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The Sky To Me

There are some people who come into your life and feel like more than just a person — they feel like a force of nature. They shift the air when they enter a room, they bring color to the gray, and they remind you that beauty can be found in both calm and chaos. To love them is to feel both grounded and free, like standing beneath a vast, open sky that somehow knows your name.

When I say you’re the sky to me, I’m saying you are the breath that steadies me — the exhale that softens my edges and brings me home to calm. You are the quiet miracle that unfolds across the horizon, colors blooming like confessions at dawn. You are the shimmer of stars that pull me into wonder, the gentle breeze that wraps around me — cool, warm, and impossibly tender — like the memory of a touch I never want to fade.

When I say you’re the sky to me, I think of summer storms and their wild beauty — the violet clouds, the silver flashes that light the heavens, the thunder that feels like a heartbeat I’ve always known. You are that power — fierce, breathtaking, alive — and yet you are also the soft rain that falls against my skin, the reason I want to dance barefoot in the dark.

You are fireflies and starlight, thunder and lightning, every sunrise that dares to begin again, every sunset that aches with beauty. You are bright blue horizons and glowing moons — infinite, untamed, and the quiet ache between what is seen and what is felt.

When I say you’re the sky to me, I mean you are everything — vast and wild and endless — and still, somehow, you feel like home.

Because love, real love, isn’t about possession or perfection. It’s about awe. It’s about looking at someone and realizing they hold both the calm and the storm, the light and the shadow — and loving them for all of it.

The Mirror and the Flame

I was at the gym, mid-set, breath trembling, body alive with effort. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror — just a flicker of movement, a flash of reflection — and suddenly, the world tilted.

Panic bloomed in my chest, wild and suffocating. My pulse thundered in my ears as my mind spun stories faster than my breath could catch them. You’re going to fall. The equipment will break. You don’t belong here.

It was absurd, really. That machine had held hundreds of bodies — bigger, smaller, taller, stronger. It had held me before. But in that moment, the old ghosts stirred. My mind decided to be cruel.

It distorted my reflection into something monstrous, a funhouse version of myself, larger than life yet hollow inside. The mirror became a weapon, each glance slicing away at my confidence.

Sometimes, I look in the mirror and I see truth — strength carved into my muscles, resilience in the set of my jaw, a woman who has fought her way through shadow after shadow. But other times, that old narrative creeps back in, whispering poison: You’re too much. You take up too much space. You don’t fit.

It’s like a crow landing on my shoulder — familiar, unwelcome, persistent. I’ve learned not to swat it away too quickly, but to listen. Because beneath its cawing there’s usually something deeper: fear, shame, memory. The echoes of all the years I believed I wasn’t enough.

So I breathe. I place my hand over my chest and feel the flame there — steady, defiant, alive. It flickers in the dark spaces of my doubt, reminding me that I’ve walked through worse fires and emerged whole.

The panic eases when I remember what is real:

My body is not my enemy.

The mirror is not my judge.

The crow is not my truth — only my reminder to return to it.

Healing isn’t the absence of distortion; it’s the courage to see beyond it.

It’s meeting your reflection with softness, even when your mind tries to twist the image.

It’s whispering back to the voice that says you don’t belong here:

I do. I am here. I am enough.

And when I leave the gym, sweat-slick and shaky, I carry that flame with me — a quiet defiance against every lie that ever tried to shrink me.

Because I am not a distortion.

I am not the cruel whisper.

I am the crow’s song and the steady flame —

reborn again and again,

learning, always,

to see myself clearly.

Chasing Ghosts of a Life That Was Never Mine

I realize now that I was chasing something that never existed — a dream stitched together from expectations, comparisons, and the illusion of what I thought happiness should look like. I chased it so hard, so blindly, that I lost sight of the parts of me that once felt alive and true. In my pursuit of a life that was never meant for me, I dropped the pieces of myself that felt most like home — the laughter, the curiosity, the quiet knowing of who I was before the world told me who I should be.

I became consumed with the pursuit. Every milestone I didn’t reach felt like failure, every detour like proof that I wasn’t enough. I built my identity around what I thought I should be instead of who I was. And the more I reached for that illusion, the more I disappeared.

It’s strange how easy it is to lose yourself quietly. Not all at once, but in small, almost unnoticeable ways. A compromise here, a silenced truth there. You start to trade authenticity for acceptance, and before long you’re living a life that doesn’t even fit your own skin.

When I finally stopped running, there was a kind of grief that came with it — grief for the person I’d been pretending to be, and grief for the person I’d abandoned along the way. But there was also relief. The kind that comes when you finally exhale after holding your breath for years.

I’m learning now that coming home to yourself isn’t always graceful. It’s messy and uncertain. It means sitting with your own truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. It means forgiving the version of you that didn’t know better, and choosing, day by day, to pick up the pieces you once left behind.

There’s a quiet strength in that — in reclaiming what you lost, even when you were the one who let it go.

Because sometimes, healing isn’t about chasing the life you thought you wanted.

It’s about remembering the life that was meant for you all along.

Even my coffee tastes flat

This morning, I woke up wrapped in gray.

Not darkness — just that dull, colorless fog that drapes itself across my thoughts. Nothing feels quite right or wrong, just muted. Blah.

Even the coffee tastes like static. The sunlight barely touches me. My body moves, but my spirit lags behind, watching from a distance. There’s no rush of inspiration, no surge of purpose — only the soft hum of going through the motions.

It’s not sadness exactly. It’s more like the quiet between breaths, the pause between endings and beginnings. The crow within me — that wild, watchful part that usually soars through storms — feels grounded, wings heavy, feathers damp with apathy. It’s not that I’ve forgotten how to fly. It’s just that for now, the sky feels too far away.

The flame, too, flickers low. Not extinguished, just small — a single ember buried beneath the ashes of fatigue and routine. I used to panic when the light dimmed, as if my worth depended on my fire staying bright. But now I know: even embers still burn. Even in the quiet, there’s life waiting to rise again.

So I let the crow rest. I let the flame breathe.

I stop demanding that motivation appear like magic.

Instead, I make room for stillness — the kind that heals instead of hides.

Maybe today is about the simplest things:

a shower that rinses away yesterday’s noise,

a deep breath that reminds me I’m still here,

a cup of tea sipped slowly, like a peace offering to myself.

I used to think I had to earn my light.

Now I know it’s still mine, even when it’s dim.

The crow will fly again when the wind shifts.

The flame will rise when it’s ready.

And until then, I will honor the in-between —

the gray days that ask nothing of me but presence.

Because even the quiet carries healing.

Even the dull days are sacred.

Coping With Stress

Coping with Stress: Grounding Yourself When the World Feels Heavy

Stress doesn’t always come crashing in. Sometimes it creeps — a slow tightening of your chest, the hum of anxious thoughts you can’t quiet, the sense that you might shatter if one more thing goes wrong.

I’ve lived in that space — the one where you feel pulled between survival and surrender. But I’ve learned that even in chaos, there are ways to come home to yourself. Coping isn’t about escaping; it’s about returning.

Here are some of the grounding tools that help me find my center when life begins to tilt:

1. The Five Senses Grounding Technique

When your thoughts spiral, return to your senses — the things that root you in now.

5 things you can see: notice color, shape, light, movement. 4 things you can touch: feel texture, weight, warmth. 3 things you can hear: distant sounds, your breath, rustling leaves. 2 things you can smell: coffee, candle smoke, rain in the air. 1 thing you can taste: a sip of water, mint, tea.

It seems simple, but it works. It’s a small ritual of presence, a way to remind your body: we are here, we are safe.

2. Name Five

When stress feels like static, I use “Name Five” to pull myself out of the fog.

Name five things in the room, or five people you love, or five reasons you’ve made it this far.

It doesn’t have to be profound — just honest.

Each name is a thread that ties you back to reality, back to meaning.

3. The Temperature Reset

If your heart races or panic starts to bloom, use temperature to ground yourself.

Hold an ice cube. Splash cool water on your face. Step outside and breathe in cold air.

This helps calm your body’s stress response — a physical signal to your nervous system that you are not in danger anymore.

4. Box Breathing

When your thoughts are running wild, control what you can — your breath.

Inhale for 4 counts, hold for 4, exhale for 4, hold for 4.

Repeat.

It’s called box breathing — a steady rhythm that slows your heartbeat and clears the static.

You can do it anywhere — in traffic, in bed, in the middle of a storm.

5. Move Gently

When stress lives in your body, movement is medicine.

Stretch your arms overhead. Roll your shoulders. Go for a walk.

Or move in bigger ways — dance, punch a bag, run until the noise in your head softens into breath.

Movement tells your body that energy has somewhere to go.

6. Anchor Words

Sometimes I repeat simple phrases under my breath:

“I am safe.”

“I am here.”

“This feeling will pass.”

Mantras can become anchors — soft, steady reminders that you are more than the moment you’re in.

7. Comfort Object

Keep something small with you — a smooth stone, a piece of jewelry, a token that feels like home.

Touching it can remind you that you’re not lost; you’re tethered.

8. The Crow and Flame Reminder

In my own practice, I imagine the crow — dark, watchful, resilient — perched within me, guiding me to awareness.

And the flame — small, fierce, enduring — burning even in the wind.

Together, they remind me: I can carry my darkness and my light.

That balance is coping. It’s strength.

When Stress Returns (and It Always Does)

You won’t always get it perfect. Some days you’ll forget the tools, the breath, the grounding.

But that’s okay.

The work isn’t to never feel stress — it’s to meet it differently.

With awareness. With compassion. With a hand on your heart whispering, “You’re okay. You’re trying. You’re still here.”

Reclaiming Myself

When I moved away from my hometown two years ago, I was terrified. I grieved deeply—grieved the familiar streets that had memorized my footsteps, the faces I once knew by heart, the version of myself I had learned to perform. I was clutching at ghosts of comfort, at dreams and expectations that had long since turned to ash. Still, I tried to breathe life into them, forcing broken pieces into something that resembled belonging. But the harder I tried, the more I crumbled.

I didn’t recognize myself anymore. The girl I once was had vanished beneath layers of survival. Moving away and starting over became the first real act of reclamation—a spark in the dark. It was terrifying, but also quietly defiant.

And like the crow rising from the ruins, I began the long, slow flight back to myself. The crow doesn’t mourn what it leaves behind—it learns to navigate the winds, to trust its wings again. I had to do the same.

Still, the whispers followed me. Those cruel, familiar voices of self-doubt:

You’re being selfish.

No one will like who you are.

You’re childish.

Your dreams are foolish.

You’ll never be good enough.

For a long time, I let them echo. But the flame inside me—flickering, fragile, stubborn—refused to go out.

Because I am good enough. I am more than enough.

It doesn’t matter if one person sees my work, or a million, or none at all. What matters is that I am creating, because creation is what the flame inside me knows how to do. Every word, every brushstroke, every story that rises from the ashes is an offering—a small resurrection.

It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t even have to be understood. It just has to be mine.

The crow within me still carries soot on her feathers, but they shimmer iridescent in the light. The flame still wavers some days, but it burns on—steady, alive, and mine.

And that, in itself, is beautiful.

That, in itself, is freedom.

Grounding In the Season of Change

Autumn invites us to slow down. The air cools, the light shifts, and the trees let go — not with panic, but with trust. This is the season of grounding, of returning to the roots beneath the noise. For those of us who carry both the crow’s shadow and the flame’s fire, grounding becomes a sacred act of balance — a way to honor both the darkness and the light within us.

When the wind inside you begins to howl, when old ghosts stir with the falling leaves, try these autumn-themed grounding practices to come home to yourself again:

1. Touch the Earth

Step outside barefoot or in thick socks, and stand where the leaves have fallen. Feel the soft decay beneath you — the reminder that endings can be gentle. Breathe in the scent of damp earth and let it anchor you. Whisper, I am here. I am safe.

2. The Crow’s Breath

The crow teaches presence — the steady awareness between sky and soil. Breathe in deeply through your nose, feeling the air chill your lungs. Hold for a count of three, then exhale slowly through your mouth, releasing the static. Imagine your breath as wings beating away the noise.

3. Candle and Flame Ritual

Light a candle — something warm and autumnal: cinnamon, clove, amber. Watch the flame dance, alive and steady. Name one thing you are grateful for and one thing you are ready to release. Let the smoke carry it upward, trusting the universe to transform what you no longer need.

4. Gather the Colors

Collect fallen leaves — the reds, the golds, the deep purples that mirror bruised skies at dusk. Arrange them on your table or altar as reminders that even in dying, beauty endures. Each color can become a small prayer: red for strength, gold for joy, brown for peace.

5. Sip Something Warm

Wrap both hands around a mug of tea or cider. Feel the heat against your palms, the steam rising like a quiet offering. Let each sip draw you back to this moment — this breath, this body, this safety.

6. The Crow’s Call (Sound Grounding)

When your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind, mimic the crow’s call out loud. A simple “caw” — sharp, grounding, embodied. It’s okay to laugh. Laughter is grounding too.

7. Write by Firelight

Journal or write by candlelight or a soft lamp. Ask yourself: What am I ready to shed? What am I ready to keep? Let the pen move like a falling leaf, effortless, surrendering.

Autumn teaches us that grounding is not about holding still in fear — it’s about rooting deeply enough to survive change. The crow reminds us to stay aware, watchful, resilient. The flame reminds us to stay warm, alive, and capable of transforming even our pain into light.

Haunted by My Own Ghosts

This October, when the air turns colder and the veil feels thinner, I can feel the ghosts stirring — not the kind that haunt forgotten houses, but the ones that haunt me.

They move quietly beneath my skin,

in the hollow between heartbeats,

in the rooms of my body where old pain still lingers like dust.

I am the house,

and she — the younger me — is the ghost.

The child who learned silence before safety,

who mistook invisibility for protection.

She still walks these halls, barefoot and trembling,

tracing her fingers along cracked walls of memory,

searching for someone to see her.

For years I tried to keep the doors closed.

I painted over the stains, lit candles, pretended the air didn’t hum with sorrow.

I thought if I kept moving forward, the past would stay buried.

But ghosts are clever — they find their way through the smallest fractures.

They live in the tone of my voice,

in the way my shoulders tighten when someone raises theirs,

in the tremor that visits my hands when I remember too much.

The haunting isn’t always loud — sometimes it’s a whisper.

A flicker of shame,

a shadow that passes when I catch my reflection.

A reminder of the girl I left behind but never really freed.

Lately, I’ve begun the slow, sacred work of exorcism —

not the violent casting-out I once imagined,

but the gentler ritual of acknowledgment.

I light the flame and let it burn.

I call her forward,

meet her gaze,

and say, I remember you. You are allowed to rest.

And in that moment, I feel her grief — not as a curse, but as a communion.

The crow in me — dark-winged and watchful — caws softly in recognition.

She has carried the bones of my sorrow long enough,

and she knows it’s time to lay them down.

The flame that once devoured now purifies.

It burns through the shame,

through the layers of silence and survival,

leaving only truth —

raw, glowing, alive.

Healing is not the absence of ghosts.

It’s the slow learning to walk beside them,

to listen when they speak,

to honor the ashes and the embers both.

I am not haunted because I am broken.

I am haunted because I am remembering.

And with each breath, each small act of love for myself,

I am reclaiming the house,

room by room,

light by trembling light.

The crow perches on my shoulder now,

not as an omen,

but as a witness.

The flame flickers at my fingertips — not to destroy,

but to guide me home.

Tuesday Morning Musings

Hold Your Head High

I used to walk with my head down, and sometimes still do when I forget.

It wasn’t just shyness — it was survival. I thought that if people saw me, really saw me, they’d glimpse the storm behind my eyes: the intrusive thoughts, the quiet self-loathing, the shame that curled around my ribs like a vice. They’d see the girl who struggled with an eating disorder, who was assaulted and turned blame inward, who used pain to feel in control, who mistook punishment for penance. They’d see the woman who endured domestic violence and learned to move softly, to take up as little space as possible — as if silence could make her safe.

For so long, I believed my struggles made me less.

Less deserving of tenderness, less worthy of being seen.

So I folded in on myself. I apologized with my posture. I kept my eyes on the ground, convinced that invisibility was protection.

But healing — real healing — is the slow act of learning that your scars do not make you unworthy; they make you real. It’s understanding that the parts of you you’ve hidden are not too much, but precisely the proof that you’ve survived.

It doesn’t happen all at once. Some days I still catch my reflection and see the ghost of the girl who flinched at her own shadow. Some mornings my head dips low before I remember who I’ve become. But then I breathe, lift my chin, and remind myself:

I have walked through things that tried to erase me.

I have been buried and still found the strength to bloom.

I have earned my space here.

So today, start with your head held high.

Walk into the world like someone who has overcome, because you have.

You are not less because of your challenges — you are more.

More compassionate, more aware, more radiant because you know the cost of light.

The world doesn’t need you smaller.

It needs the full truth of you — brave, imperfect, human, and healing.

What would it look like for you to hold your head high today — not because everything is perfect, but because you’ve survived enough to know you deserve to be seen?

90 Days of Effort

They say it takes ninety days of consistent effort to rewire the brain. Ninety days of showing up, of repeating a new pattern until the old one begins to fade — not erased, but softened, rewritten.

And I can’t stop thinking about that.

Because what if — instead of giving all our energy away to everyone else, all our care and attention and time — we turned some of it inward? What if for ninety days, we made ourselves a quiet promise: to show up with love, with nourishment, with gentleness?

What if we treated ourselves like something worth tending to?

We water plants so they don’t wither. We move them to the light so they can thrive. But how often do we leave ourselves in the dark, starving for care, forgetting that our own roots need tending too?

What if for ninety days we made an effort to love ourselves in action — not just in theory?

To feed our bodies with intention.

To move not as punishment, but as gratitude for the miracle of motion.

To speak kindly to the reflection in the mirror.

To rest without guilt, to breathe without apology.

Ninety days. That’s all it takes for the brain to begin to believe something new.

To build a pathway toward self-respect, self-compassion, and healing.

Imagine who we could become if we offered ourselves the same dedication we so freely give to others. Imagine what might bloom if we stopped waiting for permission to care for ourselves.

Even the wildest garden needs tending. Even the most resilient plant wilts when it’s ignored.

So here’s the challenge — not the harsh, perfectionist kind, but a soft, intentional one:

Make the effort. Water yourself. Step into the light.

For ninety days, choose yourself again and again until it feels natural, until it feels like home.

Because growth doesn’t happen in grand gestures — it happens in daily choices, in quiet persistence, in showing up when no one’s watching.

In ninety days, you might not become someone entirely new.

But you just might become someone who finally remembers how to love themselves.