Crow and Flame

Someone once told me I seemed emotionless.

Robotic.

As if the pain in front of me never reached me.

At the time, I was working in child welfare.

Every day I stepped into homes where children were hungry, parents were overwhelmed, addiction had stolen years, trauma echoed through every room, and hope sometimes felt impossibly far away.

There was one mother I’ll never forget.

She wanted her children back more than anything. She cried in my office. She cried in court. She cried because she loved them and because she had made mistakes she couldn’t undo overnight.

I listened.

Then I got to work.

I advocated. I coordinated services. I made phone calls. I connected her with resources. I pushed through barriers. I celebrated every small victory alongside her.

Eventually, she reunified with her children.

She thanked me.

She told me she felt heard. She said I had helped her find a way through something she thought was impossible.

Then she said something that stayed with me.

“You never seemed emotional. You were so… robotic.”

I understood what she meant.

But she was wrong.

I wasn’t unfeeling.

I was surviving.

Somewhere along the way, I learned that if I let every heartbreaking story inside me all at once, I wouldn’t be able to do the work anymore.

So I learned to steady my hands.

To quiet my face.

To think clearly when everyone else was drowning.

Not because I didn’t care.

Because I cared enough to stay.

People often mistake composure for indifference.

They see someone who doesn’t cry and assume they don’t hurt.

But there are people whose compassion doesn’t always look like tears.

Sometimes it looks like making one more phone call after everyone else has gone home.

Sometimes it looks like sitting quietly beside someone in unimaginable pain because they deserve someone who won’t look away.

Sometimes it looks like carrying pieces of other people’s heartbreak home without letting them see how heavy they are.

For years, survival became my default.

Find the solution.

Solve the problem.

Keep moving.

Because somewhere deep inside me was the fear that if I ever truly let myself collapse under the weight of it all…

…I might never get back up.

I’ve realized that this doesn’t just show up at work.

It shows up in my relationships, too.

When someone I love is hurting, my instinct isn’t always to cry with them.

It’s to build a bridge.

Find the flashlight.

Chart a path through the darkness.

To me, that’s love.

But I’ve learned that not everyone experiences love that way.

Sometimes people don’t need someone to solve the problem.

They need someone willing to sit beside them in the dark and simply say, “I’m here.”

That is something I’m still learning.

Not because I don’t feel deeply enough.

But because I have spent a lifetime learning how to survive my feelings instead of showing them.

Healing isn’t just about feeling more.

Sometimes it’s about allowing the people we love to see the feelings we’ve worked so hard to hide.

Because survival kept me alive.

But vulnerability is teaching me how to truly connect.

And maybe strength isn’t never falling apart.

Maybe strength is trusting that if we do, we can find our way back together.