anxiety – Page 6 – Crow and Flame

90 Days of Effort

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

And I can’t stop thinking about that.

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

What if we treated ourselves like something worth tending to?

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

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

To feed our bodies with intention.

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

To speak kindly to the reflection in the mirror.

To rest without guilt, to breathe without apology.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How I Cope on the Hard Days

Some days, healing doesn’t look like growth.

It looks like breathing through fog.

It looks like surviving the morning.

It looks like remembering that even when the mind whispers “what’s the point,” the heart still beats its steady reply: “keep going.”

On the hard days, I move slow.

I start with the smallest thing — bare feet on the floor.

I let the cold surface remind me that I exist, that I am here.

Sometimes that’s all I can manage,

and sometimes that’s enough.

I light a candle — not for magic,

but for presence.

I watch the flame flicker,

the way light trembles and steadies again.

It teaches me how to breathe:

in, out, in again.

The crow outside my window tilts its head,

black feathers glinting like ink in sunlight.

Even he seems to know —

we don’t have to soar every day;

sometimes, perching is enough.

When the noise in my mind grows too loud,

I turn to my body.

I wash my hands in warm water,

press them against my face,

feel the heartbeat under my skin.

I name what I see —

the scent of soap, the hum of the refrigerator,

the faint light crawling across the floorboards.

These small anchors pull me back to now.

To this breath.

This moment.

Sometimes I step outside,

to let the earth hold me.

Grass underfoot,

air cool against my cheeks.

The world spins on, uncaring and constant,

and somehow that steadiness comforts me.

The sky does not demand my joy.

It only asks that I keep showing up beneath it.

And on the rare days when I can,

I move —

shadowboxing in the living room,

MMA gloves soft against my palms,

breath syncing with motion.

It isn’t about fighting anymore.

It’s about remembering that my body is mine.

That I can create rhythm and power

in a life that once took everything from me.

Coping, I’ve learned, isn’t pretty.

It’s not always journaling or meditating or gratitude lists.

Sometimes it’s crying in the shower,

sometimes it’s folding laundry,

sometimes it’s simply choosing not to disappear.

Grace lives there —

in the quiet act of not giving up.

I no longer ask myself to be radiant on the hard days.

I ask only to be real.

To hold myself like something fragile and sacred.

To trust that even in stillness, I am mending.

Even in shadow, I am worthy of light.

🖤 Reflection for Readers

What small rituals help you return to yourself on hard days? How can you offer yourself grace instead of judgment? Can you name one thing today that quietly kept you alive — even if it seemed insignificant?

How I Learned to Be Kind to My Past Self

For years, I spoke to my past self like she was a stranger I resented.

I blamed her for staying too long, for loving too hard,

for mistaking pain for passion.

I called her weak for freezing instead of fleeing,

for numbing instead of feeling,

for lying instead of shattering.

I thought if I punished her enough,

if I replayed the shame often enough,

maybe I could rewrite what happened.

But shame doesn’t cleanse —

it corrodes.

And every time I turned my anger inward,

I was only deepening the wound I was trying to heal.

The shift came quietly, not as an epiphany, but as a whisper:

What if she did the best she could with what she had?

It landed heavy.

Because I knew it was true.

The girl I used to be wasn’t careless or broken —

she was surviving the only way she knew how.

She built walls out of silence,

wore masks made of politeness,

and called it strength.

And maybe it was.

Maybe endurance, even in its messy, desperate form,

was the only way she knew to stay alive.

So I started to speak to her differently.

Not as the villain of my story, but as the child of my pain.

I began writing letters to her —

simple ones, honest ones:

I’m sorry for judging you.

Thank you for enduring.

You didn’t deserve what happened.

Some days I read them aloud.

Other days I just imagine her sitting across from me —

hands trembling, eyes full of fear —

and I tell her she can rest now.

That she doesn’t have to keep apologizing.

That I’ll carry the healing from here.

The crow outside reminds me daily:

you can’t fly while pecking at your own wings.

To rise, you must release.

So I lay the blame down like a stone,

and I fill the hollow it leaves behind with mercy.

Being kind to my past self doesn’t mean I forget.

It means I finally understand.

I see her not as a ghost haunting me,

but as the foundation beneath me.

She walked through fire so I could learn to stand in light.

And for that, I will never again call her anything but brave.

🖤 Reflection for Readers

How do you speak to the version of yourself that endured the worst days? What words of compassion does your past self need to hear from you now? Can you see your survival — even your mistakes — as evidence of your strength?

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.