It’s been a rough and emotional few days.
I’m really struggling.
The holidays have a way of tightening everything at once. Time feels compressed. Expectations multiply. There’s pressure to show up, to give, to create magic, to be grateful, to keep moving—even when you’re already exhausted. I find myself trying to do everything: write, draw, train, heal, rest, connect, keep promises, chase dreams, and somehow still be okay.
And when I can’t do it all, the voice shows up.
The one that tells me I’m not enough. That I’ll never be good enough. That I’m failing at being an author, an artist, a human. It doesn’t just criticize the present—it drags the past into the room, too. Old trauma. Old fear. Old moments that my body remembers even when my mind would rather forget.
Stress opens the door for ghosts.
Last night at mixed martial arts, that door swung wide open.
I had to train with a male partner who wasn’t the instructor. There were only three of us in class. They were patient. Kind. Respectful.
But my nervous system didn’t care about logic. My body didn’t register kindness—it registered threat.
I was wound so tight I could barely remember the moves I know. My mind went blank. My muscles felt unfamiliar, like they belonged to someone else. It felt like my very first day all over again, standing in a place where I wasn’t sure if I was safe.
I was terrified that if he put a hand on me, the memories of a past assault would slam into me without warning. Not as thoughts, but as sensations. As panic. As the past pretending it was the present.
Part of me wanted to say, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to relive this again.
But another part of me—the part I’m trying to listen to more—knows that growth doesn’t happen only in comfort. If I never train with others, if I never step into discomfort, I won’t learn. I won’t grow. I won’t build trust in my body again. I won’t reclaim the parts of myself that trauma tried to steal.
My instructor kept reminding me,
“Breathe out. Don’t let yourself get stressed. You’ve got this. Breathe out.”
So I became my own anchor.
You’ve got this, Amanda. Breathe out.
And instead of asking Why is this so hard? I asked better questions:
What do I need right now?
Where are my feet?
How can I protect myself in this moment?
That shift—tiny as it was—mattered.
This is what healing looks like during the holidays. Not peace and joy wrapped in perfect bows, but navigating crowded calendars, emotional landmines, and resurfacing memories while still trying to show up for the life you’re building.
Some days the flame roars.
Some days it flickers.
And some days it feels like it’s surrounded by ghosts.
But I’m learning this: the presence of fear does not mean the absence of strength. Courage doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared—it means I stayed present anyway. It means I breathed. It means I didn’t abandon myself.
If you’re overwhelmed right now—by the season, by expectations, by the weight of who you’ve been and who you’re trying to become—know this: you’re not weak for struggling. Stress has a way of waking old wounds, and that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means your nervous system is asking for care.
The fire doesn’t have to burn brightly to be real.
Sometimes surviving the night is the victory.
🖤🔥
Crow and Flame 