Crow and Flame

Lately, everything I thought I had neatly placed in the past has been finding its way back to the surface.

Not in the same way it lived before—sharp and consuming—but in a quieter, more persistent way. Like it’s asking to be acknowledged differently this time.

Sharing my story has done that.

What I didn’t fully expect is how stepping into rooms with it—talking to offenders, sitting across from government officials, speaking out loud the things I once could barely write—would bring all of it forward again. Not just the facts of what happened, but the feelings I thought I had already worked through.

It’s a strange kind of exposure.

On one side, there’s purpose.
A very real, very grounded sense that maybe this matters. That maybe telling the truth about what I lived through could create change, or at least open space for someone else to feel less alone. That maybe it can be used for something beyond just survival.

And then there’s the other side.

The part that feels like I’ve handed over pieces of myself that I can’t quite gather back up again. The part that wonders how many times I can revisit these experiences before they start to reshape me in ways I don’t want. The part that feels the weight of being seen—not just as a writer or a creator—but as my story.

It’s a double-edged sword in the truest sense.

Because this is an opportunity. I know that.

An opportunity to use my voice in rooms I never imagined being in.
An opportunity to advocate, to challenge, to shift conversations that need to be had.
An opportunity to take something painful and turn it into something that might matter beyond me.

But opportunity doesn’t cancel out fear.

And it doesn’t erase the grief.

Because alongside all of this… life is still moving forward.

I’m promoting my book.
I’m sharing my art.
I’m standing at the edge of what comes next, trying to decide what path my next book will take.

And that space—between what was and what could be—is both exhilarating and deeply uncomfortable.

There’s excitement in creating again. In imagining new worlds, new stories, new versions of myself that aren’t defined by what I’ve been through.

But there’s also this quiet grief that sits underneath it.

Grief for the version of my life that never happened.
Grief for the parts of myself that were shaped by things I didn’t choose.
Grief that sometimes shows up at the most unexpected moments, even now.

I don’t think we talk enough about how those things can exist together.

How you can be moving forward and still mourning.
How you can be proud of how far you’ve come and still feel the weight of where you’ve been.
How healing isn’t a clean break—it’s a constant negotiation between past and present.

Right now, I feel like I’m standing in that in-between.

One foot in purpose.
One foot in uncertainty.

Trying to honor both without letting either one take over.

I don’t have a clear answer yet on what comes next—whether my next book will lean further into truth, or drift back into fiction, or find some space in between like everything else in my life seems to.

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe this part isn’t about having it figured out.

Maybe it’s about learning how to carry all of it—the fear, the opportunity, the grief, the excitement—and still choosing to move forward anyway.

Even when being seen feels heavy.
Even when the past feels close.
Even when the future feels wide open and uncertain.