This Is My Story

There are moments in life when everything feels still—too still. Like a breath held too long, a body that forgot how to exhale. That’s where my story begins. Not with fireworks or revelations, but with silence. A silence so deep it echoed through my bones.

I didn’t set out to change my life. I set out to survive it.

But somewhere between tending soil at Unearthed Homestead and tending to my own brokenness, I realized healing isn’t passive. It asks us to dig, and dig deep, into the mindsets that trap us, the narratives that shape us, the ways our body whispers what our spirit forgets to hear.

I’ve learned that true healing starts when we commit to transforming the mind, body, and soul—in harmony. One cannot heal if the others are neglected. Fasciitis isn’t just a condition of the body; life itself can become inflamed when our emotions, beliefs, and environment are misaligned.

This blog isn't just my personal journey. It's a mirror—an invitation—for you to start unearthing yourself. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But deeply, intentionally, and with wild compassion.

So here I am: bare, brave, and beginning again.

For so long, I’ve introduced myself as Angela Rouse—the hard-charging, confident woman. Daughter. Sister. Wife. Mom. Aunt. Pastor. Grammie. Friend. Neighbor. Trainer. Coach. Mentor. I wore every hat like a crown—some polished with pride, others forged through necessity.

And truthfully? I wore them well.

But somewhere along the way, I forgot how to just be me.

I lost myself.

Those words—choke me up every time. I feel heavy in my chest and have a sharp pain in my throat. But they are also my key. Because truth, even when it stings, is the beginning of freedom.

There came a moment—quiet and unrushed—when I realized my name had become a résumé. A roll call of responsibilities. Yet beneath all those roles, every label and title, was a woman longing to be… just to be free. The woman who dances when no one’s watching. Who loves fiercely and grieves honestly. Who needs space to be whole, not bond to others expectations.

This chapter is a reckoning. A reclaiming. It’s me honoring every role I’ve lived and every version I’ve been. Not erasing them—but refusing to let them eclipse my essence.

This is my story. The story of how I forgot… and how I began to remember.

The moment I paused to take a deep breath and whispered to myself, “How are you really doing?” felt different this time.

I’d asked that question before—hundreds of times. In between meetings. Over steaming cups of tea. In silent prayers before sleep. But I rarely waited long enough to hear the answer.

This time, I made space.

I stepped into The Room—my sanctuary. Sage filled the air, curling like gentle spirits rising. St. Finnikin’s “Grateful” hummed through the speakers, soft but firm, like a heartbeat behind the veil. And for once, everything else fell away.

It was in that sacred stillness that the truth emerged—not in shouts, but in sobs. The answer I had long suppressed surfaced with tender force: I’m tired. I’m aching. I miss me.

I have carried so much. And somewhere, between holding everyone else together, I forgot how to hold myself.

But in that room, with smoke and sound swirling around me, I finally let myself fall into the truth—and rise with it.

That was the start of my true reflection, I saw me small in statue, chipped away at and some what deflated. I walked over slowly and sat beside me, wrapped my arms around me and said those three words.

Find out what three words starts my inner conversation on 7/13/2025. Until then take time to listen to I am Grateful here is the link, https://youtu.be/uTUJjHwMn6E?si=MEybk6c5TG1VlWyO