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Atlas of Sadness: Crow Reflections on the Weight We Carry

Intro: The Heavy Days

There are mornings when the simple act of existing feels like too much.

The alarm rings, sunlight spills across the floor, and still—your body resists. The weight of sadness presses down like gravity, like Atlas holding up the sky.

On those days, even the smallest tasks—getting out of bed, showering, brushing your hair—feel like climbing a mountain made of stone. Depression doesn’t always look like tears; sometimes it’s stillness so thick it swallows sound.

I know that stillness. I’ve lived inside it.

But I’ve also learned that healing isn’t about grand gestures—it’s about tiny acts of defiance.

It’s the decision to open the blinds.

To let sunlight touch your face.

To press your bare feet into the grass, even when your mind whispers that it doesn’t matter.

The Weight of the Sky

Crow sits on the branch of a barren tree, wings tucked close.

The air is heavy, the sky low.

She does not try to lift it—she simply breathes beneath it.

Even the watcher must rest.

The Mundane as Medicine

Depression tells us that there’s no point. That nothing will change. But the truth is, every small act you take in defiance of that voice is change.

When I am at my lowest, I start with the most basic things:

Wash my face. Drink water. Sit in the sunlight, even if I don’t feel its warmth yet.

These are not cures—they’re reminders. Each act says: I am still here.

And sometimes, being here is the bravest thing we can do.

The body often remembers what the spirit forgets.

When I walk outside barefoot, the earth doesn’t ask me to smile or be better—it just holds me. The grass doesn’t judge my unwashed hair or tired eyes. It accepts me exactly as I am. That kind of acceptance, I’ve learned, can be healing too.

The Feather Falls

A single feather drifts to the ground.

It is not a loss—it is a release.

Crow watches it settle, light and slow, and then looks to the horizon.

There is a softness in letting go of what cannot be lifted today.

Learning to Move Again

Some days, movement feels impossible.

But movement doesn’t have to mean running or productivity—it can mean sitting by the window, noticing a breeze, or listening to birds call in the distance.

Depression shrinks the world until it fits inside your chest.

The work of healing is learning to widen it again—one breath, one step, one open window at a time.

If all you did today was get up, you have already won something invisible and enormous.

The Rising

Crow spreads her wings at dusk, shaking off the dust of the day.

She does not soar high tonight—just enough to feel the wind again.

Even the smallest rise is still flight.

Reflection

You do not have to carry the whole sky.

You only have to carry yourself through this day.

Let the light touch your face.

Let the earth hold your feet.

Let the breath return, even if it trembles.

The sadness may not vanish, but you are still here beneath it—alive, breathing, worthy of gentleness.

And that is everything.

When the Mind Takes Flight :A Reflection on Over Thinking and Anxiety

Intro: The Spiral of Thought

Anxiety doesn’t always arrive like a storm. Sometimes it begins as a single thought — small, harmless, a whisper of worry. Then it circles. And circles again. Before long, it becomes a whirlwind inside your chest, a tightening behind your ribs. Panic creeps in, disguised as logic, disguised as care.

Overthinking feels like control — but it’s really the mind trying to protect us from what it cannot fix. I know the sound of that fluttering panic all too well: the heart beating too fast, the shallow breath, the spinning thoughts that won’t land.

In those moments, I’ve often turned to the image of the crow.

Not as a dark omen, but as a teacher of awareness. The crow doesn’t fight the wind — she rides it, learning its patterns, letting it lift her higher until she can see the whole landscape.

The Spiral

Crow circles above the field.

She watches the same spot from many angles — the place where the noise is loudest, the shadows longest.

She does not dive. She waits.

She knows the sky always steadies again.

Understanding Panic and Overthinking

When a panic attack begins, your body believes it’s in danger — even when your mind knows it isn’t.

It’s like the alarm bells go off without a fire. Your breath shortens, your thoughts quicken, and your heart races to keep up with the story your nervous system is telling.

Overthinking is the mind’s attempt to rewrite that story — to find the threat, fix it, or prevent it from happening again. But in doing so, we feed the panic. We fly in circles, exhausted and disoriented.

I’ve learned that healing begins not by stopping the thoughts, but by changing how I meet them.

The Watcher on the Wire

Crow perches on the telephone line,

balancing between tension and stillness.

She doesn’t silence the noise — she listens until it quiets itself.

Grounding in the Body

When I feel panic rising, I place my hand over my heart and whisper:

“You are safe.”

Then I take one slow breath — in for four, out for six — and imagine the breath flowing down into the soles of my feet.

Sometimes I hold a small stone, feather, or leaf in my hand — something from the earth that reminds me I belong here.

I remind myself that thoughts are not facts.

They are weather passing through the mind.

You can do the same:

Feel your breath. Feel the ground beneath you. Name what you can see, touch, hear. Let your body bring your mind back home.

Flight and Return

When the sky stills, the crow opens her wings.

She does not flee the storm — she moves through it.

Each beat of her wings says, I am still here.

Overthinking is a sign of a tender, intelligent mind that cares deeply.

Panic is not weakness; it is your body asking to be heard.

When we stop fighting the noise and start listening, we begin to heal.

The crow teaches us to pause between thoughts — to find that silent perch within ourselves where breath and awareness meet. From there, peace doesn’t need to be chased. It comes home on its own.

Feathered Breath: A Guided Meditation to Calm

Intro: Finding Stillness in the Storm

Healing isn’t always grand or visible. Sometimes it begins with something as simple as a breath — one conscious inhale after a thousand shallow ones.

When my mind races and my chest tightens, I’ve learned to return to the rhythm of my breath. The body remembers what the heart forgets: that calm can be reclaimed, one breath at a time.

Nature has become my teacher in this — the slow sway of branches, the rise and fall of wings, the way a feather drifts instead of fights the air. Crows, in their quiet vigilance, remind me to watch without judgment. They teach that stillness is not weakness, but awareness.

This guided meditation uses breath and the image of a feather to help you release tension and find balance within the body, mind, and spirit.

Guided Breathing: Feather and Crow

Find a comfortable place to sit.

Let your hands rest in your lap or by your sides.

If you wish, hold a feather — or simply imagine one, light and dark, resting in your palm.

Crow Interlude I: The Watcher

A crow perches nearby, watching in silence.

She does not rush or interfere — only witnesses.

Let her still gaze remind you that you, too, can watch your thoughts come and go without needing to chase them.

Step 1: Grounding the Body

Feel the weight of your body supported by the earth beneath you.

Notice where you are held — by the chair, by the ground, by gravity itself.

Take a slow breath in through your nose for a count of four.

Hold for two.

Exhale gently through your mouth for a count of six.

Repeat this three times.

With each exhale, imagine releasing what no longer serves you — the tightness in your chest, the restless energy, the self-doubt.

Crow Interlude II: The Breath Between Wings

Crow lifts from her branch, wings spreading wide.

Between each downbeat is a pause — a stillness where the air holds her.

Notice the spaces between your breaths —

the quiet resting place that exists between effort and ease.

Step 2: The Feather Exercise

Bring your attention to the feather in your hand or mind’s eye.

Notice its softness, its delicate balance of strength and fragility.

As you inhale, imagine the feather rising — lifted gently by air.

As you exhale, see it floating down, slow and effortless.

Breathe with the feather:

Inhale — rise.

Exhale — release.

Let your breath follow that rhythm, fluid and unforced.

If thoughts come, let them drift like loose down — seen, but not grasped.

Crow Interlude III: The Quiet Return

The crow settles again, feathers folding neatly.

She tilts her head, watching the horizon where the light shifts from shadow to gold.

You have done enough. You have breathed. You have returned.

Step 3: Closing the Practice

Bring your awareness back to your body.

Notice the ease in your breath, the steadiness in your heartbeat.

Place your hand over your heart and whisper softly:

“I am safe. I am grounded. I am free to breathe.”

Take one final slow breath in through the nose and exhale fully through the mouth.

When you are ready, open your eyes.

Reflection

Each breath is a small act of trust — in your body, in the present moment, in your ability to return to yourself. The feather reminds us that we don’t have to force peace; we only have to allow it.

The crow reminds us to witness without fear. To see what is and still choose to stay.

I Never Knew

There are moments in healing when the past rises like smoke — not to haunt, but to be seen. For so long, I carried stories stitched in silence, believing pain was proof of love and endurance was safety. But healing has taught me to unlearn. To loosen the old knots of shame, to lift my gaze, to let creation become confession. When I draw, when I write, when I listen to the crows outside my window, I remember that truth has wings.

This poem is for the part of me that once hid, and for every woman learning to speak again — not in whispers, but in flight.

I never knew what I never knew.

Every word uttered, I accepted as true.

I built myself up to make you proud,

and tore myself down when you said I was too loud.

The higher I climbed, the harder I fell—

broken memories I’ll never tell.

⸻

Crow watches.

From the fence line of my memory, she tilts her head,

black eyes gleaming like obsidian truth.

She has seen this pattern before—

the fledgling mistaking the cage for sky.

She croaks a sound like warning, like mourning, like wake up.

⸻

Believing you were my guide,

believing you would stay by my side,

I took each onslaught to heart.

Every word, a lash and cut, slicing me apart.

The perfect doll, I sewed myself together

with needle and thread—

hiding with a razor under my bed.

I tear myself apart when you tell me I’m all wrong,

building up the walls inside to keep myself strong.

Poison infiltrates my mind.

⸻

Crow circles.

Feathers catch the wind like memory—

a dark shimmer of knowing.

She lands beside me, close enough to hear my breath.

“Release,” she whispers, “is not forgetting.

It is remembering without the chain.”

⸻

So I open my palms to the sky.

Ash, feather, thread—let them scatter.

What was once silence becomes song.

What was once fear becomes flight.

And the crow—

my witness, my teacher, my reflection—

rises.

So do I.

Ashes and Feathers- Surviving the Fire

I married too young, before my brain was done forming, before I had learned to recognize the difference between love and survival. I mistook chaos for connection, intensity for intimacy, and the way his anger rattled the walls for proof that we belonged together. I thought the storm we created in our home was a kind of passion, that the sparks meant something real. In reality, I was learning the wrong lesson: that turbulence could substitute for tenderness, and fear could masquerade as devotion.

I didn’t see the bars at first. They were invisible, forged slowly, quietly, hidden in routines, in the silence that followed arguments, in the way my own needs began to feel like a crime. I thought I had chosen love, but I had only traded one cage for another, one set of invisible chains for a new kind. Each day I convinced myself that endurance was proof of worth, that survival meant success, and that the fire I carried inside me — the part that longed for freedom — would eventually burn me through.

Sometimes, I would catch a crow watching me from the roof or the tree outside the window. Its black eyes were calm, patient, and unflinching. I imagined it tracing the invisible bars I had locked myself behind, tilting its head as if asking, Do you see them? Do you know you could fly free if you wanted? The crow was quiet, unjudging, a witness to my slow, self-imposed confinement. And yet, in that quiet gaze, I began to feel the ember of myself still alive, still waiting — ready for the day I would finally notice it, step outside the cage, and stretch my wings into the open sky.

leaving isn’t as simple as packing a bag and walking out the door. It’s a process — slow, tangled, and heavy with fear, hope, and confusion. It’s loving the good moments and trying to believe they mean more than the bad ones. It’s thinking you can fix what’s broken if you just love harder, try harder, stay a little longer.

I stayed because I thought love could heal him.

Because I thought maybe if I were quieter, softer, more patient the storms would pass.

Because the cycle of apologies and promises felt like sunlight after days of rain, and I was starving for warmth.

Because I mistook control for protection, chaos for passion, and my silence for peace.

Because I was afraid — not just of him, but of being alone, of starting over, of admitting how bad it had become.

The truth is, abuse doesn’t always start with bruises.

It starts with small things — isolation, jealousy, control disguised as concern. It builds slowly until one day you realize you’ve become a ghost in your own home. You shrink your voice to keep the peace. You measure your words like stepping stones across a minefield.

And still, you stay until the day something inside you whispers, enough.

That whisper becomes a flame. Small at first, but growing stronger each time you remember who you were before the fear.

The crow teaches us to see through illusion to notice what hides in the shadows.

The flame reminds us that even in darkness, something inside us still burns for freedom.

Leaving wasn’t a single act of bravery. It was a thousand tiny choices to believe I deserved more. It was learning that love should never require my silence, my bruises, or my brokenness.

If you’re still there and still trying to make sense of it, know this:

You are not weak for staying. You were surviving the only way you knew how.

And when you are ready, your own flame will guide you out.

🖤

#CrowAndFlame #DomesticViolenceAwareness #HealingJourney #SurvivorStrength #YouAreNotAlone

Strong Enough: Standing in the Light

When I was asked to speak at the Strong Enough Women’s Conference, I froze for a moment.

Not out of fear of the crowd or the microphone, but because I realized what I’d have to do — stand up, with my head held high, and tell the truth about what happened to me.

For years, I carried shame like a shadow. It followed me into rooms, whispered behind every new opportunity, and weighed down even moments of joy. Shame doesn’t announce itself; it hides in the pauses — the way your shoulders hunch slightly, the way your voice softens when you talk about your past. It’s the invisible chain that keeps you looking down.

But lately, I’ve been learning to put that weight down.

My healing hasn’t come all at once. It’s been slow, like moss growing on stone — quiet, steady, patient. Nature has been my teacher. When I sit by the river or walk a wooded path, I see how the world holds both beauty and decay without judgment. A fallen tree still becomes a home. A broken shell still shines in the sand. Nothing in nature hides its scars.

That truth has become my freedom.

These days, I spend more time sketching and painting — crows perched on branches, the way light filters through leaves, the shifting color of water at dusk. When my hands are moving, I feel the story release from my body. The brush doesn’t lie; it tells what words sometimes can’t. Art has given me permission to be both the wound and the healing.

Preparing to speak at the conference, I sat outside one evening with my sketchbook open. I drew a crow standing tall on a weathered fence post. Its feathers were ruffled by the wind, but it didn’t move. It just looked out — steady, unafraid.

That’s how I want to stand: not as someone untouched by pain, but as someone who has faced it and kept her wings.

When I step onto that stage, I won’t be carrying shame anymore.

I’ll be carrying strength — forged through silence, sorrow, and creation.

I’m not just strong enough to speak.

I’m free enough to fly.

The Crows Journey: A Guided Meditation from field to city

This meditation invites you to follow a crow on its journey — from the calm of an open field to the energy of a bustling city. As you move with the crow, you’ll practice mindful breathing, grounding, and perspective, observing without judgment, and noticing how your inner world shifts along the way.

Step 1: Find Your Space

Sit or lie down comfortably. Close your eyes if it feels safe.

Take a slow breath in… hold for two counts… and exhale fully.

Repeat two more times, allowing your body to sink into the surface beneath you.

Step 2: Enter the Field

Imagine a wide, open field stretching before you.

The grass sways in a gentle breeze. The air is cool and fresh.

A crow perches nearby, black feathers gleaming in the sunlight.

Take a deep breath in… smell the earth and the grass. Exhale… feel the tension in your shoulders release into the soil beneath you.

Notice how the crow tilts its head, watching the world with calm curiosity. It is patient, quiet, and aware.

Step 3: Take Flight

The crow spreads its wings and lifts into the sky.

You rise with it, feeling the air beneath your wings, the wind against your face.

Inhale… imagine the air filling your lungs with energy. Exhale… let go of worry, fear, or tension.

From above, the field looks peaceful. The crow glides, effortless, observing without interference. Notice how the perspective changes: the small details below, the patterns of the land, the freedom of open space.

Step 4: Approach the City

In the distance, you see the city — buildings reaching toward the sky, streets full of life and motion.

The crow guides you closer, flying above the roads and rooftops.

Notice the sounds of the city: distant horns, footsteps, murmurs. Notice the colors and shapes from above. Observe without judgment — the city is alive, just as your mind may be alive with thoughts and sensations.

Feel the crow’s curiosity and calm awareness. Even amidst chaos, it remains grounded in the present moment.

Step 5: Perch and Observe

The crow lands on a tall rooftop. From this vantage point, you can see both the field and the city — the quiet and the noise.

Take a deep breath in… and exhale slowly. Notice your thoughts like the buildings and streets below — structured, moving, changing. You are separate from them, yet aware. You are the observer, not the chaos itself.

The crow caws softly, a reminder: watch, breathe, and return to yourself.

Step 6: Return to Yourself

When you’re ready, imagine the crow lifting back into the sky, guiding you to return to your body.

Wiggle your fingers and toes. Notice the weight of your body on the chair, floor, or bed. Open your eyes gently, carrying the calm, clarity, and perspective of your crow into your day.

Reflection:

The crow shows us that we can move between calm and chaos, observing both without being consumed.

Whenever you feel overwhelmed, you can visualize the crow above the city, remembering your ability to rise, breathe, and see clearly.

Meet Your Inner Crow: A Guided Visualization for Calm and Clarity

Therapy isn’t just talking — it’s also practicing skills that help you calm your mind, notice your body, and connect with your inner strength. One of the most powerful tools is guided visualization, which allows your imagination to create a safe, supportive space where you can observe, reflect, and heal.

Today, we’re going to meet a guide from the natural world: the crow. Crows are symbols of insight, transformation, and perspective. In this guided exercise, your crow will help you practice mindful breathing, relaxation, and gentle awareness of your thoughts and feelings.

Step 1: Find Your Space

Sit or lie down somewhere comfortable. Let your body settle.

Close your eyes if it feels safe, and take a slow, deep breath in…

…and exhale fully.

Notice the weight of your body against the chair, the floor, or your bed.

Let your shoulders drop. Allow your hands to rest naturally.

Step 2: Connect With Your Breath

We’ll start with a simple breathing pattern:

Inhale for 4 counts: feel the air fill your lungs. Hold for 2 counts: notice the pause. Exhale for 6 counts: let go of tension.

Repeat 3–5 cycles, allowing your breath to find its own rhythm.

Step 3: Visualize Your Crow

Imagine a crow landing nearby. Watch its glossy feathers shimmer in the sunlight. Its gaze is sharp, curious, and kind.

Notice the details:

How its wings move when it shifts. How its eyes seem to see everything — not judgmentally, just clearly. How its presence feels grounding, like it’s here to guide you.

Your crow is your companion in observation. It does not interfere; it only shows you what you need to notice.

Step 4: Invite Awareness

As you watch your crow:

Notice your thoughts as if they were clouds passing through the sky. Notice any tension in your body — in your shoulders, your jaw, your chest — and let it soften. With every exhale, imagine stress leaving your body, carried away like wind beneath your crow’s wings.

Your crow may caw softly, a gentle reminder:

“Observe. Breathe. You are safe here.”

Step 5: Practice Presence

Stay with your crow for a few more breaths. If your mind wanders, gently return to the image of the crow. Notice:

Its strength. Its calm clarity. Its patient presence.

This is a practice in grounding and perspective:

When life feels heavy, your crow can remind you that you are not your thoughts. You are observing, learning, and growing.

Step 6: Close the Practice

When you’re ready, slowly bring your awareness back to your body.

Notice the floor beneath you, the weight of your hands, your breathing.

Gently open your eyes.

Take a moment to thank your crow for its guidance. Know that you can return to this visualization anytime you need calm, clarity, or perspective.

Reflection:

Crows are teachers of patience, resilience, and transformation. Through this simple visualization, you are practicing mindfulness, relaxation, and emotional awareness — all essential therapy skills.

Tip: Try revisiting this exercise daily for even a few minutes. Over time, you may notice that your mind and body respond with less tension, more clarity, and a sense of grounded calm.

Drowning Without Water

There’s no water but I’m drowning.

My lungs are burning.

I can feel the hands tighten around my throat.

This is it — this is how it ends.

I didn’t even leave a note.

I count the fingerprints on my skin,

Connect the dots —

They lead back to him.

Please, no.

He loves me so.

From the telephone wire above the streetlight, a crow watches the window where the screams are silent. It knows this kind of stillness — the kind that follows fear. Its wings twitch, restless, as if aching to break through the glass.

He loves me so much it hurts.

He just wants everything to perfection.

He turns the lights off —

He blinds my perception.

Don’t say a word. Don’t make a sound.

Quiet as a mouse.

Don’t wake the hound.

I’m standing at the gates of hell,

Begging to be forgiven for my sin.

Please, don’t let me in.

Don’t let this be how my story ends.

The crow calls once — sharp, echoing — a cry that splits the dark. In the sound is both warning and prayer. It remembers the women who came before, wings smudged with smoke and sorrow. It remembers how they rose.

Is it over yet?

Please don’t make me see.

Don’t let this be my reality.

Black and blue and shades of gray,

My eyes roll back —

I’m in outer space.

Another crow lands beside the first. Together, they tilt their heads, black eyes reflecting the faintest trace of dawn. There is something sacred about their watching — as if by holding the memory, they lighten her burden.

This fantasy is my protection,

Wrapped in a cloak, hiding from connection.

Aggression disguised as affection.

Hands tighten at my throat.

Drowning without water, but I’m trying to float.

Shaking from the chill —

He goes in for the kill.

Everything has changed.

My whole life’s rearranged.

These memories haunt me —

They keep me company.

Never alone,

This is how I atone.

In the aftermath, feathers drift through her dreams — black, soft, eternal. The crows do not speak, but their silence is permission: to breathe, to rage, to rise. They know what it means to survive the storm and still learn to fly.

Somewhere between night and morning, one crow takes flight. It circles once, then disappears into the sun — leaving only the whisper of wings and a single message echoing through her bones:

Light the dark. Face the sun. Be the hope.

Light the Dark

Face the Sun. Be the Hope.

Visions play in her eyes,

A poignant cinema of her own life.

She dances in the past,

Praying history doesn’t last.

Targeted violence reincarnated,

Haunting cries with serrated edges.

Agony rains.

Shadows stain the walls of memory.

A crow lands on the edge of her window, silent but knowing. Its black feathers absorb the light, yet its eyes glimmer with an understanding she cannot name. It tilts its head, curious, patient, a witness to her storms.

His glance lands upon me, a crazed gaze,

A question burning:

Is she insane?

Lost in space, waiting in vain.

Shutters close on her eyes

Before an image she despises.

Scars illustrate a fate

That she’s finally ready to realize.

Another crow descends from the twilight sky, wings slicing through the dusk. It circles, calling softly, like a bell tolling for remembrance. Each caw reminds her: your pain is real, but it is not all that you are.

She lives in the darkness.

She is the light.

Dance with the stars.

Glow in the night.

She lives amongst the constellations,

A nebula falling like heaven’s consolation.

From the shadowed branches, crows gather. One steps forward, ruffling feathers in the cool night air. It perches boldly, meeting her gaze. Its presence whispers: courage. Watch. Learn. Transform. Each feather a lesson in resilience, each shadow a map of strength.

Her heartbeat aligns with the universe,

A rhythm pulsing through the cosmos.

Every scar, every cry,

A note in her symphony of survival.

The crows watch, always watch,

As if carrying the memory of her pain

And the promise of her flight.

She lifts her arms toward the moon,

Breathing the night into her lungs,

Exhaling fear, releasing sorrow.

She is not bound by yesterday.

She is starlight. She is wind.

She is hope incarnate.

A final crow lifts from the forest floor, ascending, wings spread wide. It vanishes into the constellation-strewn sky, a reminder: light the dark. Face the sun. Be the hope. You, too, can rise.