There are nights when the ache inside me feels too big for my body —
a storm that rises from somewhere deep,
demanding to be seen, demanding to be felt.
It comes as fire under the skin,
as the whisper of pain that promises focus,
as the thought that maybe, just maybe,
if I could hurt on the outside,
the chaos inside would finally quiet.
It’s not about wanting to disappear.
It’s about wanting to stop spinning, stop spiraling, to anchor myself.
To find something solid,
something real enough to hold on to
when the ground feels like it’s dissolving beneath me.
But I am learning — slowly, tenderly —
that I can survive the storm without letting it swallow me whole.
That control doesn’t come from pain.
It comes from staying.
It comes from breathing.
Urge Surfing — Riding the Wave
The urge comes like a wave — rising high,
crashing through every corner of my chest.
It tells me it will never end.
But it will.
It always does.
So I stand in the surf.
I breathe.
I name it: This is an urge. It will pass.
And I let it roll through me,
knowing I am the ocean too —
vast enough to contain it,
strong enough to wait for the calm.
Breathing Through Panic
When the air thins and my heart claws against my ribs,
I turn to breath — the most ancient lifeline I know.
Inhale — count to four.
Hold — count to four.
Exhale — count to four.
Again and again until the tremor softens.
Until my body remembers that it is safe to stay.
Until I remember that I am not dying —
I am simply feeling.
Distraction and Redirection
When the storm rages too loudly, I shift my focus.
I hold an ice cube until it melts against my palm —
a reminder that sensation can be temporary and gentle.
I wrap myself in a blanket and let it become armor.
I paint or write or move my body through the air,
trying to turn pain into motion, into art, into breath.
I whisper to myself:
You are not the storm. You are the sky that holds it.
Grounding in the Present
When I drift too far, I come back through my senses.
Five things I can see — the light, the shadows, the small mercies.
Four things I can touch — fabric, wood, heartbeat, skin.
Three things I can hear — wind, breath, my name in memory.
Two things I can smell — rain, earth.
One thing I can taste — the salt of survival.
And here I am again.
Alive.
Still here.
There is no shame in the ache that makes you reach for control.
There is no weakness in needing help to stay safe.
If the storm feels too heavy, please reach out —
you do not have to hold it alone.
In the U.S., you can call or text 988,
the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline,
day or night, when the sky feels too dark to stand beneath.
You are made of endurance and breath and light.
You are learning to live through the storm
without letting it define you.
That is not just survival —
that is grace.
Crow and Flame 