Crow and Flame

Last night at martial arts, the class was packed.

One of those nights where the room feels louder than usual, the energy is heavier, and there’s no slipping quietly into the background. Everyone is paired off, moving fast, rotating partners, practicing technique.

And then it happened.

I had to partner with a male in class.

Not my trusted instructor.

Not my significant other.

Not someone I already feel emotionally safe around.

Just… an adult man in the room.

And we were grappling.

On the floor.

That might sound like nothing to someone who hasn’t lived through trauma. But for me, that moment held weight. It held history. It held memory. It held the kind of tension that doesn’t always live in the mind first—it lives in the body.

Because trauma doesn’t ask permission before it reacts.

It doesn’t wait to see if someone is safe.

It just remembers.

We practiced the move three times.

Three times of close quarters.

Three times of physical contact.

Three times of my nervous system being asked to trust a situation it once would have labeled as danger.

After the third round, he asked if I wanted to keep going.

And I did something that mattered.

I asked for a break.

No apology.

No over-explaining.

No pretending I was fine just to be “easy” or “nice.”

I simply requested space.

And he said, okay.

Just like that.

No pressure.

No weirdness.

No pushback.

So I stepped away.

I focused on my breathing.

I grounded myself.

I reminded my body where I was.

I am here.

I am safe.

I am in control.

This is my choice.

And then I realized something powerful:

I put myself in close quarters with the opposite sex… and the world didn’t end.

I didn’t panic.

I didn’t freeze.

I didn’t dissociate.

I didn’t run out of the building.

I didn’t go home and unravel into nightmares.

I didn’t fall apart.

Instead… I stayed.

Last night, I stepped out of my comfort zone and grappled for three minutes.

Three minutes doesn’t sound like much.

But three minutes is a lifetime when your body has been trained by trauma to believe that closeness equals danger.

Three minutes was courage.

Three minutes was reclaiming my body.

Three minutes was proof that healing isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it looks like breath work and boundaries. Sometimes it looks like stepping back and saying, I need a break.

And honestly?

I’m really proud of me.

Because last night I did something my past self would have never believed was possible.

And maybe next time… I’ll do more.

Not because I have to.

But because I can.

Because healing isn’t about forcing yourself into situations you’re not ready for.

It’s about building trust with yourself again.

One breath.

One boundary.

One brave three minutes at a time.

Crow & Flame 🔥🖤