Crow and Flame

Dear Little Crow,

I know.

I know you’re tired.

I know you’ve been trying so hard to hold everything together while quietly wondering how much longer you can keep doing it.

You keep looking at the list of things you’re supposed to accomplish. The goals. The deadlines. The dreams you promised yourself you wouldn’t abandon this time.

And when you don’t check every box, you convince yourself you’ve failed.

Little crow, listen to me.

You have not failed.

You are a living thing, not a machine.

Some days you will soar.

Some days you will barely manage to crawl out of the nest.

Both days count.

There will be mornings when you wake up with fire in your chest, convinced you can conquer the entire damn forest before lunch.

And there will be mornings when simply putting your feet on the floor feels like an act of rebellion.

Do not measure your worth by the version of yourself who had the most energy.

Do not punish yourself because today you are not her.

Rest is not betrayal.

Slowing down is not quitting.

Starting over is not going backward.

Sometimes survival looks suspiciously like doing absolutely nothing except breathing until the storm passes.

And that’s okay.

I want you to remember something else.

You don’t have to have the whole path illuminated before you take the next step.

Crows don’t need the entire sky mapped out.

They simply know where they’re going next.

So maybe that’s all you need today.

The next step.

Not the next ten.

Not the entire staircase.

Just the next step.

Drink the coffee.

Answer the email.

Write the paragraph.

Take the walk.

Paint the canvas.

Say no.

Say yes.

Ask for help.

Close the door.

Open the window.

Rest when your body asks you to.

Begin again when you’re ready.

And if you stumble?

Little crow, you have survived worse than a stumble.

You have survived storms that convinced you they would never end.

You have walked through ashes carrying pieces of yourself you weren’t even sure were still alive.

And look at you.

Still here.

Still creating.

Still dreaming.

Still reaching for the light with soot on your wings.

Maybe that’s the real work.

Not becoming someone who never falls apart.

But becoming someone who knows how to gather herself from the pieces.

Someone who understands that healing isn’t a straight line.

Someone who can look at the wreckage and whisper,

“Well… I suppose we’ll build something from this.”

So today, little crow, be gentle with yourself.

You don’t need to prove that you’re strong.

You don’t need to earn rest.

You don’t need permission to begin again.

Your wings are allowed to be tired.

Your heart is allowed to be tender.

Your fire is allowed to burn low.

It doesn’t mean the flame is gone.

It means you’re human.

And tomorrow?

Well.

Tomorrow, we can spread our wings again.

For today, let’s simply sit on the branch.

Watch the world move beneath us.

Breathe.

And remember—

You are still here.

And sometimes, little crow,

that is the bravest thing you could possibly be.

— The Old Crow