Lately I’ve felt myself slipping into that familiar gray space—
the place where motivation thins out,
where everything I usually love feels heavy in my hands.
The gym sits there like a distant continent.
Eating right feels like a chore instead of an act of care.
Writing—my lifeline, my voice—feels like static.
Drawing feels like a weight instead of a release.
It’s like my mind whispers, “Why bother?”
And my body echoes back, “Maybe tomorrow.”
But here’s the thing:
I’ve walked too far from who I used to be
to turn around now and pretend I didn’t fight like hell to get here.
I owe it to myself to remember that not wanting to do the work
is not the same as not needing it.
And this version of me—tired, unmotivated, stretched thin—
is the one who deserves my gentleness the most.
Motivation is a guest. Discipline is the house I’ve built.
Motivation wanders in and out of my life.
Some days it knocks on my door, bright and early,
and I welcome it with open arms.
Other days, it vanishes—
no explanation,
no warning,
no apology.
But discipline… discipline is different.
Discipline is the steady structure
I’ve built brick by brick
from every promise I’ve kept to myself.
It’s what remains when I don’t want to get out of bed.
It’s what carries me when inspiration doesn’t.
It’s what reminds me:
You don’t have to feel like doing the work
for the work to matter.
I’ve survived storms bigger than laziness.
When I think about all the times I’ve broken apart
and put myself back together,
all the nights I kept breathing through a pain
that tried to swallow me whole—
I remember that this lack of motivation
isn’t the enemy.
It’s a signal.
A whisper saying:
You’re tired. You’re human. Slow down, but don’t give up.
Consistency is an act of love.
Not punishment.
Not pressure.
Love.
Showing up for myself—
even in small ways, even through resistance—
is how I say:
“I matter. My goals matter. My healing matters.”
Some days that looks like a full workout.
Some days it looks like stretching for five minutes.
Some days I eat a nourishing meal.
Some days I simply drink enough water.
Some days I write three pages.
Some days I write one sentence.
Some days I draw for hours.
Some days I doodle in the margin of a receipt.
But every one of those days counts.
Every act of care, no matter how tiny,
keeps me tethered to the person I’m becoming.
The flame doesn’t die—it just gets quieter.
The Crow and the Flame inside me
isn’t gone.
It’s resting.
It’s conserving power.
It’s asking me to tend to myself
with patience instead of frustration.
I don’t have to roar every day.
I don’t have to be on fire every moment.
Sometimes the flame becomes an ember,
glowing softly under the surface.
And that’s enough.
It’s still alive.
So am I.
I keep going because I made a promise to myself.
A long time ago—
in a darker version of my life—
I dreamed of being exactly where I am now.
Stronger.
More creative.
More aware.
More alive.
That person, the one who prayed for this version of me,
deserves to see me follow through.
And the future version of me—
the one who’s waiting on the other side of this season—
deserves every step I take today,
no matter how small,
no matter how reluctant.
So I keep moving.
Not because I’m motivated.
But because I’m devoted.
Devoted to becoming the person I know I can be.
Devoted to honoring the person I used to be.
Devoted to not breaking the promises I’ve whispered
into the quiet spaces of my own heart.
Even when I don’t feel like it.
Especially when I don’t feel like it.
That’s where transformation happens.
That’s where the flame grows back into fire.
That’s where I rise.
Crow and Flame 