body dysmorphia – Crow and Flame

When One Falters, We All Feel It.

Mind.

Body.

Soul.

We like to separate them, treat them like different departments of our lives—mental health over here, physical health over there, spirituality saved for quiet moments when everything else is done. But the truth is, they were never meant to be divided.

They are a system.

A living, breathing ecosystem.

And they are meant to work in harmony.

When one is out of sync, the whole system begins to malfunction.

You feel it when your body is exhausted but your mind refuses to slow down.

You feel it when your mind is heavy with worry, but your soul is starving for meaning.

You feel it when your soul is calling for rest or creativity, but you keep pushing your body past its limits.

Burnout isn’t just mental.

Fatigue isn’t just physical.

Emptiness isn’t just spiritual.

They bleed into one another.

So often, when we feel “off,” we try to fix only one piece. We think if we just think more positively, or exercise more, or meditate harder, everything will fall back into place. But healing doesn’t work in isolation.

It asks us to look at the whole picture.

What are you feeding your mind?

Endless noise, comparison, pressure, and self-criticism?

Or curiosity, compassion, rest, and gentler inner dialogue?

What are you giving your body?

Movement that feels like punishment—or movement that feels like care?

Fuel that keeps you going—or habits that keep you surviving?

And what about your soul?

Is it getting space to breathe?

Moments of creativity, stillness, connection, and truth?

Or is it constantly being silenced in the name of productivity?

Working in harmony doesn’t mean perfection.

It means awareness.

It means noticing when something feels out of balance and asking, What part of me is asking for attention right now?

Sometimes the work is mental—setting boundaries, challenging old beliefs, quieting the inner critic.

Sometimes it’s physical—resting, moving, drinking water, letting your body recover.

Sometimes it’s soulful—creating, grieving, praying, journaling, sitting with yourself without distraction.

None of these pieces are optional.

None of them are luxuries.

They are maintenance for the system that carries you through this life.

So if things feel off lately, don’t ask what’s wrong with you.

Ask what part of you needs care.

Mind.

Body.

Soul.

Feed them all.

Work with them, not against them.

And watch how the system begins to steady itself again.

Showing Up for Myself

Last night, panic wrapped itself around my throat and reminded me how easily my body forgets the difference between now and then. My breath shortened. My vision blurred. The room slipped out of focus, and the voices around me became distant, unreachable. Every instinct told me to leave. To run. To apologize for taking up space. To say, I can’t do this.

I’ve listened to that voice before.

It tells me that leaving is safer. That shrinking is easier. That disappearing is kindness—to others and to myself.

But last night, I stayed.

Not because I wasn’t afraid. Not because I suddenly felt strong. I stayed because I recognized the familiar fork in the road: self-protection or self-abandonment. And I’ve learned, slowly and painfully, that they are not the same thing.

Showing up for myself didn’t look heroic. It didn’t look calm or graceful. It looked like shaky breaths and grounding my feet against the floor. It looked like reminding my nervous system, again and again, that I was safe enough. That I was capable enough. That this moment did not get to rewrite my story.

There’s a quiet kind of bravery in staying when everything inside you is begging to flee. In choosing presence over escape. In trusting yourself to endure discomfort without betraying your own worth.

Healing doesn’t mean panic never shows up. It means that when it does, I no longer disappear to appease it. I don’t punish myself for struggling. I don’t hand my power back to fear.

I show up.

Sometimes that means asking for help. Sometimes it means sitting with the discomfort and letting it pass. Sometimes it means whispering, I’ve got you, to the parts of myself that learned long ago that survival meant silence.

Showing up for myself is choosing to believe that I am not fragile—I am learning. That I am not failing—I am practicing. That I am allowed to take up space even when my hands are shaking.

Last night, I didn’t run.

And that mattered.

Because every time I stay, I build trust with myself. Every time I choose presence over panic, I remind my nervous system that I am no longer alone inside my own body.

This is what healing looks like for me.

Not the absence of fear—but the refusal to abandon myself when it appears.

Triggers aren’t Failures, They’re Messengers

For a long time, I treated my triggers like proof that I was broken.

Every reaction felt like a setback.

Every spiral felt like I’d undone all my progress.

Every moment my body panicked before my mind could catch up felt like failure.

But triggers aren’t failures.

They’re messages.

A trigger is not your weakness showing.

It’s your nervous system speaking a language it learned to survive.

Your body remembers what your mind tried to forget.

It remembers danger, abandonment, harm, unpredictability.

And when something in the present echoes the past—even faintly—it responds the way it once had to.

Not because you’re failing.

Because once, that response kept you alive.

Triggers don’t mean you’re back at the beginning.

They mean you’ve touched a tender place that still needs care.

Sometimes the message is: This reminds me of something that hurt.

Sometimes it’s: I don’t feel safe right now.

Sometimes it’s: Slow down.

Or Pay attention.

Or This boundary matters more than you think.

We’re taught to override these signals.

To push through.

To “be rational.”

To quiet ourselves for the comfort of others.

But healing isn’t about silencing the body.

It’s about listening without judgment.

What if, instead of asking “What’s wrong with me?”

we asked “What is this trying to protect?”

What if we met our triggers with curiosity instead of shame?

The crow doesn’t scold itself for sensing danger.

It watches.

It listens.

It remembers.

The flame doesn’t apologize for reacting to touch.

It responds honestly—to warmth or to threat.

So when you’re triggered, pause.

Breathe.

Ground.

And remind yourself:

This isn’t weakness.

This is information.

You don’t need to punish yourself for reacting.

You don’t need to rush the healing.

You don’t need to be “better” to be worthy.

You just need to listen.

Triggers are not the enemy.

They are signposts on the path—pointing toward the places where compassion, safety, and tending are still needed.

And that doesn’t mean you’re failing.

It means you’re paying attention.

🖤🔥🖤

Healing, Spiraling

Healing isn’t linear; it’s a spiral. We like to imagine healing as a straight line.

Start here. Do the work. End there—whole, peaceful, finished.

But healing has never moved that way for me.

Healing is a spiral.

I circle back to places I’ve already been. Old wounds flare. Familiar fears whisper. Emotions I thought I had outgrown tap me on the shoulder and ask to be seen again. And for a long time, I believed that meant I was failing—that I wasn’t doing it “right,” that all the work I’d done somehow didn’t count.

But a spiral isn’t a step backward.

It’s a return with new eyes.

Each time I come back to the same pain, I’m standing a little higher than before. I notice things I couldn’t see the last time. I have language now where I once had silence. I have boundaries where I once had none. I have compassion where I used to carry only shame.

The spiral doesn’t mean the wound is winning.

It means the wound is loosening its grip.

Some days healing feels gentle—like soft light, like breath moving freely through my chest. Other days it feels raw and exhausting, like I’ve been dragged back into a storm I swore I’d already survived. Those days can be especially cruel, because they come with that familiar voice: Why am I still here? Why isn’t this over yet?

But healing was never meant to erase the past.

It was meant to teach me how to live alongside it without bleeding out.

The crow returns again and again—not because it is lost, but because it remembers. The flame flickers, dims, flares—never constant, never gone. Together they remind me that survival is not static. It moves. It shifts. It revisits.

If you find yourself back in a familiar place, be gentle with yourself. Ask not why am I here again? but what do I know now that I didn’t before?

You are not starting over.

You are deepening.

Healing is a spiral—and every turn means you are still moving, still learning, still alive.

Coping isn’t Weakness, It is Wisdom

There are days when simply existing feels like work.

Not because anything is wrong, but because my nervous system is loud. Thoughts race. My body tightens. Old stories surface without warning. On days like this, coping skills aren’t a bonus—they’re survival tools.

For a long time, I believed coping meant failure. That if I needed strategies, I must not be healing fast enough. I know now that isn’t true. Coping is how we stay present while healing unfolds.

Sometimes coping looks like grounding. When my mind pulls me into what-ifs and worst-case scenarios, I anchor myself in the present moment. I name what I can see, hear, and touch. I press my feet into the floor. I remind myself: right now, I am safe. The crow teaches awareness—watch first, react later.

Sometimes coping is breath. Not deep, dramatic breaths—but slow, intentional ones. Longer exhales. A quiet cue to my body that I am not in danger. Fire settles when it is contained, not when it’s smothered.

Sometimes coping means setting boundaries. Stepping back. Saying no. Logging off. Resting without justification. This one is hard for me, but necessary. The flame burns brightest when it isn’t consumed by everyone else.

Other times, coping is movement. Stretching tension out of my shoulders. Walking without destination. Letting my body release what my mind keeps holding onto. Trauma lives in the body—so healing must visit there too.

And some days, coping is kindness. Speaking to myself the way I would to someone I love. Allowing imperfection. Allowing exhaustion. Allowing the truth that I am human, and that is enough.

Coping skills don’t erase pain. They don’t make life neat or easy. What they do is create space—space to breathe, to choose, to stay with ourselves when leaving would feel easier.

So if today you’re leaning on coping skills, know this: you’re not broken. You’re listening. You’re adapting. You’re surviving wisely.

The crow does not shame itself for pausing on a branch.

The flame does not apologize for needing shelter.

Neither should you.

Holidays Are Too Much.

The holidays are supposed to be magical.

They’re supposed to glow and sparkle and feel full—full of joy, full of connection, full of meaning. We’re told to be on all the time. To perform happiness. To create moments worthy of memory and photographs and social media posts. To spend money we don’t have on things we don’t need in order to prove our love.

And if we don’t?

If we’re tired, overwhelmed, grieving, triggered, broke, or simply empty?

Then it feels like we’re doing the holidays wrong.

There is so much pressure to fill every second of this season. Fill the calendar. Fill the house. Fill the silence. Fill ourselves until there’s no room left to breathe. We’re expected to consume—food, gifts, experiences, emotions—until exhaustion becomes the background noise of December.

For those of us carrying trauma, anxiety, or deep grief, the holidays don’t arrive softly. They crash in loud and demanding. Old memories surface. Expectations tighten around the chest. The nervous system stays braced, waiting for something to go wrong while everyone insists this is the most wonderful time of the year.

It’s exhausting to hold that contradiction.

What if the holidays don’t need more magic?

What if they need more honesty?

What if it’s okay to be quiet this year? To opt out of traditions that drain instead of nourish? To say no to gatherings that feel unsafe, to simplify meals, to skip the decorations, to let the season be smaller than advertised?

Rest is not a failure.

Not celebrating “hard enough” is not a moral flaw.

Surviving this season is enough.

Maybe the truest magic isn’t found in doing more, buying more, or forcing joy—but in protecting your nervous system. In choosing softness. In giving yourself permission to exist without performing.

If the holidays feel like too much, you are not broken.

You are listening to your body.

And that, quietly, is an act of resistance.

The Crow Doesn’t Leave

There’s no magic wand where one day your PTSD is gone. You don’t just wake up healed, whole, untouched by what carved its marks into you. Healing isn’t a finish line or a tidy before-and-after. No—healing is a journey made of forward steps and backward ones. It’s a dance you didn’t ask to learn, and after a while, dancing becomes exhausting.

Last night, I was triggered.

Panic rose fast, sharp and suffocating. It gripped my throat, curled around my lungs, and settled on my chest with the weight of an anvil. Every breath felt earned. Every second stretched thin. My body reacted before my mind could reason, as if danger still lived in the room with me.

I wanted to scream. Instead, I bit my lips and tongue, holding back the sobs, trying to stay quiet, trying to stay contained. I focused on my breathing like I’ve been taught—counting, grounding, reaching for the tools I’ve gathered over years of trying to survive myself. But the fear kept tightening, panic drowning out logic, memory overpowering the present.

Eventually, the urge came—the familiar, shame-laced instinct to hurt myself just enough to snap back into focus. To feel something I could control. To anchor myself in pain instead of terror. And even knowing why that urge exists didn’t make it disappear.

In those moments, the old voices came rushing in too.

You’re weak.

You should be past this by now.

You’re failing at healing.

I felt worthless. Like a failure. Like all the work I’ve done—therapy, reflection, growth—meant nothing because here I was again, shaking, unraveling, exhausted by my own nervous system.

This is where the Crow appears.

The Crow is not gentle reassurance or blind optimism. The Crow is witness. It perches in the dark and does not flinch. It knows what survival looks like up close. It reminds me that naming the storm is not the same as being consumed by it.

And the Flame—quiet, stubborn, flickering low in my chest—did not go out. Even under the weight of panic, even when fear pressed hard against my ribs, the Flame remained. Not roaring. Not triumphant. Just alive.

Healing doesn’t mean you never get triggered again. It means you learn how to sit beside the ashes without setting yourself on fire. It means you learn when to let the Crow keep watch while you rest. It means trusting that a small Flame is still enough light to find your way back to yourself.

Some nights, healing looks like progress and clarity and peace.

Other nights, it looks like sitting on the floor, breath shallow, heart racing, whispering I am safe, I am here, this will pass.

Both are part of the journey.

If you’re reading this and it feels familiar—if your body still remembers things your mind wishes it could forget—you are not broken. You are not weak. You are not failing.

You are a survivor carrying a watchful Crow and a living Flame.

And even when the dance is exhausting, even when you stumble backward, the Flame still burns—and the Crow does not leave.

🖤🔥

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.

🖤🔥

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.

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.