There is a particular kind of silence that forms inside a person after years of surviving.
Not peace.
Not stillness.
Not serenity.
A taught, practiced, protective quiet.
It’s the silence of someone who trained themselves to need less, to speak softer, to disappear just enough to stay safe. The silence of someone who learned early on that their feelings could be “too much,” their dreams “unrealistic,” their needs “inconvenient.”
It’s the quiet that grows when the world doesn’t make space for your inner landscape—your creativity, your longing, your truth.
And eventually, you forget there was ever a voice inside you at all.
But that voice isn’t gone.
It’s waiting.
Waiting like the crow who circles a field long after the noise fades.
Watching.
Listening.
Patiently returning to what is rightfully theirs.
Waiting like a flame that refuses to die, shrinking to embers but never extinguishing—holding its warmth, its glow, its promise of return.
Healing begins the moment you finally notice that quiet and ask why it’s there.
Not in a self-blaming way.
Not with shame or judgment.
But with curiosity, compassion, and willingness to see the truth beneath your old survival patterns.
Because the truth is this:
Your soul didn’t go silent because you had nothing to say.
It went silent because no one ever convinced it that being heard was safe.
The Awakening
Then life shifts.
Sometimes subtly—like a thought you can’t quite shake.
Sometimes abruptly—like a door closing or an ending you didn’t expect.
And inside you, something starts to move.
A restlessness.
A small hunger.
A whisper pushing its way through the dust of old fears:
“I want more.”
“I deserve more.”
“I am meant for something deeper.”
This is your Crow—your intuition—your inner watcher awakening from long dormancy.
It brings messages, knowing, direction.
It asks you to look beyond what hurt you and toward what calls you.
And alongside it rises your Flame—your creativity, your authentic self, your hope.
It begins to burn again, gentle but undeniable, warming the parts of you that thought they’d gone numb forever.
It’s not a loud return.
Your inner voice doesn’t come back as a command.
It doesn’t storm in demanding attention.
It returns in fragments.
In glimpses of desire.
In sudden waves of emotion.
In creative sparks that appear at the most inconvenient times—twilight, showers, grocery store parking lots—anywhere you’re momentarily not performing for the world.
You may not trust it at first.
Of course you don’t.
Why would you?
So much of healing is learning to believe your own knowing again.
To trust your instincts instead of your fears. To differentiate intuition from old wounds. To understand that desire is not selfish but sacred. To believe that your voice has value simply because it is yours.
And here is the part most people don’t talk about:
When your inner voice returns, it brings grief with it.
Grief for the years you didn’t hear yourself.
Grief for the dreams you muted.
Grief for the child inside you who whispered into the dark and never got an answer.
But grief is not an ending—
it is an opening.
It clears space for truth, for creativity, for identity, for rebirth.
So today, let this be your practice:
Slow down.
Just enough to hear the subtle things.
The thoughts that flutter.
The emotions that lift then sink then rise again.
The desires that keep resurfacing even after you dismiss them.
Notice the things that light up inside you without permission.
The things that feel like relief.
The things that feel like breath.
Your soul isn’t quiet anymore.
It’s emerging.
It’s speaking.
It’s remembering itself.
And it’s time to answer.
Answer softly, if that’s all you can do.
Answer boldly, if you’re ready.
Answer with curiosity, if you’re unsure.
But answer.
Because the Crow and the Flame have returned,
and so have you.
Crow and Flame 