When I moved away from my hometown two years ago, I was terrified. I grieved deeply—grieved the familiar streets that had memorized my footsteps, the faces I once knew by heart, the version of myself I had learned to perform. I was clutching at ghosts of comfort, at dreams and expectations that had long since turned to ash. Still, I tried to breathe life into them, forcing broken pieces into something that resembled belonging. But the harder I tried, the more I crumbled.
I didn’t recognize myself anymore. The girl I once was had vanished beneath layers of survival. Moving away and starting over became the first real act of reclamation—a spark in the dark. It was terrifying, but also quietly defiant.
And like the crow rising from the ruins, I began the long, slow flight back to myself. The crow doesn’t mourn what it leaves behind—it learns to navigate the winds, to trust its wings again. I had to do the same.
Still, the whispers followed me. Those cruel, familiar voices of self-doubt:
You’re being selfish.
No one will like who you are.
You’re childish.
Your dreams are foolish.
You’ll never be good enough.
For a long time, I let them echo. But the flame inside me—flickering, fragile, stubborn—refused to go out.
Because I am good enough. I am more than enough.
It doesn’t matter if one person sees my work, or a million, or none at all. What matters is that I am creating, because creation is what the flame inside me knows how to do. Every word, every brushstroke, every story that rises from the ashes is an offering—a small resurrection.
It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t even have to be understood. It just has to be mine.
The crow within me still carries soot on her feathers, but they shimmer iridescent in the light. The flame still wavers some days, but it burns on—steady, alive, and mine.
And that, in itself, is beautiful.
That, in itself, is freedom.
Crow and Flame 