Crow and Flame

Today, the tide is washing over me, and I’m just trying not to drown.

It’s not even that something new has happened.

It’s that something old has returned—

like a familiar storm cloud that knows my name.

The old narratives come crawling back in,

grasping at my throat,

whispering the same tired lies:

You’re not worthy.

You’re too much.

You don’t belong.

You will never be enough.

And even when I know better—

even when I’ve done the work,

even when I’ve healed pieces of myself I never thought I’d recover—

they still know exactly where to sink their teeth.

Panic clutches at my chest, pulling the air from my lungs,

like my body is trying to convince me I’m in danger

even when I’m standing in a safe room.

My heart races ahead of my thoughts.

My hands tremble.

My mind scrambles for control.

And I can feel it…

the edges of my soul fray,

thread by thread,

as control tries to slip away.

This is what people don’t always understand about healing.

Healing doesn’t mean the waves stop coming.

Healing means you learn how to float.

Healing means you learn how to recognize the undertow

before it drags you too far from shore.

It means learning to name the feeling without becoming it.

Because the truth is—

I am not drowning because I am weak.

I am drowning because I have fought too long without rest.

Because I have carried too much without being held.

Because I have survived things that rewired my nervous system to believe peace is temporary.

And today, my body is remembering.

But I am remembering too.

I am remembering that the voices in my throat are not my truth—

they are echoes.

I am remembering that panic is a liar,

and it always speaks in urgency.

I am remembering that worthiness is not something I have to earn,

not something I have to prove,

not something I can lose just because I’m having a hard day.

So today I will not shame myself for struggling.

Today I will not pretend I’m okay just to appear strong.

Today I will simply do what I’ve always done:

I will endure.

I will breathe in small pieces if I have to.

I will grip the edge of the boat until my knuckles ache.

I will let the tears come if they need to.

Because the tide may be high,

but I am still here.

And I have survived every wave that ever tried to take me.

Even this one.