Crow and Flame

There are days when the crow is quiet.

She sits somewhere high, watching the world move beneath her. The wind carries the trees. The clouds drift. Her feathers settle against her body, and for a little while, there is no war.

And then, without warning, the crow starts screaming.

That is what a panic attack can feel like.

There doesn’t always have to be a reason.

There doesn’t have to be a catastrophe.

Sometimes nothing is actually happening.

And yet your body doesn’t know that.

Your heart begins pounding as though something is chasing you. Your chest tightens. Your breathing changes. Your hands shake. Your stomach twists. Your skin feels too hot or too cold. Your thoughts begin sprinting in every direction at once.

Something is wrong.

Something is wrong.

Something is wrong.

The cruelest part is knowing, somewhere deep inside yourself, that you may not even understand what you’re afraid of.

But your body doesn’t care about logic in that moment.

It has already decided there is danger.

So you fight it.

You tell yourself to calm down.

You take deeper breaths.

You try to reason with yourself.

I’m okay.

I’m safe.

This will pass.

But sometimes the more desperately we demand that the panic disappear, the louder it becomes.

So maybe the goal isn’t to make it disappear.

Maybe the goal is to sit beside yourself while it passes.

To stop treating your fear like an enemy you have to defeat.

To place your feet firmly on the ground and remind yourself:

I am here.

I am breathing.

My body is frightened, but frightened does not mean unsafe.

This feeling is real, but it is temporary.

There is a strange kind of courage in doing nothing except staying.

Staying when every instinct tells you to run.

Staying when your thoughts are screaming.

Staying when your body feels like it has betrayed you.

Staying until your heartbeat begins to slow.

Until your lungs remember their rhythm.

Until the room stops spinning.

Until the crow finally folds her wings.

I think we sometimes expect healing to look graceful.

We imagine ourselves becoming stronger, calmer, wiser versions of who we used to be.

We imagine that once we’ve learned the lessons, done the work, gone to therapy, practiced mindfulness, established routines, and fought our way through the darkness, we won’t have bad days anymore.

But healing doesn’t promise that.

Healing doesn’t mean the crow never screams again.

It means we learn how to listen without believing every warning she gives us.

It means we learn that a difficult moment does not erase all the progress we’ve made.

One panic attack doesn’t mean you’re back at the beginning.

One terrible day doesn’t erase the good ones.

Needing to stop doesn’t mean you’ve failed.

Resting doesn’t mean you’re weak.

And being afraid doesn’t mean you aren’t brave.

Sometimes bravery is simply sitting on the edge of your own storm and whispering,

“I know you’re scared. But we’re going to stay.”

The crow doesn’t have to fly today.

She doesn’t have to prove anything.

She doesn’t have to outrun the storm.

She can simply fold her wings.

Breathe.

Wait.

And trust that even this will pass.

Because it will.

The flame is still there.

Even when the crow cannot see it.