Crow and Flame

There is something profoundly liberating about telling the truth out loud—especially the truths I spent years believing were unsafe.

Writing publicly about my experiences, my struggles, my mental health, my fears, my grief, still makes my chest tighten sometimes. Even now. There is an old voice that whispers that if I reveal too much, I will be reduced. That my humanity will somehow disqualify me. That I will be seen as fragile, unstable, unprofessional, or less worthy of respect.

I was taught—explicitly and implicitly—that survival meant containment.

That pain should be processed quietly, neatly, privately.

That strength was something you performed, not something you lived through.

So I learned how to look okay.

I learned how to speak carefully.

I learned how to edit myself into something more palatable.

What I did not learn was how to be honest without fear.

For a long time, I believed that if people saw the whole of me—the anxiety, the shame spirals, the grief that resurfaces without warning, the days when simply existing feels heavy—they would turn away. Or worse, they would decide I was less credible, less capable, less strong.

But silence has a way of hollowing you out.

It convinces you that your pain must be hidden because it is somehow wrong. It isolates you inside your own life. It teaches you to mistrust your own voice. And eventually, it makes you forget what it feels like to be witnessed.

Crow and Flame was born from that quiet ache.

From the realization that hiding was costing me more than speaking ever could. From the understanding that waiting until I was “healed enough” or “put together enough” meant I might never speak at all.

There is a particular kind of freedom that comes with naming what hurts while it still hurts. Not wrapping it in lessons. Not rushing it toward meaning. Just saying: this is where I am.

There is power in writing from the middle of the fire instead of the safe distance of hindsight.

When I share my struggles here, I am not offering a cautionary tale or a redemption arc. I am not trying to inspire through endurance or polish pain into something digestible. I am simply choosing honesty over performance.

That choice still scares me.

Because we live in a world that rewards resilience but punishes vulnerability. A world that praises authenticity in theory but flinches when it shows up unfiltered. A world that often asks survivors to be strong in ways that make others comfortable.

But I am learning—slowly—that vulnerability does not make me weaker.

It makes me real.

And real is where connection lives.

Every time I write something difficult and release it into the world, I brace for judgment. And every time, what comes back instead is recognition. Someone saying, I thought I was the only one. Someone saying, Thank you for saying what I couldn’t. Someone quietly realizing that their own experience counts.

That is the quiet miracle of telling the truth.

Crow and Flame is not a space for having it all figured out. It is not a destination. It is a place to sit with contradictions—to be both afraid and brave, both tired and still trying, both cracked and burning.

It is a place where grief does not need to justify itself. Where healing is not linear. Where strength is allowed to look like rest, like tears, like asking for help, like telling the truth even when your voice shakes.

I am still unlearning the belief that my worth depends on my composure. I am still practicing letting my humanity be seen without rushing to explain it away.

And yes—some people may see this openness and decide I am less than.

I am learning to let them.

Because for others, this honesty becomes a doorway. A place to breathe. A reminder that being human is not a failure of strength—it is the source of it.

Crow and Flame exists for those moments.

For the fire and the ashes.

For the breaking and the becoming.

For the quiet, radical truth that you do not have to disappear to be strong.

And neither do I.