meditation – Crow and Flame

Dear 2026 Me,

I hope you remember this moment—the quiet pause between who you’ve been and who you’re becoming.

This year, I don’t want to chase perfection.

I don’t want to prove my worth through exhaustion.

I don’t want to shrink, rush, or disappear into everyone else’s needs.

In this new year, I want to love myself more.

Not in loud declarations or sudden transformations, but in small, consistent ways. I want to love myself in the choices I make, the boundaries I keep, and the grace I extend when I stumble.

I want to invest in myself.

That means tending to my mental health even when it’s uncomfortable. Listening when my body asks for rest instead of pushing through out of habit. Making space for my soul to breathe, create, and feel without apology.

I want to stop waiting for permission to take up space in my own life.

I want to trust myself more—to believe that my voice matters, that my dreams are worth the effort, and that showing up imperfectly is still showing up.

There will be days I fall back into old patterns. Days when doubt is louder than hope. When fear tries to convince me that staying small is safer. On those days, I hope you remember this promise: we are learning, not failing.

I hope you are kinder to yourself than you were before.

I hope you celebrate growth instead of only noticing what’s left to heal.

I hope you protect your peace as fiercely as you once protected everyone else.

Dear 2026 me, if you’re reading this from a place of strength, don’t forget how hard you worked to get here. And if you’re reading this from a place of struggle, remember—you were never meant to have it all figured out.

Just keep choosing yourself.

Again and again.

With hope,

Your past self who finally decided she was worth the investment.

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.

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.

🖤🔥🖤

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.

This Christmas

Today is Christmas.

The world says this day should glow. It should be full of laughter and warmth and carefully curated joy. It should look a certain way. Feel a certain way. Mean something tidy and beautiful.

But the truth is quieter, and often heavier.

For many of us, Christmas doesn’t arrive gently. It comes carrying memory. Old wounds. Empty chairs. Family dynamics that tighten the chest before the door even opens. The weight of trying to be present when the nervous system is already overwhelmed.

If today feels like too much, you are not imagining it.

If your body feels tired before the day has even begun, there is a reason.

If joy feels distant or complicated, you are not failing.

The crow understands this season.

It knows how to watch from the edges.

How to conserve energy.

How to survive without apology.

And the flame—

The flame doesn’t demand brilliance today.

It doesn’t ask you to burn bright or light up the room.

It only asks that you protect the ember.

Christmas does not require performance.

You do not owe anyone cheer, gratitude, forgiveness, or healing today.

You do not have to gather, explain, revisit, or reopen old doors.

You do not have to make meaning out of pain just because the calendar says it’s a holy day.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is choose softness in a world that expects spectacle.

So let today be what it is.

Let it be quiet if it needs to be quiet.

Let it be messy if it needs to be messy.

Let it be heavy without trying to turn it into something else.

If you find a moment of warmth, receive it without pressure to make it last.

If you need to step away, step away without guilt.

If all you can manage is breathing, resting, and getting through the hours—know that this, too, is enough.

Today is Christmas.

And Crow and Flame stands with the tired, the healing, the grieving, and the quietly surviving.

May your boundaries hold.

May your nervous system find small moments of ease.

May your ember remain safe.

You are not doing this day wrong.

You are doing the best you can with what you’re carrying.

And that is worthy.

Even Good Things Become Heavy

I’ve had a rough time lately.

Not because things are bad—

but because there is so much.

I’ve added a lot to my plate, and all of it is meaningful.

Art and writing.

Community service.

Creative expression that feels like oxygen.

These are the things that feed my soul.

And yet—layered on top of work deadlines, holiday expectations, disrupted routines, and time off that never quite feels like rest—I’m struggling to balance it all.

Mentally, I’m exhausted.

I notice myself checking out.

My focus drifts.

My thoughts feel foggy and scattered, like too many browser tabs open at once.

I want to be fully present—for my work, for the people I care about, for the causes I believe in—but lately I feel stretched thin, unable to give everything and everyone the attention I think I should.

And the hardest truth to admit?

I’m not giving myself the attention I need.

There’s a quiet pressure that comes with doing things you love.

A belief that because it’s meaningful, it shouldn’t feel heavy.

That gratitude should cancel out exhaustion.

But even good things take energy.

Even soul-aligned work requires tending to the body and mind carrying it.

So this is me pausing.

Naming the weight without judgment.

Letting go of the idea that I have to hold everything perfectly.

Crow & Flame has always been about honoring the whole truth—

the fire of creation and the need for rest,

the urge to give and the necessity of receiving.

Maybe this season isn’t about doing more.

Maybe it’s about doing less—more slowly, more intentionally, with more compassion.

If you’re feeling this too—overwhelmed by blessings, tired from carrying too much, quietly running on empty—know this:

You’re not failing.

You’re human.

And rest is not a reward you earn—it’s a requirement.

For now, I’m choosing to tend the flame instead of feeding the fire.

That’s enough.

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.

🖤🔥

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.

🖤🔥