A few years ago, I went out on a date with a man who worked as a first responder. He had witnessed atrocities—things no human should have to carry alone. And yes, they had changed him. Trauma had etched itself into the lines of his face, the heaviness of his words, the way hope seemed foreign on his tongue.
I understood more than he realized.
I, too, had worked on the front lines—an investigator in child welfare—bearing witness to some of the darkest corners of humanity. I had seen what cruelty can do. I had sat with grief, fear, rage, and devastation until they felt like old companions. Trauma was not unfamiliar to me. Darkness did not scare me.
But here is where our paths diverged.
Trauma gives us a story—but it does not get to write the ending unless we let it.
Somewhere along the way, he had made a choice. Not a conscious one, perhaps, but a choice nonetheless. He had allowed the weight of what he saw to dim his light. To harden him. To convince him that hope was naïve, kindness was weakness, and joy was something only untouched people were allowed to have.
And then he looked at me and said it.
“You’re too happy. Too kind. Too hopeful. You’re too much.”
What he didn’t say—but what hung thick in the air—was this: Your light makes me uncomfortable.
Because when someone has surrendered to the dark, light feels like an accusation.
I didn’t deny the pain he had endured. I didn’t minimize it. Trauma is real. It changes us. It leaves scars that don’t always show. But trauma does not remove our agency. It does not absolve us of responsibility for how we move through the world afterward.
We still get to choose.
We can choose bitterness, or we can choose tenderness.
We can choose numbness, or we can choose presence.
We can choose to close ourselves off—or we can choose to remain open, even when it hurts.
There is still beauty in the darkness if you’re willing to look for it.
The night sky is not empty just because it’s dark. It is full of stars—quiet, persistent points of light that refuse to disappear. But you have to lift your eyes to see them. You have to believe they’re there.
I chose to keep looking.
I chose softness in a world that told me to be hard.
I chose kindness when it would have been easier to build walls.
I chose hope—not because I was untouched by trauma, but because I was.
When he told me I was “too much,” what he was really trying to do was make me smaller. To dim myself so he wouldn’t have to confront how far he had retreated from his own light.
But I will not apologize for surviving with my heart intact.
I will not shrink my joy to make someone else more comfortable in their despair.
I will not dim my flame because someone else decided to live in the shadows.
Trauma may shape us—but it does not get to snuff us out.
And if my light is too much for you, then it was never meant for you in the first place.
Some of us choose to become the stars.
Even—especially—after the dark. ✨
Crow and Flame 