me say it plain…

You don’t need another reading.
You need to move.

If you’re done waiting and ready to take one bold step,
come sit with me.

Book Your Courage Clarity Call

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I help women find the courage to begin again.

And I know… sometimes that sounds cute.
Almost like a slogan.

But let’s go somewhere real for a moment.

Let’s visit the moment where beginning again is not inspirational…

…it’s necessary.

The moment where it’s the only way to save yourself.
The only way to keep from giving up.
The only way to stop yourself from throwing in the towel.

Beginning again doesn’t show up when everything is polished.

It shows up in the middle of chaos.
In the middle of things falling apart.
Right after life has mixed you up so thoroughly you don’t even recognize yourself anymore.

Going backward isn’t an option.
Going forward feels like the only way…

…but you don’t know how.
You don’t know when.
And if you’re honest, you don’t even know if it’s possible.

Maybe you leave this room and go home to pack boxes
because you don’t have a choice but to move.

Maybe you’re standing in a bank line
trying to figure out how to pay a bill
or borrowing money from someone you love.

Maybe you’re watching someone you trusted…
someone you thought was part of your future,
get up and walk out of your life like it meant nothing.

That moment right there?

That’s when beginning again becomes real.

And that feeling in your stomach…
that tightness in your chest,
that fear that almost takes your breath away,
that weight that makes you feel like you can’t move…

That’s not your weakness.

That’s your fuel.

You don’t wait for the fear to go away.

You use it.

If you’re in that moment right now… you don’t have to figure it out alone. Start with one step. Stay here with me.

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If I’m being honest…
I didn’t always see myself as courageous.

The first time that word found me…
it didn’t come from me.

It came from another woman.

We were sitting side by side in the audience of a major event… music playing, drums beating, voices rising, dancers moving…

And yet…
when she leaned over, took my hand, and whispered in my ear…

“Where did you find the courage?”

…everything else went silent.

I didn’t hear the choir.
I didn’t hear the drums.
I didn’t even see the dancers anymore.

All I could hear…
was that whisper.

Where did you find the courage?

Because in my mind…
I hadn’t done anything courageous.

I had just divorced my husband of 20 years…
a man in a position of authority and leadership.

A decision that shook more than just my life.

But I didn’t call it courage.

I called it leaving…
while I still had a remnant of respect for him
and for myself.

That’s what I called it.

But her question forced me to look again.

And when I did…
my goodness…
I saw something I had never allowed myself to see before.

I had made courageous moves all throughout my life.

I just never named them that.

And once I did…
I couldn’t see myself the same way anymore.

I started to understand courage differently.

Not as something loud or dramatic…
but as something deeply aligned.

A unification of the heart and the mind.

And from that point on, I made decisions differently.

I checked both.
My heart… and my mind.

And when they agreed?

I moved.

Even if my voice was shaking.
Even if my hands were trembling.

Because now I knew what I was standing in.

Courage.

And let me tell you something, Angela…

Most of you are walking around doing courageous things every single day…
and calling it something smaller.

Responsibility.
Survival.
“I had no choice.”

No.

You chose.

And there’s courage in that.

You’ve been courageous…
you just never called it that.

If this spoke to you, tell me… what have you done that you never called courage?

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