Crow and Flame

Today I am struggling.

Not loudly.

Not in a way that invites immediate concern.

I am struggling in the slow, private way that lives inside the body.

Health challenges have narrowed my world.

They have shortened my days, softened my edges, and forced me into a pace I didn’t choose.

And my mind—so well trained by a culture that worships productivity—keeps translating that pace into shame.

You’re not doing enough.

You’re falling behind.

You’re letting yourself go.

You should be stronger than this.

My body feels heavier lately.

Not just in the way the mirror reflects back at me, but in the way I carry myself through the day.

There is weight in the fatigue.

Weight in the dizziness.

Weight in the constant calculations—

How much energy do I have?

What will this cost me later?

What must I give up today so I can function tomorrow?

I miss the version of myself who moved freely.

Who didn’t have to negotiate with her own limits.

Who didn’t feel like rest was something to earn or apologize for.

There is grief in that loss.

Quiet grief.

The kind that doesn’t announce itself as sadness, but shows up as irritation with my reflection,

as panic over numbers,

as the urge to control food, movement, and appearance when my health feels uncontrollable.

The crow is relentless today.

It perches on my shoulder and whispers cruelty disguised as motivation.

It tells me my body is a problem to solve.

That softness is failure.

That worth is measured in discipline, productivity, and visible effort.

The crow wants me to fight myself.

But the flame asks something else.

The flame asks me to listen.

To notice what my body is asking for instead of what I think it should tolerate.

The flame reminds me that bodies are not machines, and illness is not a moral flaw.

That slowing down is not the same as giving up.

That survival is not lazy.

Today my strength does not look like pushing through.

It looks like stopping before I collapse.

It looks like eating when shame tells me not to.

It looks like resisting the urge to punish my body for being human.

It looks like choosing gentleness in a world that demands hardness.

I am learning—again and again—that healing is not a straight line forward.

It circles.

It stalls.

It doubles back.

It asks for patience when I want progress.

Some days I still believe the lie that I am only valuable when I am producing, improving, shrinking, or proving something.

Some days I forget that my body has carried me through trauma, survival, and pain I never thought I’d endure.

Some days I forget that rest is not something to justify.

If you are reading this from inside your own exhausted body—

If illness, pain, or limitation has made you feel unrecognizable to yourself—

If you are measuring your worth by how much you can do or how little space you take—

You are not failing.

You are adapting.

Crow & Flame is a space for the in-between days.

The days where nothing looks impressive from the outside.

The days where staying alive, staying kind, staying present is the work.

Today I am struggling.

I am not doing enough by the world’s standards.

I am not the body I wish I had.

But I am still here.

Still breathing.

Still choosing care over cruelty.

And today, that is enough.

🖤🔥