Uncategorized – Page 4 – Crow and Flame

When the Holidays Arrive and Your Heart Feels Far Away

The holidays have a way of lighting up what’s missing.

They bring out the warmth, yes — the soft glow of connection, tradition, and belonging — but they also illuminate the empty chairs, the unsaid words, the relationships that feel frayed at the edges, or the family you love yet can’t safely be close to.

Grief walks into the season quietly, like a crow landing on a frosted branch — uninvited, but impossibly honest.

It reminds you of what was lost, what could have been, or what never existed in the first place.

And flame — the part of you still alive, still trying, still here — flickers against the cold, trying to make sense of all these feelings at once.

Grief Doesn’t Care About the Calendar

It doesn’t wait politely for January.

It rises when the music starts playing in the stores, when the lights go up on the houses, when everyone around you seems to be celebrating something you can barely breathe through.

Your grief may come from death.

It may come from distance — physical or emotional.

It may come from a family that should have felt like home but didn’t.

It may come from the version of you who learned to survive the holidays by shrinking, pleasing, pretending.

Whatever shape it takes, it’s valid.

You don’t owe anyone a cheerful version of yourself.

You’re Not Broken for Feeling Heavy This Time of Year

Some seasons feel like reunions.

Others feel like reminders.

If your family relationships are strained, you may be navigating guilt, longing, resentment, or hope — sometimes all in the same breath.

If you’re far from the people you love, distance becomes its own kind of ache.

If you’ve lost someone, every tradition becomes a ghost you both want to see and can’t bear to.

And still, the world moves on with its jingling bells and sparkle.

You’re expected to “be merry.”

But you’re allowed to be human instead.

The Crow: Naming What Hurts

The crow teaches us to acknowledge the shadows.

To sit with the truth instead of decorating over it.

To say:

“This year feels different.” “I’m grieving someone who won’t be at the table.” “My family is complicated.” “I love them, but I need distance.” “I love them, but they’re gone.” “I’m not okay, and that’s not a failure.”

There is healing in naming what the world asks you to hide.

The Flame: Making Space for Yourself

The flame isn’t about forcing positivity — it’s about creating small warmth in the places grief has gone numb.

It can look like:

Starting a new ritual that feels gentle, not forced Spending the holiday with chosen family, or by yourself Going outside for air when the emotions feel too big Allowing yourself to skip the events that drain you Letting joy in slowly, without guilt Honoring your grief without letting it swallow you

The flame says, “You get to choose how you move through this season.”

You’re Allowed to Redefine What This Time of Year Means to You

Traditions don’t have to be inherited — they can be created.

Connection doesn’t have to be forced — it can be found.

Family doesn’t have to be blood — it can be chosen.

Grief doesn’t have to be hidden — it can be honored.

And healing doesn’t have to look bright — sometimes it looks like a small flame burning steadily through the dark.

This Year, Let Your Heart Be the Guide

Not expectations.

Not pressure.

Not old patterns.

Not other people’s comfort.

Just your truth.

However you navigate the holidays — with sorrow, with love, with distance, with tenderness, with numbness, with hope — know this:

Your grief is a testament to your capacity to love.

Your boundaries are a testament to your capacity to grow.

And your flame, no matter how soft, is still burning.

I Didn’t Know.

For the longest time, I genuinely believed the way I moved through the world was normal.

I thought everyone lived with a tight chest and a body that never fully exhaled. I thought everyone scanned every room, replayed every conversation, braced for every worst-case scenario. I thought lying awake at night, heart pounding for no reason, was just part of being human.

I didn’t know I was traumatized.

I didn’t have that language.

I just had symptoms I thought were personality traits.

I told myself I was “just being strong.”

Just being responsible.

Just being prepared.

Just being whatever I needed to be in order to make it through one more day.

But the truth is: I wasn’t living — I was surviving.

And the worst part?

I didn’t even know it.

No one ever told me that the constant tension wasn’t normal. No one ever taught me that being hyperaware of everyone’s moods was a defense mechanism. No one explained that the heaviness, the alertness, the emotional numbness, the inability to rest… were all signs of a nervous system shaped by hurt.

This was just my everyday existence. My baseline.

My “normal.”

I didn’t know there was another way to live.

I didn’t know my body had been whispering its story for years — through aches, fatigue, panic, overthinking, self-protection disguised as independence — and I had been too busy surviving to hear it.

Healing didn’t begin when everything got better.

It began when I realized:

Nothing about the way I was functioning felt safe.

It began when I finally saw that what I thought was “just me” — the overthinking, the tension, the need to anticipate everything — was actually the version of me that learned how to endure.

And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

You start to notice the moments when your body flinches at kindness.

When rest feels like danger.

When peace feels unfamiliar.

When receiving feels suspicious.

When softness feels like a setup.

You realize it wasn’t a personality flaw.

It was a survival pattern.

And slowly, gently, you begin to wonder:

What would life feel like if I didn’t have to brace for it?

Healing is not about becoming someone new — it’s about remembering who you were before you had to armor up. It’s about teaching your body that safety exists now. That calm isn’t a threat. That you don’t have to live like the danger is still happening.

There is another way to live.

You just have to give yourself permission to find it.

And if you’re only realizing now what you’ve carried for so long, that’s not failure.

That’s the beginning.

The Wolf and the Raven: A Wild Lesson in Companionship, Healing, and the Parts of Ourselves That Still Believe in Each Other

There’s a language spoken in the forests long before humans learned to name their wounds. A quiet, instinctive agreement between a creature of the sky and a creature of the earth:

the raven and the wolf.

They move through the world like a promise made in the dark—

one who sees,

one who hunts,

both who trust.

And if you listen closely, their partnership begins to echo something almost unbearably human.

Ravens call to wolves with a voice sharp as cold air, guiding them toward what waits beyond the next ridge. They are the mapmakers of the sky, tracing possibilities into the wind.

Sometimes, in our hardest seasons, we need a “raven” in our lives—

someone whose view isn’t blurred by the storm in our chest.

Someone who can see the exit when all we see are walls.

Someone who whispers, “This way. There’s more for you than the fear you’re standing in.”

It is sacred work, letting another person widen your world.

And terrifying, if you spent years learning not to rely on anyone.

Wolves crack open the heavy carcasses that ravens cannot enter alone. They make the impossible reachable.

Healing feels like that sometimes—

standing before a memory too large to approach,

a grief too dense to hold,

a story your hands are too tired to pry open.

Then someone sits beside you—

a friend, a therapist, a partner,

someone who doesn’t flinch at your trembling—

and their presence becomes the strength you borrow.

Not because you are weak,

but because some doors were never meant to be unlocked alone.

Ravens have been known to watch over wolf pups—dark wings protecting small bodies, calling warnings into the trees.

Wolves return the favor simply by being wolves:

loyal, fierce, unyielding in their devotion.

In human terms, this looks like the people who check on you after the panic attack hits.

The ones who notice when your voice goes small.

The ones who remind you what’s real when trauma drags you into yesterday.

The ones who say, “I’m here,” and mean it with their whole being.

Healing is not self-sufficiency.

Healing is safe connection.

In old stories, the wolf and raven appear as sacred companions.

Strength and sight.

Instinct and intuition.

Earth and sky.

Together, they represent a truth we resist but desperately need:

We are not meant to heal the parts of us that howl without also listening to the parts that know how to fly.

Inside you, there is a wolf—

the survivor,

the fighter,

the part that made sure you stayed alive.

Inside you, there is a raven—

the intuitive one,

the watcher,

the part that knows when it’s time to soften.

Healing happens when they stop tearing each other apart.

When your strength learns to trust your sensitivity.

When your vigilance stops mistaking safety for danger.

When your intuition is no longer exiled from the pack.

The Wild Truth: We Heal Through Partnership, Not Isolation.

The wolf does not apologize for needing the raven.

The raven does not shrink for needing the wolf.

There is no shame in interdependence.

Only survival woven into something beautiful.

Maybe we are more like them than we realize—

built for connection,

wired for companionship,

meant to be seen from above and protected from beside.

Maybe the part of you that is tired of being strong is simply longing for a raven.

Maybe the part of you that sees too much from the sky is longing for a wolf.

Either way, both parts belong.

Both parts are sacred.

Both parts deserve a place in the story of your healing.

Feral Instinct

There’s a moment trauma survivors know all too well: that sudden snap inside the body, the way your chest tightens, the world narrows, and something ancient wakes up behind your ribs. It’s not logic. It’s not personality. It’s instinct.

Being triggered isn’t a dramatic response — it’s a survival response.

It feels like being an animal suddenly backed into a corner.

A quiet room becomes a cave with no exits.

A raised voice becomes the sound of snapping branches.

A harmless question becomes the echo of a threat you didn’t choose to remember.

Inside, the nervous system goes feral.

Not unhinged.

Not irrational.

Just scared.

And like any cornered creature, you don’t rise into grace — you shrink, bare teeth, freeze, or scramble for any way out. Your body floods with the same chemicals it would use if it were trying to escape a predator. You become adrenaline and instinct. Your heart beats so loud you swear it could warn the whole forest.

But here’s the part trauma survivors rarely get told:

You’re not reacting to the present. You’re reacting to a past you never got to escape.

Your body learned what danger felt like the hard way.

It learned what to fear.

It learned that sometimes the world is not safe — and that survival means moving fast, protecting yourself, shutting down, or disappearing.

So when you feel triggered, your body isn’t being dramatic.

It’s being loyal.

It’s being protective.

It’s being the animal you had to become to survive.

But healing is learning that you’re not cornered anymore.

Little by little, breath by breath, experience by experience, you teach your body that the walls aren’t closing in. You teach your instinct that this time you’re safe. You teach your nervous system that it can soften without being swallowed.

And eventually, the wild creature inside learns she doesn’t have to roar, freeze, run, or hide at every shadow.

She can rest.

She can look around.

She can trust her surroundings.

She can step out of the corner and back into the open.

You are not the scared animal you once had to be — you are the one tending to her now.

And that is the quiet, feral miracle of healing.

When You Don’t Trust the Good

When Your Nervous System Doesn’t Trust the Good Yet

There’s a strange ache that comes with healing — the way good things can feel unsettling, suspicious, or even dangerous. We talk so much about trauma as fear, pain, and survival, but we rarely talk about the quiet, bewildering truth that safety can be just as triggering as threat when you’ve never known it consistently.

You finally find calm, love, softness, or stability… and instead of relaxing, your body flinches.

Your brain whispers, “This is too good to be true.”

But the truth you were never told:

“Too Good to Be True” Isn’t Intuition — It’s Injury

So many trauma survivors confuse their hypervigilance with intuition. We think the tightening in our chest is a warning. We think the urge to pull away is wisdom. We think the part of us that scans for danger is the same part that “just knows.”

But hypervigilance is not intuition — it’s your nervous system replaying old wounds, trying to protect you from pain that already passed.

Your body learned that good things were temporary, conditional, or secretly unsafe.

Your nervous system learned that relief was always followed by impact.

Your younger self learned to prepare for the drop instead of trust the moment.

So now, when kindness shows up… you wait for the cost.

When someone is consistent… you look for the flaw.

When life feels steady… you start bracing for the break.

This isn’t your gut speaking.

This is your history.

And still — there is hope in noticing it.

Awareness is the first doorway to choosing differently.

The Soft Grief of Realizing You’ve Never Felt Safe Enough to Receive

Healing isn’t just receiving good things.

It’s grieving the version of you who never got to.

The version who clenched through love.

Who apologized for needing softness.

Who swallowed joy before it could take root.

Who learned to earn everything, trust nothing, and carry the weight alone.

There is a gentle, delicate grief in realizing:

I didn’t know how to relax before. My body didn’t understand safe touch or consistent care. I never learned how to let good things land, because I never believed I could keep them.

This grief is tender — not dramatic.

It shows up like a sigh you didn’t know you were holding.

Like tears that fall when someone holds your hand too gently.

Like the surprising ache of finally being met where you always deserved to be met.

It isn’t weakness.

It’s the emotional residue of a life lived armored.

Let yourself feel the loss of what you didn’t receive.

It makes space for what you can receive now.

Reprogramming Your Body to Believe in Calm

Safety isn’t just a mindset — it’s a physiological experience your body has to learn over time.

Here are gentle, practical somatic ways to begin teaching your nervous system that calm isn’t a setup for harm, but a place you’re allowed to live:

1. Grounding: “I am here. I am now.”

Feel your feet on the floor.

Press your palms together.

Notice the weight of your body supported by a chair or bed.

This tells your system: We are in the present. We are not back there anymore.

2. Breath that signals safety, not survival

Slow exhales activate the parasympathetic nervous system.

Try:

Inhale for 4 Exhale for 6 Repeat 6–10 cycles

Longer exhales whisper to the body, We are not in danger.

3. Orienting: Look at your environment

Let your gaze move slowly around the room.

Name what you see.

Let your eyes land on something comforting.

This is how your brain rewires threat perception: through real-time reminders that nothing bad is happening.

4. Co-regulation: Borrowing calm from safe people

If you have someone you trust — a partner, friend, therapist, pet — allow your nervous system to settle in their presence.

Steady breathing.

A warm hug.

Shared silence.

You don’t have to calm yourself by yourself every time. Humans are wired to regulate together.

You Aren’t Wrong for Struggling to Trust the Good

You’re not sabotaging.

You’re not broken.

You’re not incapable of receiving.

Your nervous system is simply doing what it was trained to do — protect you at all costs, even at the expense of joy.

But with awareness, gentleness, and practice, the body can relearn.

It can soften.

It can trust again.

It can rest.

And one day, you’ll notice that the good no longer feels dangerous.

It feels familiar.

It feels possible.

It feels like home.

The Crows Who Kept Me Alive

There were versions of me I used to resent—

the overthinking one, the one with her guard welded to her ribs,

the one who could never rest because she believed the world would collapse

the moment she dared to exhale.

For a long time, I thought these versions were flaws I needed to fix.

Parts of me I should hide or outgrow.

Evidence that I was “too much,” “too serious,” “too damaged.”

But healing has a strange way of shifting the lighting on your own story.

And when I look back now, I see something different.

I see a girl who learned to survive with the tools she had.

I see a woman who adapted faster than she ever should’ve needed to.

I see protectors—imperfect, yes, but loyal in their own rough-edged way.

There was the Hyper-Independent One,

the version of me who believed asking for help was a burden.

She carried everything—grief, responsibility, guilt, expectations—

until her spine bent under the load.

She didn’t trust anyone to stay, so she trusted no one at all.

And the truth is: she kept me safe when I didn’t have anyone.

There was the Perfectionist,

the girl who sharpened herself into something unbreakable.

If she never messed up, no one could punish her.

If she kept every room spotless, every word edited,

maybe the chaos around her would be a little less loud.

She was terrified of disappointing anyone,

and she tried so hard to earn a sense of safety she never should’ve had to earn.

There was the Silent One,

who swallowed her needs so no one would think she was weak.

She held entire storms inside her chest because she didn’t know

that feelings are meant to move through you, not calcify.

She believed stillness equaled strength.

But she was just trying not to drown.

There was the Vigilant One,

a shadow leaning forward in every room,

scanning faces, predicting shifts in tone,

anticipating danger that wasn’t there anymore.

She was tired all the time.

But she kept watch because no one ever kept watch for her.

All of these versions—

the too much, the too quiet, the too strong,

the “why am I like this?” versions—

they weren’t mistakes.

They were guardians.

They did not fail me.

They saved me.

But here’s the truth healing demands:

sometimes the things that kept you alive

cannot carry you into the life you’re building now.

So I’ve been learning to thank them,

to sit with each version like an old friend,

to tell them,

You did your job.

You kept me alive.

You don’t have to run the show anymore.

I can take it from here.

The hardest part of healing isn’t letting go of the past—

it’s letting go of the selves you became to survive it.

And maybe that’s the quiet miracle of all this:

recognizing that I’m not broken,

I’m simply evolving—

gently, slowly, into someone who doesn’t have to fight so hard

just to exist.

Someone who is allowed to rest.

Someone who is allowed to need.

Someone who is allowed to be held.

Someone who is, finally, safe.

Slow Down

Today I woke up with that familiar tightness in my chest—the kind that whispers, “You’re already behind,” before your eyes even fully open.

It’s strange how quickly the mind can sprint, even when the body is still heavy with sleep.

Some mornings, the world expects too much from a heart that’s still learning how to be gentle with itself.

I felt the old patterns rising—the urge to rush, to achieve, to fix everything before the sun even climbs the sky.

The part of me that believes I have to earn rest.

The part that thinks pausing means I’m doing something wrong.

But today, I recognized the weight for what it was: not failure, not weakness, just a quiet signal from my body asking for care.

So I did something I don’t always give myself permission to do.

I stopped.

I sat in the stillness, letting the noise inside me settle the way dust does when the room finally stops shaking.

And without even trying, I felt myself soften—just a little at first, like the loosening of a fist that’s been clenched for far too long.

In that small, sacred pause, I realized how often I treat myself like a machine—always producing, always proving, always pushing through.

But I’m not a machine.

I’m human.

I’m healing.

I’m learning.

And healing doesn’t happen when I’m sprinting.

It happens in the space I create between the inhale and the exhale.

In the moments I decide to stay instead of run.

In the quiet courage it takes to feel my own emotions without judging them.

Today I gave myself permission to exist without performing.

To breathe without rushing.

To feel without apologizing.

And in that choosing, something shifted.

I remembered that slowing down is not the same as giving up.

It’s not avoidance, or laziness, or lack of drive.

Slowing down is an act of wisdom.

A form of self-respect.

A way of saying, “My well-being matters more than my pace.”

Maybe you needed that reminder too.

Maybe you’ve been stretching yourself thin, giving the world more than you’ve been giving yourself.

Maybe your body has been whispering what your mind refuses to hear:

You cannot heal in a state of constant urgency.

So here is the truth I’m choosing today, and maybe you can choose it with me:

You are allowed to slow down.

You are allowed to rest.

You are allowed to take up space without hustling for it.

You are allowed to be a work in progress and still deserving of tenderness.

Healing doesn’t demand speed.

It asks for presence.

It asks for honesty.

It asks for patience.

Today, I honored that.

Today, I met myself with softness instead of pressure.

Today, I chose to breathe in a way that reminded my body it is safe.

And in the quiet, I found myself again—steady, grounded, and whole, even in my becoming.

What My Shadow Taught Me When I Finally Stopped Running

For years, I kept my shadow at arm’s length—pretending she was a stranger I could outrun if I just moved fast enough. I filled my days with noise and tasks and perfection. I stuffed my nights with distractions, anything to keep from meeting the dark parts of myself eye to eye.

I thought if I slowed down, the past would swallow me.

I thought if I faced the hurts I buried, they would destroy me.

I thought if I acknowledged the pieces I hated, they would consume the rest of me.

But shadows don’t disappear when we outrun them.

They simply stretch longer.

Quieter.

Closer.

It wasn’t until I was too exhausted to keep sprinting that I turned around—and found her waiting. Not malicious. Not monstrous. Just… tired. Just like me.

And that’s when she began to teach me.

She taught me that fear is often a younger version of myself, shaking in a corner, begging to be seen.

Not to punish me.

But to be held.

She taught me that anger wasn’t a flaw—it was a boundary I never felt safe enough to speak.

It was the voice inside me saying,

“I deserved better.”

She taught me that the parts I called “too much” were actually the parts that survived the unthinkable.

They weren’t broken.

They were brilliant.

They kept me alive.

She taught me that the darkness wasn’t trying to drown me—

it was trying to show me where the wounds still lived.

And, maybe most surprising of all:

My shadow taught me compassion.

For myself.

For the girl I was.

For the woman I am becoming.

When I stopped running, I realized she wasn’t chasing me.

She was following me, patiently, carrying the pieces of myself I wasn’t ready to accept—the pain, the memories, the truth, the resilience.

The shadow wasn’t the enemy.

The illusion of separation was.

Now, instead of fleeing from her, I walk with her.

We move as a pair—

crow and flame,

light and dark,

truth and becoming.

And I’m learning, slowly, courageously:

We are never whole until we embrace the parts of ourselves we once feared.

We are never free until we stop running from our own reflection.

The Apology that I Keep Chasing

There is a particular weight my tongue knows too well—

the shape of sorry before the story even unfolds.

I have carried it like a feather soaked in rain,

heavy, drooping, always threatening to fall at the slightest tremor of life.

Somewhere along the way, I taught myself that existing required explanation,

that breathing required justification,

that any ripple I caused—intentional or not—

demanded an immediate bow, a whispered apology,

a shrinking.

The Crow in me learned this first.

She perched on the fence line of all my younger years,

watching the world with sharp eyes, always calculating the safest path.

She knew that peace could be purchased with quick repentance,

that “sorry” was a shield against anger, disappointment, abandonment.

She meant well—she always does.

But ever since, she has mistaken her survival instincts

for a personality trait.

And then there is the Flame.

The part of me that burns bright and honest,

that wants to speak, to take up space, to exist without permission.

But every time she leans forward, warming the room,

the Crow swoops in with the same old offering:

Sorry.

Sorry for having needs.

Sorry for taking a moment too long.

Sorry for the tone I didn’t mean.

Sorry for the tone I didn’t even have.

Sorry for asking a question.

Sorry for not asking a question.

Sorry for being too much.

Sorry for not being enough.

The apology becomes a smoke signal—

but not the kind that calls for help.

The kind that warns people away from the fire

before they ever feel its warmth.

Lately, though, I’ve been listening to the Flame more.

She flickers against my ribs, whispering that maybe the world

doesn’t crumble when I exist without shrinking.

Maybe the people who love me

don’t need my constant self-erasure to stay.

Maybe I don’t owe anyone an apology

for simply being human.

The Crow resists, of course.

Old survival patterns die like stars—

slowly, beautifully, in bursts of light and grief.

But even she is learning that presence is not a crime,

and taking up space is not an act of war.

And so I practice new words:

“Thank you for waiting.”

“I appreciate your patience.”

“I hear you.”

“I’m here.”

And sometimes—beautifully, bravely—

I say nothing at all.

No shrinking.

No bending.

No burning myself down just to make others comfortable.

The Flame glows a little brighter.

The Crow settles her wings, unafraid to perch in the open.

And for the first time,

I feel like I’m learning the language of living

without apology.

Guided Meditation- Campfire

Find a comfortable position—sitting or lying down. Let your body settle.

Take a slow, gentle breath in… and out.

Again… in… and out.

Now, imagine yourself stepping into a quiet clearing in the woods.

It’s night, and the air carries that crisp, unmistakable scent of autumn—cool, earthy, clean.

The sky is deep and dark, sprinkled with stars that seem to shimmer with their own soft breath.

In front of you is a campfire.

The flames are low and steady, glowing amber and gold, dancing in slow, deliberate waves.

You walk toward it and feel the warmth reach you before you even sit down.

Choose a place close enough to feel comforted, far enough to feel safe.

You settle in.

The ground beneath you is cool, the air just a hint cold on your cheeks,

but the fire casts a gentle blanket of warmth over your front side.

Breathe into that contrast—everything balanced, everything in harmony.

Listen.

There’s the soft crackle of wood, each pop like a tiny spark of life.

A log shifts, glowing deeper, and the fire responds with a warm sigh.

The wind moves through the trees, slow and hushed, as if the whole forest is exhaling with you.

Breathing in…

you inhale the scent of burning cedar and fallen leaves.

Breathing out…

you release whatever weight you brought with you tonight.

Feel your shoulders drop.

Feel your jaw soften.

Feel the muscles around your eyes ease.

Let your belly expand naturally with each breath—no forcing, no striving.

Above you, a leaf drifts down, landing near your foot.

You notice its shape, its faded color, its edges curled from the season’s chill.

Let it remind you: it is natural to change.

It is natural to let go.

It is natural to rest.

The fire glows brighter for a moment,

as if it recognizes you—your tiredness, your effort, your bravery.

It doesn’t ask anything of you.

It simply burns, offering warmth without demand.

Let yourself mirror that simplicity.

Nothing to solve right now.

Nothing to prove.

Just the quiet presence of your breath

and the steady heartbeat of the fire.

Take another slow inhale…

and exhale even slower.

Feel the peace of this moment settle into you, like warm embers beneath your ribs.

Let it linger.

Let it stay.

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

Wiggle your fingers, your toes.

Feel whatever surface supports you.

Carry this warmth with you as you return.

It is yours whenever you need it—

this fire, this stillness, this breath.