Brandi Rhoden, LCSW: Breath, Boundaries, and Self-Forgiveness
- Kami Redd
- Sep 12
- 4 min read
Brandi Rhoden, LCSW, writes like a clinician who has sat with many kinds of pain and like a woman who has faced her own. Her letter to her younger self carries two steady ideas: tell the truth about what happened, and forgive the self who lived through it. She does not rush either step. She sets a slow pace that the body can handle and the mind can sustain. She knows change slips when we sprint. She builds a plan that can hold.
She begins with silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the silence that follows fear. She names how families, schools, and churches sometimes reward quiet even when quiet hurts. She explains how the body stores what the mouth does not say. Sleepless nights, a jaw that aches, a stomach that clenches. She does not shame coping. She respects it. Coping kept a young girl alive. Then she shows how a grown woman can move from coping to healing.
The first tool she hands readers is simple breath paired with words that steady the nervous system. In through the nose while counting to four. Out through the mouth while counting to six. Hands on ribs to feel expansion. Feet flat on the floor. She suggests adding a sentence on the exhale: I am safe right now. Used three times a day, this practice signals the body that the present is not the past. It does not erase history. It opens room to make a decision.
Next she turns to disclosure. She asks readers to consider telling one trained person the plain version of events. A licensed therapist. A trauma-informed pastor. A survivor advocate. She encourages clarity about what you want from that conversation: to be believed, to sort memory, to choose the next step, to find language for guilt that is not yours to carry. She advises pacing—one layer at a time—and permission to stop when the body says stop. She writes that control during healing is nonnegotiable.
Boundaries come after breath and truth. She writes them like operating instructions: who can call after 9 p.m.; which topics are off-limits; how long a visit lasts; what to do when an argument repeats old harm; how to leave a room with dignity. She suggests rehearsing lines out loud when calm so they are close at hand in stress. “I’m not available for that conversation.” “This is not a safe topic for me.” “I’m leaving now; we can try again next week.”
Boundaries are boring on paper. They save lives in practice.
Brandi Rhoden’s letter addresses self-forgiveness with precision. She refuses cheap slogans. She defines forgiveness as releasing yourself from jobs that never belonged to you—predicting another person’s behavior, preventing harm that was not yours to prevent, perfecting a performance to earn safety that should have been given for free. She notes that forgiveness does not require return. It does not require amnesia. It asks for a daily decision to stop punishing yourself for surviving.
Because she is a clinician, she writes about the body in plain terms. She teaches readers the early signs that they are leaving their window of tolerance: hands cold, chest tight, eyes scanning, mind fogging. She pairs each sign with a small act: rub palms together; name five things you see; drink water; splash cool water on the face; text a safe person a single word—“spinning.” These are not tricks. They are ways to give the brain a chance to come back into the room.
Her community work through Honeybee Wellness & Consulting mirrors these pages. She designs rooms where people can sit without performance. Intake forms ask useful questions. Sessions begin on time. Chairs are comfortable. Tissue boxes are in reach. There is a clock that does not tick too loudly. Those details sound minor until you have been in a room that ignored them. Care lives in details.
Brandi writes to caregivers as well: parents, teachers, church leaders, case managers. She offers a short plan for supporting survivors without causing more harm. Believe first. Do not interrogate. Offer options, not orders. Explain what will happen next. Check your own need to fix. Ask permission before touch. Follow up in a week, not a day. She writes that trust is built in small, consistent acts.
She does not leave out money and logistics. Healing costs time, fuel, copays, child care. She suggests a practical inventory: what insurance covers; sliding scales nearby; local peer groups; a friend who can swap rides; a workplace policy that allows a late start once a week. She gives readers a script for HR that keeps the ask clear and the story private: “I need a recurring appointment accommodation on Tuesdays for the next twelve weeks.” She wants the plan to outlast adrenaline.
Faith threads her letter with both warmth and guardrails. She blesses prayer circles that protect the vulnerable. She warns against advice that asks victims to minimize harm for unity’s sake. She asks leaders to learn the difference. She reminds readers they can bring all of themselves to God—the fury, the grief, the relief after a good session, the laugh on a day that used to be hard.
The page turns to joy before the end. Not the airbrushed kind. The kind that shows up in small, honest doses: a clean kitchen counter at night, a song sung loud in the car, a stretch before bed, a Saturday with no plans, a shared joke that makes the eyes water. She prescribes joy like medicine with a dose schedule: daily, even if brief.
Her final paragraphs circle back to self-forgiveness. She speaks to the younger version of herself with a sentence worth writing down: You did nothing to earn harm; you have done much to earn rest. Then she lists the evidence—appointments kept, habits practiced, boundaries held, tears honored, laughter reclaimed. Evidence matters. It makes progress visible on days when feeling lags behind fact.
Brandi Rhoden’s voice is calm, specific, and useful. It leaves readers with steps to try tonight and structure to build over months. It treats healing like work that belongs in the daylight—organized, humane, and possible.
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