anxiety – Page 2 – Crow and Flame

I’m Not Making Myself Small Anymore

For a long time, I believed the problem was me.

I believed it because I was told—sometimes gently, sometimes cruelly—that I was too much. Too intense. Too emotional. Too driven. Too honest. I was told my presence made others feel inadequate, as if my light was something I should dim so they could feel comfortable standing beside me.

So I tried to become less.

I learned how to fold my needs inward. I learned how to quiet my excitement, temper my grief, soften my truth. I learned how to carry other people’s discomfort as if it were my responsibility. If someone felt small, I assumed I had taken up too much space.

Looking back, I see how deeply that shaped me.

In those relationships, I confused love with self-erasure. I confused compromise with disappearance. I thought being “easy to be with” meant abandoning the parts of myself that were inconvenient, powerful, or messy.

But growth has a way of revealing the cost.

Every time I made myself smaller, something in me went cold. The flame didn’t go out—it just learned to hide. And the crow, that inner voice that knows truth, grew quieter each time I ignored it in favor of keeping the peace.

What I’m learning now is this:

Someone else’s inadequacy is not proof of my excess.

My depth is not a flaw. My passion is not an attack. My healing, my ambition, my self-awareness do not exist to make anyone else feel less than. If my wholeness threatens a relationship, it was never asking me to be myself—it was asking me to be manageable.

Not making myself small doesn’t mean I stop caring about others. It means I stop betraying myself for their comfort. It means I choose honesty over harmony when harmony requires my silence.

I am allowed to take up space in my relationships.

I am allowed to grow, even if others do not.

I am allowed to outgrow people who only loved me when I was diminished.

This is not bitterness. This is clarity.

The crow does not pluck its feathers to soothe another bird’s insecurity.

The flame does not apologize for its heat.

So I am learning to stand in my full shape. To let my voice carry. To let my presence be what it is—neither sharpened nor softened for approval.

If that makes me “too much,” then perhaps I was never meant for small spaces.

And I am finally brave enough to choose spaces that can hold me.

When the Fire is Surrounded by Ghosts

It’s been a rough and emotional few days.

I’m really struggling.

The holidays have a way of tightening everything at once. Time feels compressed. Expectations multiply. There’s pressure to show up, to give, to create magic, to be grateful, to keep moving—even when you’re already exhausted. I find myself trying to do everything: write, draw, train, heal, rest, connect, keep promises, chase dreams, and somehow still be okay.

And when I can’t do it all, the voice shows up.

The one that tells me I’m not enough. That I’ll never be good enough. That I’m failing at being an author, an artist, a human. It doesn’t just criticize the present—it drags the past into the room, too. Old trauma. Old fear. Old moments that my body remembers even when my mind would rather forget.

Stress opens the door for ghosts.

Last night at mixed martial arts, that door swung wide open.

I had to train with a male partner who wasn’t the instructor. There were only three of us in class. They were patient. Kind. Respectful.

But my nervous system didn’t care about logic. My body didn’t register kindness—it registered threat.

I was wound so tight I could barely remember the moves I know. My mind went blank. My muscles felt unfamiliar, like they belonged to someone else. It felt like my very first day all over again, standing in a place where I wasn’t sure if I was safe.

I was terrified that if he put a hand on me, the memories of a past assault would slam into me without warning. Not as thoughts, but as sensations. As panic. As the past pretending it was the present.

Part of me wanted to say, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to relive this again.

But another part of me—the part I’m trying to listen to more—knows that growth doesn’t happen only in comfort. If I never train with others, if I never step into discomfort, I won’t learn. I won’t grow. I won’t build trust in my body again. I won’t reclaim the parts of myself that trauma tried to steal.

My instructor kept reminding me,

“Breathe out. Don’t let yourself get stressed. You’ve got this. Breathe out.”

So I became my own anchor.

You’ve got this, Amanda. Breathe out.

And instead of asking Why is this so hard? I asked better questions:

What do I need right now?

Where are my feet?

How can I protect myself in this moment?

That shift—tiny as it was—mattered.

This is what healing looks like during the holidays. Not peace and joy wrapped in perfect bows, but navigating crowded calendars, emotional landmines, and resurfacing memories while still trying to show up for the life you’re building.

Some days the flame roars.

Some days it flickers.

And some days it feels like it’s surrounded by ghosts.

But I’m learning this: the presence of fear does not mean the absence of strength. Courage doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared—it means I stayed present anyway. It means I breathed. It means I didn’t abandon myself.

If you’re overwhelmed right now—by the season, by expectations, by the weight of who you’ve been and who you’re trying to become—know this: you’re not weak for struggling. Stress has a way of waking old wounds, and that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means your nervous system is asking for care.

The fire doesn’t have to burn brightly to be real.

Sometimes surviving the night is the victory.

🖤🔥

Talk to Yourself Like You Would Talk to a Friend

Talk to Yourself Like You’d Talk to a Friend

If you were sitting across from me right now, I know what I wouldn’t say.

I wouldn’t tell you that you’re weak for feeling this way.

I wouldn’t rush you to “fix it.”

I wouldn’t list everything you should be doing better.

If you were sitting across from me right now—shoulders heavy, eyes a little tired, carrying things you don’t know how to put down—I know exactly how I would speak to you.

I wouldn’t start with advice.

I wouldn’t try to reframe your pain into something more palatable.

I wouldn’t tell you to be grateful, productive, or stronger than you already are.

I would start by listening.

I would let you say the same thing more than once if you needed to. I would understand that repetition isn’t weakness—it’s the nervous system asking to be heard. I would see how much effort it’s taken just to keep moving through the days, and I would name that effort out loud so you didn’t have to keep proving it.

So why is it that when the conversation turns inward, the tone changes?

Why do we speak to ourselves in ways we would never speak to someone we love?

I’d say: Of course you’re tired.

I’d say: Anyone carrying this much would feel heavy.

I’d remind you that struggling doesn’t erase your strength—it reveals how hard you’ve been trying.

So why is it that when the voice turns inward, it becomes sharp?

Why do we offer ourselves only criticism when what we need is care?

Talking to yourself like a friend doesn’t mean lying or pretending everything is fine. It means speaking with honesty and compassion at the same time.

A friend would say:

• “You’re allowed to rest without earning it.”

• “This moment doesn’t define your entire story.”

• “I’m proud of you for showing up at all today.”

A friend would sit with you in the discomfort instead of demanding you rise above it immediately.

When the inner critic starts narrating worst-case scenarios, try this: pause and ask, What would I say if this were someone I love? Then say that—even if your voice shakes, even if you don’t fully believe it

The inner voice often learns its language in places where softness wasn’t safe. It borrows words from survival—from pressure, urgency, and self-correction. For many of us, being hard on ourselves once felt necessary. It felt like protection. Like if we stayed vigilant enough, critical enough, we could prevent future pain.

But that voice doesn’t know when the danger has passed.

It keeps scanning.

It keeps tightening.

It keeps asking for more.

Talking to yourself like you’d talk to a friend isn’t about silencing that voice or shaming it into submission. It’s about introducing a second voice—one that knows how to stay.

A friend would say:

You’re not broken for feeling this way.

You’re responding normally to things that were not easy.

You don’t need to justify your exhaustion.

A friend wouldn’t rush your healing or demand clarity before you’re ready. They wouldn’t turn a bad day into a character flaw. They would understand that some seasons are about endurance, not expansion.

When you mess up, a friend doesn’t reduce you to the mistake.

When you’re overwhelmed, a friend doesn’t ask why you can’t handle more.

When you’re quiet, a friend doesn’t assume you’ve disappeared.

They stay curious. They stay kind.

So when your thoughts begin to spiral—when the inner critic starts narrating worst-case outcomes or rewriting your history into a list of failures—pause. Not to argue with yourself, but to soften.

Ask gently: What would I say if this were someone I love?

Maybe the answer is:

“It makes sense that this hurts.”

“You’re allowed to rest here.”

“This moment doesn’t cancel everything you’ve survived.”

Say it anyway. Even if it feels awkward. Even if your body resists it. Compassion doesn’t need to be loud to be powerful—it just needs to be consistent.

The crow does not abandon itself for being cautious.

The flame does not shame itself for flickering.

They adapt. They endure. They remain.

You don’t grow by becoming harder on yourself. You grow by becoming safer with yourself. By creating an inner space where honesty doesn’t lead to punishment, and vulnerability isn’t something you have to recover from.

Today, let your inner voice be a place you can land.

A place that doesn’t demand perfection to offer belonging.

A place that speaks to you the way a true friend would—steady, patient, and unwilling to leave.

🖤🔥

Anxiety, Irrational Fear and the Sense of Impending Doom

Learning Not to Attach A Narrative

Anxiety doesn’t always arrive loudly.

Sometimes it slips in quietly, disguised as a sense of impending doom—a heavy feeling in the chest, a tightness in the body, a certainty that something is wrong even when nothing is happening.

There is no clear threat.

No obvious cause.

Just the feeling.

This is often the most unsettling part of anxiety: the way it demands an explanation. The mind rushes in, searching for a reason, scanning the past and the future for clues. What did I miss? What’s about to happen? What does this mean?

But anxiety is not intuition.

It is not prophecy.

It is not a message that needs decoding.

It is a nervous system reacting as if danger is present, even when it isn’t.

The Urge to Create a Story

When anxiety shows up as irrational fear, the brain tries to make sense of it by attaching a narrative. It wants a reason that matches the intensity of the feeling. This is how spirals begin.

A sensation becomes a thought.

A thought becomes a story.

A story becomes certainty.

Before we realize it, we are no longer responding to the present moment—we are reacting to a future that exists only in our imagination.

Choosing Not to Attach a Narrative

One of the most powerful skills I’ve learned is this:

I can notice anxiety without explaining it.

I can say, This is anxiety.

Not This is danger.

I can feel fear without searching for meaning.

I can experience discomfort without turning it into a warning.

A feeling is not a fact.

A thought is not a prediction.

When I resist the urge to explain the fear, it often softens on its own. Anxiety feeds on attention and interpretation. When I observe it without engaging, it loses momentum.

Meeting the Feeling Instead of Fighting It

This doesn’t mean forcing calm or pushing fear away. It means meeting the sensation with neutrality.

Breathing slowly.

Grounding in what I can see, hear, and touch.

Reminding myself that my body is trying to protect me—even if it’s overreacting.

I tell myself:

I am safe enough in this moment.

And I let that be enough.

Letting the Wave Pass

Anxiety rises and falls like a wave. The more we fight it or chase explanations, the longer it stays. When we stop feeding it stories, it passes more quickly.

Impending doom is a feeling, not a verdict.

Irrational fear is a signal, not a truth.

I don’t need to solve it.

I don’t need to understand it.

I only need to stay present while it moves through me.

And it always does.

Talk About Trauma

Let’s talk about trauma—really talk about it.

Not the sanitized version. Not the movie montage. Not the “it made you stronger” narrative we’re so quick to offer when discomfort shows up.

Trauma isn’t always one catastrophic event. Sometimes it’s years of being on edge. Years of not feeling safe—in your body, in relationships, in your own mind. Sometimes it’s what happened. Sometimes it’s what didn’t happen: protection, consistency, care.

PTSD doesn’t mean you’re broken.

It means your nervous system learned how to survive.

It learned to stay alert. To scan for danger. To react quickly. To brace. These responses once kept you alive. The problem isn’t that your body remembers—it’s that the threat is no longer there, but the alarm keeps ringing.

And then comes the shame.

“Why can’t I just get over it?”

“Other people had it worse.”

“I should be stronger than this.”

These are not truths. They are trauma talking.

Trauma changes how we experience the world. It lives in the body as much as the mind. It shows up in food relationships, in sleep, in trust, in the way we speak to ourselves. It can look like anger or numbness, perfectionism or avoidance, hyper-independence or collapse.

None of that makes you weak.

It makes you human.

At Crow and Flame, I think of trauma through symbolism. The crow—the survivor, the observer, the one who remembers. The flame—the life force, the spark that never fully goes out, even when buried under ash.

Healing doesn’t mean erasing the past. It means teaching your body that the present is safer than the past. It means learning how to sit with yourself without punishment. It means building tools—grounding, boundaries, creativity, movement, rest—that slowly turn the volume down on the alarm.

This work is not linear. Some days feel light. Some days feel heavy. Both are part of the process.

If you live with trauma or PTSD, you are not failing.

You are adapting.

You are surviving.

And with time, support, and compassion, you can learn to live—not just endure.

Your story is still being written.

And you get to hold the pen.

Everyday is a Struggle (and I’m ReWriting My Story)

Every day is a struggle.

My relationship with food.

The way I talk to myself.

The narratives I fight—ones that tell me I’m not enough, that try to convince me my worth is conditional, fragile, or earned only through perfection.

Every day is a struggle.

Some mornings I wake up already tired. Tired of negotiating with my own mind. Tired of carrying old wounds that still speak in my voice. Tired of the constant effort it takes to choose care over criticism, patience over punishment.

But here’s the truth I keep coming back to:

I am rewriting my story.

Not in sweeping transformations or overnight victories—but in the smallest, bravest choices. In noticing the thought before I believe it. In feeding my body instead of fighting it. In offering myself the same compassion I so easily extend to others.

The crow has always symbolized survival for me—adaptability, intelligence, the ability to endure harsh seasons and still rise each morning. The flame is the spark that refuses to go out, even when it flickers. Together, they remind me that resilience doesn’t have to be loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it looks like getting through the day without giving up on yourself.

Rewriting your story doesn’t mean erasing the past. It means refusing to let it hold the pen.

Some days the old chapters try to repeat themselves. Some days the struggle feels heavier than the hope. But each time I choose awareness over shame, curiosity over judgment, I write a new line. A truer one. A kinder one.

Every day is a struggle.

And every day, I choose to keep going.

That choice—that steady, imperfect commitment to myself—is the fire.

Creativity is a Coping Skill- NOT a Luxury

For a long time, I believed creativity was something you earned after everything else was done.

After the workday.

After the responsibilities.

After the grief, the stress, the exhaustion.

Creativity felt like a reward—something extra, something indulgent. A luxury.

But that belief nearly cost me my ability to cope.

Because the truth is, creativity isn’t a bonus feature of a good life.

It’s a survival tool.

When words get stuck in my throat, I write.

When my nervous system is overwhelmed, I draw.

When my mind is spinning in circles, I create something tangible—something that proves I’m still here.

Creativity is how I process what I don’t yet understand.

We live in a culture that values productivity over expression. If it doesn’t make money, hit a metric, or produce a visible outcome, it’s often dismissed as a hobby. But for many of us—especially those navigating grief, burnout, anxiety, caregiving, or trauma—creative expression is regulation.

It’s how we breathe when the world feels too heavy.

Creativity gives shape to feelings that don’t have language yet. It offers a place to put the ache, the confusion, the anger, the hope. It lets us move emotion through the body instead of trapping it inside.

And no—you don’t have to be “good” at it for it to work.

You don’t need to be an artist or a writer or a poet. You just need a willingness to show up imperfectly. Scribbles count. Rambling journal entries count. Half-finished paintings count. Five minutes of expression counts.

The point isn’t performance.

The point is release.

For me, The Crow and Flame was born out of this truth. Not from inspiration, but from necessity. From a need to understand myself, to build coping skills that didn’t feel clinical or cold, to find meaning through symbolism, story, and art.

Creativity became the bridge between pain and healing.

And here’s the part we don’t talk about enough: when creativity disappears, it’s often a warning sign. When we stop expressing, we start suppressing. When we tell ourselves we’re “too busy” to create, we’re often too overwhelmed to ignore what’s asking to be felt.

So if you’ve been telling yourself you don’t have time, energy, or permission to create—this is it.

This is your permission.

You don’t need motivation.

You don’t need a finished product.

You don’t need to justify it.

You just need a moment of honesty and a willingness to begin.

Because creativity isn’t a luxury for the healed.

It’s a coping skill for the healing.

When Everything Is Gray and Feels Like Ashes

Lately I’ve felt myself slipping into that familiar gray space—

the place where motivation thins out,

where everything I usually love feels heavy in my hands.

The gym sits there like a distant continent.

Eating right feels like a chore instead of an act of care.

Writing—my lifeline, my voice—feels like static.

Drawing feels like a weight instead of a release.

It’s like my mind whispers, “Why bother?”

And my body echoes back, “Maybe tomorrow.”

But here’s the thing:

I’ve walked too far from who I used to be

to turn around now and pretend I didn’t fight like hell to get here.

I owe it to myself to remember that not wanting to do the work

is not the same as not needing it.

And this version of me—tired, unmotivated, stretched thin—

is the one who deserves my gentleness the most.

Motivation is a guest. Discipline is the house I’ve built.

Motivation wanders in and out of my life.

Some days it knocks on my door, bright and early,

and I welcome it with open arms.

Other days, it vanishes—

no explanation,

no warning,

no apology.

But discipline… discipline is different.

Discipline is the steady structure

I’ve built brick by brick

from every promise I’ve kept to myself.

It’s what remains when I don’t want to get out of bed.

It’s what carries me when inspiration doesn’t.

It’s what reminds me:

You don’t have to feel like doing the work

for the work to matter.

I’ve survived storms bigger than laziness.

When I think about all the times I’ve broken apart

and put myself back together,

all the nights I kept breathing through a pain

that tried to swallow me whole—

I remember that this lack of motivation

isn’t the enemy.

It’s a signal.

A whisper saying:

You’re tired. You’re human. Slow down, but don’t give up.

Consistency is an act of love.

Not punishment.

Not pressure.

Love.

Showing up for myself—

even in small ways, even through resistance—

is how I say:

“I matter. My goals matter. My healing matters.”

Some days that looks like a full workout.

Some days it looks like stretching for five minutes.

Some days I eat a nourishing meal.

Some days I simply drink enough water.

Some days I write three pages.

Some days I write one sentence.

Some days I draw for hours.

Some days I doodle in the margin of a receipt.

But every one of those days counts.

Every act of care, no matter how tiny,

keeps me tethered to the person I’m becoming.

The flame doesn’t die—it just gets quieter.

The Crow and the Flame inside me

isn’t gone.

It’s resting.

It’s conserving power.

It’s asking me to tend to myself

with patience instead of frustration.

I don’t have to roar every day.

I don’t have to be on fire every moment.

Sometimes the flame becomes an ember,

glowing softly under the surface.

And that’s enough.

It’s still alive.

So am I.

I keep going because I made a promise to myself.

A long time ago—

in a darker version of my life—

I dreamed of being exactly where I am now.

Stronger.

More creative.

More aware.

More alive.

That person, the one who prayed for this version of me,

deserves to see me follow through.

And the future version of me—

the one who’s waiting on the other side of this season—

deserves every step I take today,

no matter how small,

no matter how reluctant.

So I keep moving.

Not because I’m motivated.

But because I’m devoted.

Devoted to becoming the person I know I can be.

Devoted to honoring the person I used to be.

Devoted to not breaking the promises I’ve whispered

into the quiet spaces of my own heart.

Even when I don’t feel like it.

Especially when I don’t feel like it.

That’s where transformation happens.

That’s where the flame grows back into fire.

That’s where I rise.

Stepping Out of the Comfort Zone

There are moments in life where you feel the shift happening in real time—moments where fear and excitement braid together, where your comfort zone tugs at your sleeve but something deeper pulls you forward. Announcing that Crow and Flame will be a vendor at the Women’s Wellness Retreat at the YMCA Trout Lodge this February is one of those moments for me.

When I started the Crow and Flame project, it wasn’t about building a brand or imagining myself behind a vendor table surrounded by books and art. It was about survival. It was about finding a way to put shape and language to the things inside me—grief, healing, resilience, the ache of transformation. It was about the crow who watches from the edge of the forest and the flame that refuses to burn out. Creativity became the way I stitched myself back together.

But sharing that creativity publicly?

That’s a whole different kind of bravery.

For a long time, I created quietly, almost secretly. Writing late at night, sketching on scraps of paper, building stories and symbolism that felt like private conversations between me and my own healing. It’s safe to stay hidden. Safe to remain small. Safe to tell yourself that your work doesn’t matter or that your voice isn’t needed.

But comfort zones, even the warm ones, can become cages if you never step beyond them.

This opportunity—being part of a wellness retreat filled with women seeking community, rest, and renewal—means more to me than setting up a vendor table. It means standing in the light a little more than I’m used to. It means letting my work breathe in the world, not just on my screen or in my notebooks. It means saying, Here I am. This is what I’ve created. This is what I believe can help.

And honestly? It’s terrifying.

But it’s also exactly what Crow and Flame stands for.

Growth through discomfort.

Healing through expression.

Connection through vulnerability.

Transformation through creativity.

At the retreat, I’ll be sharing my book, my artwork, the heart of the Crow and Flame project, and conversations about mental health, mindfulness, emotional resilience, and the grounding wisdom we find in nature. My hope is that someone will walk by the table, pause, and feel seen. That a piece of art or a line in the book or a conversation will spark something—the way this project sparked something in me.

Because that’s why we create:

To make an impact.

To connect.

To remind each other we’re not walking this life alone.

Stepping out of my comfort zone isn’t comfortable… but staying still isn’t an option anymore. The flame wants to grow. The crow wants to take flight. And I want to show up fully—not just for others, but for myself.

February is going to be a meaningful milestone, and I’m grateful, nervous, honored, and ready—maybe for the first time—to take up this space.

Here’s to showing up boldly.

Here’s to trusting our creativity.

Here’s to stepping into new chapters with an open heart and a brave spirit.

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.