Crow and Flame

Loneliness is a strange thing.

It isn’t always measured by the number of people around you.

Sometimes it finds you in a crowded room.
Sometimes it sits beside you while your phone buzzes with notifications.
Sometimes it follows you into bed after a day spent smiling at everyone else.

You can be deeply loved…
and still feel completely alone.

I’ve been there.

The kind of alone that doesn’t just whisper—it echoes.

The kind where you wonder if anyone truly knows you. Not the version of you that performs. Not the one that says, “I’m fine.” Not the capable one who keeps everything moving.

The real you.

The one carrying grief.
The one carrying fear.
The one who is so tired of being strong that even breathing feels like work.

There are moments when it feels as if you’re standing on an island, waving frantically while the rest of the world sails by. You can see them. They can see you. But somehow no one notices that you’re drowning.

I’ve learned something about loneliness.

It doesn’t always mean we’re physically alone.

Sometimes it means we’ve become disconnected—from ourselves, from our purpose, from hope.

Trauma has a way of convincing us that isolation is safety.

“If no one gets close enough, no one can hurt you.”

But the walls we build to keep pain out often become the prison that keeps love from getting in.

There have been seasons where I wondered if I had anything left to give.

I questioned my worth.

I questioned whether anyone would notice if I disappeared into the background.

I questioned whether all the energy I poured into others would ever find its way back to me.

Those are dangerous questions to sit with alone.

Yet somewhere in those quiet moments, I began to notice something unexpected.

The crows.

If you’ve ever watched them, you’ll notice they rarely travel alone. They call to one another. They gather. They watch over members of their flock. If one is injured or threatened, others often come.

Even the bird we’ve made into a symbol of darkness understands community.

Maybe that’s why I keep returning to them.

Because they remind me that we were never meant to carry everything by ourselves.

Healing doesn’t erase loneliness overnight.

Sometimes healing simply means choosing to answer one text.

To accept one invitation.

To tell one trusted person, “I’m not okay.”

To let someone witness your humanity instead of your performance.

If you’re reading this while feeling completely and one hundred percent alone…

I want you to know something.

Loneliness lies.

It tells you that you are forgotten.

That you are invisible.

That you are too much.

Or not enough.

It tells you that no one could possibly understand.

But loneliness is not truth.

It is a feeling.

And feelings, no matter how convincing they are, are not permanent.

Maybe today all you can do is make yourself a cup of coffee.

Open the window.

Step outside.

Watch a crow cross the morning sky.

Take one more breath.

One more step.

One more day.

Sometimes survival doesn’t look heroic.

Sometimes survival looks like refusing to let loneliness have the final word.

If no one has told you today—

I’m glad you’re still here.

Your story isn’t over.

And somewhere, whether today or tomorrow, someone is going to need the hope you fought so hard to keep alive.

Until then…

If you feel entirely alone…

Come sit with the crows.

We’ll wait for the dawn together.

The flame does not burn because it has never known darkness. It burns because it refuses to go out.