empowerment – Page 6 – Crow and Flame

What Healing Looks Like On a Tuesday

What Healing Looks Like on a Tuesday

Healing doesn’t always look like light breaking through clouds.

Sometimes, it looks like dishes piled in the sink.

Like scrolling through messages you don’t have the energy to answer.

Like waking up with that familiar ache — not of injury, but of existence.

Healing, on a Tuesday, is not a grand revelation.

It’s the decision to stand when everything in you wants to sink back into bed.

It’s tying your hair up, pulling on yesterday’s hoodie,

and whispering, “I’m still here.”

Sometimes that’s the bravest prayer you’ll ever say.

I used to think recovery meant becoming unbroken —

shiny, healed, whole.

Now I understand it’s more like kintsugi,

the Japanese art of mending cracks with gold —

except some days, the glue hasn’t set yet,

and the pieces are still trembling in my hands.

Even so, I keep trying.

That’s what Tuesday asks of me: not perfection, but presence.

I brew coffee and hold the mug close,

inhaling warmth like it’s proof that something can still comfort me.

The crow outside hops along the fence,

head cocked as if to say,

“You’re doing fine, even if it doesn’t look like it.”

He doesn’t demand flight. He just perches —

steady in the ordinary wind.

There are still moments when shame creeps in.

When my reflection feels like a stranger,

when old thoughts whisper that I should be farther along by now.

But healing doesn’t follow a timeline.

It’s circular, tidal.

Some days I am strong enough to face the storm,

and others, I am the shore, simply letting the waves arrive and retreat.

By evening, I might find a small sliver of peace —

a clean sink, a song that doesn’t hurt to hear,

a laugh that escapes unexpectedly.

Tiny signs that the world hasn’t stopped turning,

that maybe I haven’t either.

So, no — healing doesn’t always look radiant.

It looks like messy hair and trying again.

It looks like tears drying mid-sentence.

It looks like silence that doesn’t sting as much as it used to.

It looks like this Tuesday —

ordinary, imperfect, alive.

🖤 Reflection for Readers

What does your version of “Tuesday healing” look like? Where do you notice quiet progress in the mundane? Can you let yourself be a work in progress — beautiful even when unfinished?

The Lies I Told to Survive

I am a liar.

But my lies were never born of malice —

they were born of fire.

When the world I built turned to smoke,

when the man I called husband became a ghost of everything I feared,

shame descended like nightfall.

I could not stay.

So I ran — carrying only the echo of what I used to be.

A house emptied, a name hollowed.

I left pieces of myself scattered behind me like feathers torn loose in flight.

I told myself I was fine.

I told others I was healing.

But the truth?

I was splitting — into the girl who smiled and the woman who disappeared.

I lived in fragments,

drifting between hunger and release,

between the body I punished and the silence I worshiped.

Dissociation became a sanctuary where I didn’t have to feel the weight of my own existence.

Every lie was a lullaby to the frightened creature inside me.

“I’m okay.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“I don’t need help.”

They were spells — not to deceive, but to survive.

A way to stay breathing in a world that no longer felt safe.

And still, somewhere within the wreckage,

the crow watched.

Silent.

Patient.

Waiting for the truth to rise from the ash.

Because it always does.

Even lies burn out eventually — and what remains is the ember of what’s real.

When I began to speak again,

it wasn’t confession — it was resurrection.

Each truth was a spark:

a whispered remembering of the girl who had been silenced by shame.

I saw her — trembling, haunted, still clutching the remnants of her story —

and I did not turn away.

I forgave her.

She lied because she loved herself enough to survive the unbearable.

She lied because the truth was too heavy to hold alone.

Now, I tell her she can rest.

That she doesn’t have to run.

That the flame she feared would consume her

was always meant to forge her instead.

I am a liar.

I was a liar.

But the truth is this:

every lie I told was a bridge across darkness —

and I made it to the other side.

🖤 Reflection for Readers

What lies have you told that once kept you safe? Can you honor the part of you that lied as a survivor, not a sinner? What truth is flickering beneath your own ashes, waiting to be spoken?

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?

From Fear to Flow: How Mixed Martial Arts Taught Me Presence and Power

When I first started private self-defense lessons, I wasn’t chasing confidence — I was running from fear. I wanted to know that if I were ever in danger, I wouldn’t freeze. I wanted to stop feeling small, stop replaying all the moments in life where I felt powerless. Those first few lessons were awkward and uncomfortable — my body stiff, my mind racing. But something inside me shifted each time I threw a punch, each time I learned to move instead of shrink back.

At first, it was about survival.

Now, it’s become about transformation.

Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) is far more than what I imagined. It isn’t just kicks, punches, or grappling. It’s a language — a conversation between breath, balance, and intention. The more I train, the more I realize that MMA is a form of mindfulness in motion.

Each strike begins and ends with the breath.

Each movement demands awareness — of my body’s position, my center of gravity, the space between me and my opponent. It’s not aggression that fuels it, but focus. It’s not chaos, but rhythm.

In class, we drill fundamentals — jabs, crosses, kicks, sprawls — but what I’m really learning is discipline. I’m learning how to stay calm under pressure, how to respond rather than react, how to ground myself in the present moment even when my heart is racing. The mats have become my meditation space.

Somewhere between the sweat and the repetition, I began to understand that MMA mirrors life. We’re all thrown off balance sometimes. We all take unexpected hits. But what matters most is learning how to recover — to breathe, adjust, and move forward again.

Training alongside others has also reshaped my understanding of strength. There’s a shared respect in the dojo — for effort, for vulnerability, for showing up even when it’s hard. Everyone remembers what it felt like to be new, to be afraid, to question their own power. But with time, the body starts to remember. You learn to trust yourself. You start to feel that strength doesn’t just live in your muscles — it’s born from your focus, your persistence, your breath.

Now, I still take private lessons, but I also step onto the mat for group MMA classes every week. What began as self-defense has become self-discovery. I’m not just learning how to protect myself — I’m learning how to be fully in myself.

The crow, for me, symbolizes this transformation. It’s the creature that moves between worlds — dark and light, sky and earth. Like the crow, I’m learning to hold both strength and softness, to fight when I must but also to find stillness amid the movement.

MMA taught me that empowerment isn’t about domination — it’s about awareness. It’s about breathing through fear, meeting challenge with presence, and finding grace in the fight.

Feathered Breath: A Guided Meditation to Calm

Intro: Finding Stillness in the Storm

Healing isn’t always grand or visible. Sometimes it begins with something as simple as a breath — one conscious inhale after a thousand shallow ones.

When my mind races and my chest tightens, I’ve learned to return to the rhythm of my breath. The body remembers what the heart forgets: that calm can be reclaimed, one breath at a time.

Nature has become my teacher in this — the slow sway of branches, the rise and fall of wings, the way a feather drifts instead of fights the air. Crows, in their quiet vigilance, remind me to watch without judgment. They teach that stillness is not weakness, but awareness.

This guided meditation uses breath and the image of a feather to help you release tension and find balance within the body, mind, and spirit.

Guided Breathing: Feather and Crow

Find a comfortable place to sit.

Let your hands rest in your lap or by your sides.

If you wish, hold a feather — or simply imagine one, light and dark, resting in your palm.

Crow Interlude I: The Watcher

A crow perches nearby, watching in silence.

She does not rush or interfere — only witnesses.

Let her still gaze remind you that you, too, can watch your thoughts come and go without needing to chase them.

Step 1: Grounding the Body

Feel the weight of your body supported by the earth beneath you.

Notice where you are held — by the chair, by the ground, by gravity itself.

Take a slow breath in through your nose for a count of four.

Hold for two.

Exhale gently through your mouth for a count of six.

Repeat this three times.

With each exhale, imagine releasing what no longer serves you — the tightness in your chest, the restless energy, the self-doubt.

Crow Interlude II: The Breath Between Wings

Crow lifts from her branch, wings spreading wide.

Between each downbeat is a pause — a stillness where the air holds her.

Notice the spaces between your breaths —

the quiet resting place that exists between effort and ease.

Step 2: The Feather Exercise

Bring your attention to the feather in your hand or mind’s eye.

Notice its softness, its delicate balance of strength and fragility.

As you inhale, imagine the feather rising — lifted gently by air.

As you exhale, see it floating down, slow and effortless.

Breathe with the feather:

Inhale — rise.

Exhale — release.

Let your breath follow that rhythm, fluid and unforced.

If thoughts come, let them drift like loose down — seen, but not grasped.

Crow Interlude III: The Quiet Return

The crow settles again, feathers folding neatly.

She tilts her head, watching the horizon where the light shifts from shadow to gold.

You have done enough. You have breathed. You have returned.

Step 3: Closing the Practice

Bring your awareness back to your body.

Notice the ease in your breath, the steadiness in your heartbeat.

Place your hand over your heart and whisper softly:

“I am safe. I am grounded. I am free to breathe.”

Take one final slow breath in through the nose and exhale fully through the mouth.

When you are ready, open your eyes.

Reflection

Each breath is a small act of trust — in your body, in the present moment, in your ability to return to yourself. The feather reminds us that we don’t have to force peace; we only have to allow it.

The crow reminds us to witness without fear. To see what is and still choose to stay.

Strong Enough: Standing in the Light

When I was asked to speak at the Strong Enough Women’s Conference, I froze for a moment.

Not out of fear of the crowd or the microphone, but because I realized what I’d have to do — stand up, with my head held high, and tell the truth about what happened to me.

For years, I carried shame like a shadow. It followed me into rooms, whispered behind every new opportunity, and weighed down even moments of joy. Shame doesn’t announce itself; it hides in the pauses — the way your shoulders hunch slightly, the way your voice softens when you talk about your past. It’s the invisible chain that keeps you looking down.

But lately, I’ve been learning to put that weight down.

My healing hasn’t come all at once. It’s been slow, like moss growing on stone — quiet, steady, patient. Nature has been my teacher. When I sit by the river or walk a wooded path, I see how the world holds both beauty and decay without judgment. A fallen tree still becomes a home. A broken shell still shines in the sand. Nothing in nature hides its scars.

That truth has become my freedom.

These days, I spend more time sketching and painting — crows perched on branches, the way light filters through leaves, the shifting color of water at dusk. When my hands are moving, I feel the story release from my body. The brush doesn’t lie; it tells what words sometimes can’t. Art has given me permission to be both the wound and the healing.

Preparing to speak at the conference, I sat outside one evening with my sketchbook open. I drew a crow standing tall on a weathered fence post. Its feathers were ruffled by the wind, but it didn’t move. It just looked out — steady, unafraid.

That’s how I want to stand: not as someone untouched by pain, but as someone who has faced it and kept her wings.

When I step onto that stage, I won’t be carrying shame anymore.

I’ll be carrying strength — forged through silence, sorrow, and creation.

I’m not just strong enough to speak.

I’m free enough to fly.