Crow and Flame

When I was asked to speak at the Strong Enough Women’s Conference, I froze for a moment.

Not out of fear of the crowd or the microphone, but because I realized what I’d have to do — stand up, with my head held high, and tell the truth about what happened to me.

For years, I carried shame like a shadow. It followed me into rooms, whispered behind every new opportunity, and weighed down even moments of joy. Shame doesn’t announce itself; it hides in the pauses — the way your shoulders hunch slightly, the way your voice softens when you talk about your past. It’s the invisible chain that keeps you looking down.

But lately, I’ve been learning to put that weight down.

My healing hasn’t come all at once. It’s been slow, like moss growing on stone — quiet, steady, patient. Nature has been my teacher. When I sit by the river or walk a wooded path, I see how the world holds both beauty and decay without judgment. A fallen tree still becomes a home. A broken shell still shines in the sand. Nothing in nature hides its scars.

That truth has become my freedom.

These days, I spend more time sketching and painting — crows perched on branches, the way light filters through leaves, the shifting color of water at dusk. When my hands are moving, I feel the story release from my body. The brush doesn’t lie; it tells what words sometimes can’t. Art has given me permission to be both the wound and the healing.

Preparing to speak at the conference, I sat outside one evening with my sketchbook open. I drew a crow standing tall on a weathered fence post. Its feathers were ruffled by the wind, but it didn’t move. It just looked out — steady, unafraid.

That’s how I want to stand: not as someone untouched by pain, but as someone who has faced it and kept her wings.

When I step onto that stage, I won’t be carrying shame anymore.

I’ll be carrying strength — forged through silence, sorrow, and creation.

I’m not just strong enough to speak.

I’m free enough to fly.