Crow and the Wold, The Mythology, Symbolism, and the Story We Carry

Crow and Wolf: Mythology, Symbolism, and the Story We Carry

Across cultures and centuries, the crow and the wolf show up together—shadow companions wandering through the world’s oldest stories. They appear in Norse sagas, Native traditions, Celtic lore, and modern psychology, each carrying a message about survival, vision, intuition, loyalty, and transformation.

Yet beyond myth, the crow and the wolf reflect two forces within us:

the watcher and the wanderer, the mind and the body, the dark-winged insight and the fierce-hearted instinct.

🐺 The Wolf — Pathfinding, Loyalty, and the Wild Self

In myth, wolves are rarely just animals. They’re thresholds. Teachers. Mirrors.

Norse mythology gives us Fenrir, the untamable force; Geri and Freki, companions of Odin; wolves who symbolize both destruction and fierce devotion.

Native stories often portray the wolf as a guide—a keeper of knowledge, a symbol of endurance, family, and instinctual wisdom. The wolf teaches survival, but also connection. Wolves do not thrive alone; they thrive in community, in loyalty, in shared responsibility.

Celtic tradition links wolves to shape-shifting, intuition, and the in-between places where the human soul meets the wild.

Symbolically, the wolf becomes:

Instinct Courage Resilience Shadow strength The part of you that refuses to die

The wolf is the version of yourself that survived what tried to break you.

It knows the terrain of your past. It remembers the long winters.

🪶 The Crow — Intelligence, Mystery, Insight, and Transformation

Crows navigate myth with equal intensity.

In Norse mythology, Huginn and Muninn—thought and memory—are Odin’s crows (ravens technically, but in symbolism the line blurs). They fly across the world and return with knowledge. They are the watchers, the seekers of truth.

In Celtic lore, crows are tied to the Morrígan, goddess of battle and sovereignty, symbolizing prophecy, fate, and the power to transform.

In Native traditions, crows are creators, tricksters, teachers—beings who bring light, challenge assumptions, and hold wisdom in their dark wings.

Symbolically, the crow becomes:

Awareness Intuition Rebirth Shadow work The part of you that watches and understands

The crow is the voice inside you that sees what you couldn’t see before.

The guide who says, “There is another way—let me show you.”

🐺🪶 Together — A Mythic Partnership

In nature, the relationship is real: ravens and wolves work together.

The crow leads the wolf.

The wolf shares the feast.

Each brings what the other lacks.

Myth amplifies the following:

the crow and the wolf are companions in the unseen world, bridging instinct and intelligence, earth and sky, the living and the symbolic.

Together, they represent:

Survival + Insight Instinct + Intuition and The grounded self + the higher self Shadow + understanding Body + mind The journey + the guide

Where the wolf navigates the terrain, the crow interprets it.

Where the wolf survives the night, the crow makes meaning of it in the morning.

In your healing journey, these two archetypes become internal forces.

The wolf is your nervous system—your fight, your endurance, your primal memory.

The crow is your awareness—your insight, your ability to understand what once overwhelmed you.

Healing doesn’t ask you to choose one.

It asks you to partner them.

When you let them walk together, you gain both protection and perspective.

Both bravery and clarity.

Both the ability to feel and the ability to see.

Maybe you’ve been the wolf longer than you meant to—always on edge, always sensing danger, always trying to outrun what hunts you.

Maybe the crow in you is just now learning to speak—teaching you how to observe without fear, how to rise above patterns, how to rewrite the story.

Both are sacred.

Both are needed.

Both are part of your becoming.

You are not only the survivor who walked through the forest.

You are also the witness perched above the treeline

guiding yourself home.

When The Day Breaks You Open

Today was an absolutely terrible day.

Not hard.

Not “a bit stressful.”

Terrible.

One of those days where your body feels like it’s vibrating under your skin, where your mind is a storm of noise, where everything inside you is screaming “too much.”

And maybe it was.

There are days when overwhelm doesn’t whisper—it roars.

It claws.

It demands to be felt.

And as much as I wanted to push through with grace or strength or whatever word we use when we’re trying to pretend we’re fine… I wasn’t fine.

Not even close.

This is the part people don’t talk about:

Healing doesn’t prevent terrible days.

Healing teaches you how to survive them without abandoning yourself.

Today felt like being cracked open.

Like my nerves were outside my skin.

Like I was one breath away from collapsing under the weight of everything I’ve been carrying so quietly.

But even on days like this, the Crow comes.

Not as a symbol of darkness—but as a witness.

The crow sits on the edge of the chaos and reminds me:

I see you. I’m not afraid of your shadow.

You don’t have to pretend with the crow.

And then, somewhere under the exhaustion, under the panic, under the heartbreak of being overwhelmed, I feel the Flame—small, trembling, but still there.

Not blazing.

Not inspiring.

Just… present.

A single spark refusing to go out.

Today isn’t a day for solutions or lessons.

It’s a day for honesty.

I was overwhelmed.

My body and mind were screaming.

And instead of silencing them, I’m writing this to say:

I hear you.

Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is simply stop running from yourself.

Terrible days don’t define you.

They don’t undo your progress.

They don’t erase your strength.

They are part of the path.

Even the crow has days when its wings feel too heavy.

Even the flame flickers.

But they remain.

And so do you.

A Body I Can Trust

🔥 A Body I Can Trust 🔥

Skechers Hot Chocolate Run — This Morning’s Lesson

This morning, as I dress for a run out in the cold and prepare for Skechers Hot Chocolate Run, I felt that familiar flicker inside me—the one that was once only doubt, only fear, only the quiet whisper that said, “This isn’t for you.”

For most of my life, I thought physical challenges belonged to other people. People with “runner’s bodies,” people who trained from childhood, people with natural athletic talent or discipline I assumed I didn’t have. I quietly carried the belief that obstacle courses, races, and endurance events were a world I could admire from a distance but never enter.

But that’s the thing about stories:

They don’t change until we decide to pick up the pen.

Every time I sign up for a race now, it’s not about finishing times or medals or proving anything to anyone else. It’s an act of reclamation. A rewriting of an old, inherited narrative that told me what my body couldn’t do before I ever had a chance to ask it what it could.

I race to challenge myself.

To challenge the version of me who didn’t believe she belonged here.

To challenge the old voice that spoke in limits instead of possibilities.

Each mile becomes a conversation with my body—one where I finally listen. One where I finally speak kindly. One where I build trust in the place where trauma once lived, where shame once echoed, where self-doubt once shaped my identity.

Running is becoming my rebellion.

My declaration of self-love.

My proof that I am allowed to take up space, to sweat, to struggle, to try, to grow.

And today, in the cold air of the Hot Chocolate Run, theres a shift, small but powerful. A mindset evolving. A narrative reshaping. A body remembering it is capable. A spirit remembering it is allowed.

Instead of “I can’t,” there is a new language forming:

I can. I will. I am.

I’m learning that showing up is the victory.

Crossing the start line is courage.

Crossing the finish line is transformation.

The Crow in me observes—sharp-eyed, intuitive, turning every challenge into wisdom.

The Flame in me rises—steady, warm, determined, burning away the old beliefs to make room for something stronger, truer, and deeply mine.

Today is not just a race.

It is another step toward a life where my body is not my enemy, but my partner.

Where movement isn’t punishment, but empowerment.

Where I prove to myself, again and again, that I belong in spaces I once thought were for “other people.”

Because I’m not “other people.”

I’m me.

And that’s enough.

🔥 Crow & Flame

Rewriting the story. One mile, one breath, one brave moment at a time.

I can’t today, and that’s okay.

Some days, your body speaks before your mind catches up.

You wake up already tired.

Your nervous system hums like a frayed wire.

The idea of being “on” for other people feels heavier than it should.

And suddenly, that plan you made—when you felt better, clearer, steadier—now feels like a mountain.

We’ve been conditioned to push through everything.

To show up even when our cup is empty.

To attach our worth to our productivity, our availability, or our ability to say “yes.”

But here’s the truth no one says out loud enough:

Canceling plans is not a moral failure.

It’s a form of self-respect.

Your body is allowed to need rest.

Your mind is allowed to ask for quiet.

Your spirit is allowed to step back and breathe.

People who care about you don’t want the exhausted, anxious, stretched-thin version of you—

they want the version that feels safe, grounded, and present.

And you can’t get there by forcing yourself to show up when you’re already unraveling.

Sometimes the most healing thing you can do is listen to your own energy.

To say, “I can’t today—and that’s okay.”

To choose restoration over obligation.

To trust that your worth isn’t measured by how available you are.

The Crow teaches discernment—knowing when to engage and when to retreat.

The Flame teaches balance—honoring both the burn and the rest between sparks.

Together, they remind you that pulling back isn’t weakness.

It’s wisdom.

So if you need to cancel plans today, don’t apologize for needing space.

Don’t spiral into guilt.

Don’t convince yourself you’ve failed anyone.

You’re simply honoring the season your soul is in.

And that is more than okay—it’s healing.

Quiet too Long

There is a particular kind of silence that forms inside a person after years of surviving.

Not peace.

Not stillness.

Not serenity.

A taught, practiced, protective quiet.

It’s the silence of someone who trained themselves to need less, to speak softer, to disappear just enough to stay safe. The silence of someone who learned early on that their feelings could be “too much,” their dreams “unrealistic,” their needs “inconvenient.”

It’s the quiet that grows when the world doesn’t make space for your inner landscape—your creativity, your longing, your truth.

And eventually, you forget there was ever a voice inside you at all.

But that voice isn’t gone.

It’s waiting.

Waiting like the crow who circles a field long after the noise fades.

Watching.

Listening.

Patiently returning to what is rightfully theirs.

Waiting like a flame that refuses to die, shrinking to embers but never extinguishing—holding its warmth, its glow, its promise of return.

Healing begins the moment you finally notice that quiet and ask why it’s there.

Not in a self-blaming way.

Not with shame or judgment.

But with curiosity, compassion, and willingness to see the truth beneath your old survival patterns.

Because the truth is this:

Your soul didn’t go silent because you had nothing to say.

It went silent because no one ever convinced it that being heard was safe.

The Awakening

Then life shifts.

Sometimes subtly—like a thought you can’t quite shake.

Sometimes abruptly—like a door closing or an ending you didn’t expect.

And inside you, something starts to move.

A restlessness.

A small hunger.

A whisper pushing its way through the dust of old fears:

“I want more.”

“I deserve more.”

“I am meant for something deeper.”

This is your Crow—your intuition—your inner watcher awakening from long dormancy.

It brings messages, knowing, direction.

It asks you to look beyond what hurt you and toward what calls you.

And alongside it rises your Flame—your creativity, your authentic self, your hope.

It begins to burn again, gentle but undeniable, warming the parts of you that thought they’d gone numb forever.

It’s not a loud return.

Your inner voice doesn’t come back as a command.

It doesn’t storm in demanding attention.

It returns in fragments.

In glimpses of desire.

In sudden waves of emotion.

In creative sparks that appear at the most inconvenient times—twilight, showers, grocery store parking lots—anywhere you’re momentarily not performing for the world.

You may not trust it at first.

Of course you don’t.

Why would you?

So much of healing is learning to believe your own knowing again.

To trust your instincts instead of your fears. To differentiate intuition from old wounds. To understand that desire is not selfish but sacred. To believe that your voice has value simply because it is yours.

And here is the part most people don’t talk about:

When your inner voice returns, it brings grief with it.

Grief for the years you didn’t hear yourself.

Grief for the dreams you muted.

Grief for the child inside you who whispered into the dark and never got an answer.

But grief is not an ending—

it is an opening.

It clears space for truth, for creativity, for identity, for rebirth.

So today, let this be your practice:

Slow down.

Just enough to hear the subtle things.

The thoughts that flutter.

The emotions that lift then sink then rise again.

The desires that keep resurfacing even after you dismiss them.

Notice the things that light up inside you without permission.

The things that feel like relief.

The things that feel like breath.

Your soul isn’t quiet anymore.

It’s emerging.

It’s speaking.

It’s remembering itself.

And it’s time to answer.

Answer softly, if that’s all you can do.

Answer boldly, if you’re ready.

Answer with curiosity, if you’re unsure.

But answer.

Because the Crow and the Flame have returned,

and so have you.

The Art of Returning to Yourself

There’s a quiet kind of healing that doesn’t announce itself. No breakthroughs, no fireworks, no dramatic unveiling. Just a slow exhale you didn’t know you’d been holding… and the soft realization that you’re finally coming home to yourself.

We spend so much of our lives pulled into roles, expectations, survival patterns, and old stories that were handed to us before we even knew how to question them. We shape-shift to stay safe. We dim to keep the peace. We disconnect to keep moving.

And somewhere along the way, we forget what our own voice sounds like.

Returning to yourself is an art form.

A skill.

A remembering.

It’s the moment you notice that your hands shake a little less these days.

The moment you pause instead of react.

The moment you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and think,

Oh… there you are.

For some of us, the journey back begins through creativity—through the crow and the flame.

The crow reminds you to look at the shadow without fear. Its black feathers carry the weight of mysteries, grief, intuition, and the parts of you that were silenced.

The flame reminds you that even your smallest spark is still fire, still alive, still capable of lighting the way forward.

Art gives those two forces a place to meet.

When you paint, write, sketch, or create, you’re not just making something; you’re translating your insides into form. You’re honoring the parts of yourself that were ignored or misunderstood. You’re letting your truth breathe.

Creative expression becomes a compass—one that points you back to your center again and again.

And the beautiful thing?

Returning isn’t a single moment.

It’s a gentle accumulation of moments:

one breath, one brushstroke, one poem, one choice at a time.

You don’t have to arrive fully.

You just have to turn toward yourself again.

Today, give yourself permission to come home—slowly, softly, in whatever way you can.

Your story is still unfolding.

Your flame is still burning.

And the crow is still guiding you back.

The Crow and Flame Project: Creative Expressions

There’s a quiet kind of healing that happens when our hands begin to create again.

For a long time, my healing lived only in words—ink spilled across journal pages, essays written in the soft hours of the night, poetry rising from the ashes of old wounds. But lately, something new has been calling me. A pull toward color. Toward brushstrokes. Toward letting the things I’ve carried—grief, resilience, hope—take shape on canvas instead of only on a page.

I’m expanding my creative practice into painting, not because I’m an expert, but because creation is a doorway. Every line, every layer, every experiment is a reminder that we are allowed to evolve. We are allowed to try new things. We are allowed to express ourselves in ways that feel true, even if they’re messy, imperfect, or brand-new.

And I want to invite you into that space with me.

So many of us were raised to believe creativity is a talent you either have or you don’t. But healing has taught me something different: creativity is a lifeline. A way to breathe through what tries to silence us. A way to return to ourselves. A way to reclaim joy, meaning, and identity.

It doesn’t matter if it’s painting, writing, pottery, music, movement, baking, photography, or any other form of making. Your soul doesn’t care if it’s “good.” It cares that it exists.

Create something just for you.

Give yourself permission to explore.

Let your hands express what your heart has been holding.

Today, I’m officially launching The Crow and Flame Project: Creative Expressions — a space where art, symbolism, storytelling, and healing meet. A home for the essays, poetry, paintings, and creative work that rise from my own journey… and a place to encourage you on yours.

This project is not about perfection.

It’s about expression.

It’s about alchemy.

It’s about transforming what once hurt into something that lights the way forward.

Thank you for being here—truly.

Here’s to creation as medicine.

Here’s to healing through art.

Here’s to igniting your own flame.

Return Home to Yourself this Season

There comes a time each year when everything in nature begins to pull inward.

The leaves fall. The air sharpens. The days shorten until they feel like a long inhale.

Nothing is rushing anymore.

Nothing is trying to bloom out of season.

Winter teaches a truth we tend to forget:

there is a sacred rhythm to being human, and you are allowed to retreat.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that slowing down means we’re falling behind.

That if we don’t stay constantly productive, constantly available, constantly “on,”

we are somehow less worthy.

But nature disagrees.

Winter is the season of returning to yourself—

the gentle, necessary act of gathering your energy back from the world

the way a crow gathers scraps of light, shiny fragments of self,

carrying them home to the quiet safety of its hidden nest.

This is the time to notice what parts of you are tired.

What parts are overstretched.

What parts have been performing for too long.

What parts need warmth, not pressure.

And in the dimness, there is a flame.

Not a roaring bonfire—just a small, steady ember.

The kind that doesn’t demand attention,

but offers comfort simply by existing.

This ember is your inner life: your intuition, your rest, your truth.

It glows brighter when you step back from the noise.

It steadies when you stop trying to prove yourself.

Returning to yourself isn’t dramatic.

It’s subtle.

It’s sitting in silence long enough to hear what your body has been trying to say.

It’s choosing presence over performance.

It’s letting the world move at its frantic pace while you move at your own.

This season is an invitation:

Slow down.

Reclaim your energy.

Come home to yourself without apology.

The crow knows when to fly and when to nest.

The flame knows when to burn bright and when to simply glow.

And so do you.

Finding the Forgotten Magic

As the seasons shift, the world enters its slow exhale—trees shedding what no longer serves them, nights growing longer, and the air carrying that quiet hum of winter’s approach. It’s within these seasonal transitions that the Crow often appears in my work: the watcher, the reminder, the truth-teller perched just outside the noise.

And in the distance, the Flame flickers—steady, warm, unwavering.

A symbol of what remains when everything else feels uncertain.

This time of year used to hold a softer magic.

Not the kind sold in commercials or packaged in glittering aisles, but the kind that lived inside simple moments:

Cider simmering on the stove.

Cinnamon, sugar, and butter perfuming the house.

The hum of music mixing with the gentle chaos of cookie dough and warm hands.

Laughter that sounded like bells.

Hot chocolate.

Christmas lights.

The glow of something that didn’t need to be earned, posted, or perfected.

But somewhere between growing up and simply trying to get by, we traded that magic for something else.

The holidays became louder, faster, heavier.

A season once rooted in connection shifted into a frantic scramble of obligation, comparison, and consumer pressure.

The Crow observes this shift from its branch—tilting its head, asking the question we avoid:

“What did you lose when you started rushing?”

The Flame answers softly:

“What mattered most was never supposed to be hurried.”

As adults carrying grief, expectations, estranged relationships, financial stress, old wounds, and the exhaustion of being “on” all the time, holiday magic can feel far away. For some, it even feels painful. The season highlights what’s missing as much as what remains.

But the Crow & Flame remind us:

Magic doesn’t vanish.

Presence does.

So this year, I offer you a gentle challenge—a reclamation:

Slow down. Even a little. Especially when it feels impossible.

Pause long enough to savor something small:

a candle flickering, a nostalgic song, a warm cup between your palms, a quiet moment where no one needs anything from you.

Let the Crow guide you back to awareness.

Let the Flame guide you back to warmth.

Ask yourself:

What do I want my holidays to feel like—not look like, not perform like, but truly feel like?

What traditions still feel nourishing? Which ones feel like obligation?

Where can I invite more meaning and less noise?

Maybe this year, you give yourself permission to celebrate differently.

Maybe you honor grief instead of pretending it’s not there.

Maybe you choose rest over rushing.

Maybe you choose presence over perfection.

Maybe you allow magic to be simple again.

The Crow watches. The Flame glows.

Both remind you of the same truth:

The season’s meaning was never found in hurry—it was always hidden in the quiet places of your own heart.

Take it back.

Slowly.

Tenderly.

One small sacred moment at a time.

Chasing Dreams

There’s a moment—quiet, almost invisible—when a dream taps on the inside of your ribs.

A soft knocking.

A reminder: I’m still here.

Most of us feel it.

Fewer of us answer.

Because chasing a dream isn’t just about wanting something—

it’s about being willing to risk the part of you that learned long ago to stay small,

to avoid disappointment,

to not take up too much space.

But here’s the truth the Crow whispers when it circles overhead:

Every chance you don’t take becomes a ghost you’ll meet later.

A shadow that sits beside you and gently asks, Why didn’t we try?

The Flame adds its own truth, flickering steady:

Courage isn’t loud. It’s the simple, trembling decision to go for what you want anyway.

We talk ourselves out of dreams more than life ever blocks them.

We wait for the timing to feel perfect,

for the fear to quiet down,

for the path to be clear.

But dreams aren’t destinations—they’re doorways.

You don’t get to see what’s on the other side until you knock.

And yes, you might fail.

You might fall.

You might look foolish while learning to fly.

But you might also rise in ways your younger self never believed possible.

The Crow says: Leap anyway.

The Flame says: Burn a path only you can walk.

Your dreams are not accidents.

They are invitations.

Small portals to a life that feels more like you.

So go for what you want—clumsily, bravely, imperfectly.

Start before you feel ready.

Say yes even if your voice shakes.

Take the chance even if you’re scared.

Because one day, you will look back

and see how every tiny step,

every trembling beginning,

every brave refusal to stay small—

lit the way forward.

And the only regret you’ll carry

is the dream you never pursued.