There is a particular weight my tongue knows too well—
the shape of sorry before the story even unfolds.
I have carried it like a feather soaked in rain,
heavy, drooping, always threatening to fall at the slightest tremor of life.
Somewhere along the way, I taught myself that existing required explanation,
that breathing required justification,
that any ripple I caused—intentional or not—
demanded an immediate bow, a whispered apology,
a shrinking.
The Crow in me learned this first.
She perched on the fence line of all my younger years,
watching the world with sharp eyes, always calculating the safest path.
She knew that peace could be purchased with quick repentance,
that “sorry” was a shield against anger, disappointment, abandonment.
She meant well—she always does.
But ever since, she has mistaken her survival instincts
for a personality trait.
And then there is the Flame.
The part of me that burns bright and honest,
that wants to speak, to take up space, to exist without permission.
But every time she leans forward, warming the room,
the Crow swoops in with the same old offering:
Sorry.
Sorry for having needs.
Sorry for taking a moment too long.
Sorry for the tone I didn’t mean.
Sorry for the tone I didn’t even have.
Sorry for asking a question.
Sorry for not asking a question.
Sorry for being too much.
Sorry for not being enough.
The apology becomes a smoke signal—
but not the kind that calls for help.
The kind that warns people away from the fire
before they ever feel its warmth.
Lately, though, I’ve been listening to the Flame more.
She flickers against my ribs, whispering that maybe the world
doesn’t crumble when I exist without shrinking.
Maybe the people who love me
don’t need my constant self-erasure to stay.
Maybe I don’t owe anyone an apology
for simply being human.
The Crow resists, of course.
Old survival patterns die like stars—
slowly, beautifully, in bursts of light and grief.
But even she is learning that presence is not a crime,
and taking up space is not an act of war.
And so I practice new words:
“Thank you for waiting.”
“I appreciate your patience.”
“I hear you.”
“I’m here.”
And sometimes—beautifully, bravely—
I say nothing at all.
No shrinking.
No bending.
No burning myself down just to make others comfortable.
The Flame glows a little brighter.
The Crow settles her wings, unafraid to perch in the open.
And for the first time,
I feel like I’m learning the language of living
without apology.
Crow and Flame 