Crow and Flame

There are moments when everything in me wants to collapse.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just quietly fold in on myself.

Moments when crisis brushes up against old wounds.

When my nervous system lights up like it’s still living in another year, another version of me.

Triggered.

That word sounds sharp. Clinical.

But what it really feels like is time travel.

My body reacting before my mind can catch up.

My chest tightening.

My thoughts racing.

The urge to run. Or shut down. Or fight.

And here’s the hard part:

I don’t want to be the calm one in those moments.

I want to unravel.

I want to collapse into the familiar survival patterns.

I want someone else to carry the weight.

But staying true to me means something different now.

It means pausing.

It means recognizing that activation in my nervous system and saying,

“I see you. You’re trying to protect me. But I am safe right now.”

That doesn’t mean I don’t feel the wave.

It means I don’t let the wave become my identity.

Calm is not the absence of reaction.

It’s the decision not to let the reaction drive.

Clarity is not coldness.

It’s choosing to respond instead of relive.

There is a version of me who lived entirely in survival mode.

She was hypervigilant. Reactive. Ready for impact at all times.

And she kept me alive.

But she doesn’t get to run my life anymore.

Now, when crisis comes — and it does — I breathe deeper.

I slow my speech.

I plant my feet on the ground like I would in martial arts training.

Balanced. Aware. Not braced — but ready.

Because fighting being triggered isn’t about suppressing it.

It’s about understanding it.

It’s asking:

Is this about now? Or is this about then? What is actually required of me in this moment?

Most of the time, what’s required is far less dramatic than what my body predicts.

Staying true to me means:

I don’t abandon myself to keep the peace. I don’t escalate to feel powerful. I don’t collapse to avoid conflict.

I stay.

Steady.

Even when I want to disappear.

There is power in that kind of steadiness.

A quiet fire.

Not explosive.

Enduring.

This is healing.

Not because I never get triggered.

But because I no longer let the trigger decide who I am.

Crow and Flame was never about perfection.

It’s about resilience.

It’s about meeting the moment with both softness and strength.

And sometimes the bravest thing I can do…

Is stay.