Crow and Flame

Sometimes, when I’m speaking, I search for the words—but they aren’t there.

It’s like reaching into a familiar pocket and finding it empty.

Like standing in front of a door I’ve opened a thousand times, only to realize I’ve forgotten the key.

So I say nothing.

And the silence isn’t because I don’t care.

It isn’t because I don’t have thoughts.

It isn’t because I’m trying to punish anyone.

It’s because my mind has gone quiet in the way a storm goes quiet right before it gets dangerous.

Sometimes I do find words… but they don’t fit.

They come out wrong. Too sharp. Too small. Too messy.

They don’t match what I’m actually trying to say, and suddenly I feel like I’m speaking in a language I don’t fully know.

And I get frustrated.

Because I can feel what I mean.

I can feel it in my chest, in my throat, in the heat behind my eyes.

But I can’t translate it fast enough.

So I shut down.

Sometimes I start digging through my memory, searching for the “right” explanation, the “right” example, the “right” way to make it make sense…

And everything gets fuzzy.

My thoughts start slipping like wet feathers through my hands.

The harder I try to grab them, the faster they disappear.

And the more dysregulated I become, the more out of control I feel.

Confused.

Scared.

Small.

It’s a strange kind of panic—because it doesn’t look like panic on the outside.

It looks like distance.

It looks like detachment.

It looks like coldness.

But inside?

Inside I’m fighting to stay present.

Inside I’m trying not to drown in the overwhelm of my own nervous system.

Sometimes my silence is survival.

Sometimes my shutdown is my body pulling an emergency brake.

Not because the conversation isn’t important…

but because my system has decided it’s unsafe.

And I want to be clear:

I don’t need someone to fix it.

I don’t need someone to force the words out of me.

I don’t need pressure.

I need softness.

I need time.

I need the kind of space that says,

“You don’t have to perform your healing for me. You can breathe first.”

Because eventually, the words come back.

They always do.

And when they return, they arrive like crows returning to the same old trees—

slowly, cautiously, but faithfully.

And maybe that’s what healing looks like sometimes.

Not eloquent speeches.

Not perfect communication.

Just the willingness to come back.

Again and again.

Even after the silence.