Tag Archives: meditation

When You Don’t Trust the Good

When Your Nervous System Doesn’t Trust the Good Yet

There’s a strange ache that comes with healing — the way good things can feel unsettling, suspicious, or even dangerous. We talk so much about trauma as fear, pain, and survival, but we rarely talk about the quiet, bewildering truth that safety can be just as triggering as threat when you’ve never known it consistently.

You finally find calm, love, softness, or stability… and instead of relaxing, your body flinches.

Your brain whispers, “This is too good to be true.”

But the truth you were never told:

“Too Good to Be True” Isn’t Intuition — It’s Injury

So many trauma survivors confuse their hypervigilance with intuition. We think the tightening in our chest is a warning. We think the urge to pull away is wisdom. We think the part of us that scans for danger is the same part that “just knows.”

But hypervigilance is not intuition — it’s your nervous system replaying old wounds, trying to protect you from pain that already passed.

Your body learned that good things were temporary, conditional, or secretly unsafe.

Your nervous system learned that relief was always followed by impact.

Your younger self learned to prepare for the drop instead of trust the moment.

So now, when kindness shows up… you wait for the cost.

When someone is consistent… you look for the flaw.

When life feels steady… you start bracing for the break.

This isn’t your gut speaking.

This is your history.

And still — there is hope in noticing it.

Awareness is the first doorway to choosing differently.

The Soft Grief of Realizing You’ve Never Felt Safe Enough to Receive

Healing isn’t just receiving good things.

It’s grieving the version of you who never got to.

The version who clenched through love.

Who apologized for needing softness.

Who swallowed joy before it could take root.

Who learned to earn everything, trust nothing, and carry the weight alone.

There is a gentle, delicate grief in realizing:

I didn’t know how to relax before. My body didn’t understand safe touch or consistent care. I never learned how to let good things land, because I never believed I could keep them.

This grief is tender — not dramatic.

It shows up like a sigh you didn’t know you were holding.

Like tears that fall when someone holds your hand too gently.

Like the surprising ache of finally being met where you always deserved to be met.

It isn’t weakness.

It’s the emotional residue of a life lived armored.

Let yourself feel the loss of what you didn’t receive.

It makes space for what you can receive now.

Reprogramming Your Body to Believe in Calm

Safety isn’t just a mindset — it’s a physiological experience your body has to learn over time.

Here are gentle, practical somatic ways to begin teaching your nervous system that calm isn’t a setup for harm, but a place you’re allowed to live:

1. Grounding: “I am here. I am now.”

Feel your feet on the floor.

Press your palms together.

Notice the weight of your body supported by a chair or bed.

This tells your system: We are in the present. We are not back there anymore.

2. Breath that signals safety, not survival

Slow exhales activate the parasympathetic nervous system.

Try:

Inhale for 4 Exhale for 6 Repeat 6–10 cycles

Longer exhales whisper to the body, We are not in danger.

3. Orienting: Look at your environment

Let your gaze move slowly around the room.

Name what you see.

Let your eyes land on something comforting.

This is how your brain rewires threat perception: through real-time reminders that nothing bad is happening.

4. Co-regulation: Borrowing calm from safe people

If you have someone you trust — a partner, friend, therapist, pet — allow your nervous system to settle in their presence.

Steady breathing.

A warm hug.

Shared silence.

You don’t have to calm yourself by yourself every time. Humans are wired to regulate together.

You Aren’t Wrong for Struggling to Trust the Good

You’re not sabotaging.

You’re not broken.

You’re not incapable of receiving.

Your nervous system is simply doing what it was trained to do — protect you at all costs, even at the expense of joy.

But with awareness, gentleness, and practice, the body can relearn.

It can soften.

It can trust again.

It can rest.

And one day, you’ll notice that the good no longer feels dangerous.

It feels familiar.

It feels possible.

It feels like home.

Guided Meditation- Campfire

Find a comfortable position—sitting or lying down. Let your body settle.

Take a slow, gentle breath in… and out.

Again… in… and out.

Now, imagine yourself stepping into a quiet clearing in the woods.

It’s night, and the air carries that crisp, unmistakable scent of autumn—cool, earthy, clean.

The sky is deep and dark, sprinkled with stars that seem to shimmer with their own soft breath.

In front of you is a campfire.

The flames are low and steady, glowing amber and gold, dancing in slow, deliberate waves.

You walk toward it and feel the warmth reach you before you even sit down.

Choose a place close enough to feel comforted, far enough to feel safe.

You settle in.

The ground beneath you is cool, the air just a hint cold on your cheeks,

but the fire casts a gentle blanket of warmth over your front side.

Breathe into that contrast—everything balanced, everything in harmony.

Listen.

There’s the soft crackle of wood, each pop like a tiny spark of life.

A log shifts, glowing deeper, and the fire responds with a warm sigh.

The wind moves through the trees, slow and hushed, as if the whole forest is exhaling with you.

Breathing in…

you inhale the scent of burning cedar and fallen leaves.

Breathing out…

you release whatever weight you brought with you tonight.

Feel your shoulders drop.

Feel your jaw soften.

Feel the muscles around your eyes ease.

Let your belly expand naturally with each breath—no forcing, no striving.

Above you, a leaf drifts down, landing near your foot.

You notice its shape, its faded color, its edges curled from the season’s chill.

Let it remind you: it is natural to change.

It is natural to let go.

It is natural to rest.

The fire glows brighter for a moment,

as if it recognizes you—your tiredness, your effort, your bravery.

It doesn’t ask anything of you.

It simply burns, offering warmth without demand.

Let yourself mirror that simplicity.

Nothing to solve right now.

Nothing to prove.

Just the quiet presence of your breath

and the steady heartbeat of the fire.

Take another slow inhale…

and exhale even slower.

Feel the peace of this moment settle into you, like warm embers beneath your ribs.

Let it linger.

Let it stay.

When you’re ready, gently bring awareness back to your body.

Wiggle your fingers, your toes.

Feel whatever surface supports you.

Carry this warmth with you as you return.

It is yours whenever you need it—

this fire, this stillness, this breath.

When the Heart Thinks and the Mind Feels

Earlier today, I was listening to a podcast about the duality of the heart and the brain—how we tend to separate them, as if one is logic and one is emotion, as if they play tug-of-war inside us. But the host mentioned that in many ancient cultures, the divide wasn’t seen as a battle at all. The heart and the brain were partners, each with their own kind of intelligence.

And that lingered with me long after the episode ended.

I thought of the Mayan worldview, how they believed the heart wasn’t just a source of feeling but the very center of consciousness. The heart was where intention lived. It’s where truth spoke first. The brain, meanwhile, was memory, story, pattern, the keeper of vision. You needed both to move through the world with clarity and meaning.

For so long, I lived as if I had to choose.

Be rational. Be emotional. Be guarded. Be open.

Pick one. Stay in the lines. Survive.

Sometimes survival made me all brain—overthinking, controlling, scanning the horizon for danger like a crow perched high above. Other times, trauma cracked me wide open, and I became all heart—raw flame, burning too hot, spilling emotion everywhere because I didn’t know where to place it.

But the longer I sat with that podcast idea, the longer I thought about the Maya, the more I realized:

I was never meant to be one or the other.

None of us are.

The heart holds a kind of knowing that can’t be explained.

The mind holds a kind of feeling that can’t be denied.

And when they work together, life becomes something fuller—less about surviving and more about experiencing.

It mirrors my crow-and-flame symbolism perfectly.

The crow is the brain:

the observer, the analyst, the survivor with sharp eyes and sharper instincts. It sees what others miss. It remembers what others forget. It protects.

The flame is the heart:

the heat, the color, the pulsing impulse to love, to hope, to rise again even after everything falls apart. It burns with truth. It transforms.

Neither is enough alone.

But together?

Together they are a whole human, a complete story, a person who can feel deeply and still make sense of the world, who can see clearly and still allow themselves to open.

The Maya understood that thousands of years ago—that the heart thinks, the mind feels, and the real wisdom is letting both speak, letting both guide.

And today, listening to that podcast, I felt something loosen in me.

Something soften.

Something click.

Maybe I am not too much.

Maybe I am not “conflicted.”

Maybe I am simply human—complex, layered, ancient in my own way.

A crow with vision.

A flame with purpose.

A woman learning how to hold both without apology.

Because the truth is, the heart and the brain were never enemies.

They were always meant to carry the weight together—

two voices, two truths, one life lived with both clarity and fire.

When the Storm Demands to be Felt

There are nights when the ache inside me feels too big for my body —

a storm that rises from somewhere deep,

demanding to be seen, demanding to be felt.

It comes as fire under the skin,

as the whisper of pain that promises focus,

as the thought that maybe, just maybe,

if I could hurt on the outside,

the chaos inside would finally quiet.

It’s not about wanting to disappear.

It’s about wanting to stop spinning, stop spiraling, to anchor myself.

To find something solid,

something real enough to hold on to

when the ground feels like it’s dissolving beneath me.

But I am learning — slowly, tenderly —

that I can survive the storm without letting it swallow me whole.

That control doesn’t come from pain.

It comes from staying.

It comes from breathing.

Urge Surfing — Riding the Wave

The urge comes like a wave — rising high,

crashing through every corner of my chest.

It tells me it will never end.

But it will.

It always does.

So I stand in the surf.

I breathe.

I name it: This is an urge. It will pass.

And I let it roll through me,

knowing I am the ocean too —

vast enough to contain it,

strong enough to wait for the calm.

Breathing Through Panic

When the air thins and my heart claws against my ribs,

I turn to breath — the most ancient lifeline I know.

Inhale — count to four.

Hold — count to four.

Exhale — count to four.

Again and again until the tremor softens.

Until my body remembers that it is safe to stay.

Until I remember that I am not dying —

I am simply feeling.

Distraction and Redirection

When the storm rages too loudly, I shift my focus.

I hold an ice cube until it melts against my palm —

a reminder that sensation can be temporary and gentle.

I wrap myself in a blanket and let it become armor.

I paint or write or move my body through the air,

trying to turn pain into motion, into art, into breath.

I whisper to myself:

You are not the storm. You are the sky that holds it.

Grounding in the Present

When I drift too far, I come back through my senses.

Five things I can see — the light, the shadows, the small mercies.

Four things I can touch — fabric, wood, heartbeat, skin.

Three things I can hear — wind, breath, my name in memory.

Two things I can smell — rain, earth.

One thing I can taste — the salt of survival.

And here I am again.

Alive.

Still here.

There is no shame in the ache that makes you reach for control.

There is no weakness in needing help to stay safe.

If the storm feels too heavy, please reach out —

you do not have to hold it alone.

In the U.S., you can call or text 988,

the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline,

day or night, when the sky feels too dark to stand beneath.

You are made of endurance and breath and light.

You are learning to live through the storm

without letting it define you.

That is not just survival —

that is grace.

Reclaiming Myself

When I moved away from my hometown two years ago, I was terrified. I grieved deeply—grieved the familiar streets that had memorized my footsteps, the faces I once knew by heart, the version of myself I had learned to perform. I was clutching at ghosts of comfort, at dreams and expectations that had long since turned to ash. Still, I tried to breathe life into them, forcing broken pieces into something that resembled belonging. But the harder I tried, the more I crumbled.

I didn’t recognize myself anymore. The girl I once was had vanished beneath layers of survival. Moving away and starting over became the first real act of reclamation—a spark in the dark. It was terrifying, but also quietly defiant.

And like the crow rising from the ruins, I began the long, slow flight back to myself. The crow doesn’t mourn what it leaves behind—it learns to navigate the winds, to trust its wings again. I had to do the same.

Still, the whispers followed me. Those cruel, familiar voices of self-doubt:

You’re being selfish.

No one will like who you are.

You’re childish.

Your dreams are foolish.

You’ll never be good enough.

For a long time, I let them echo. But the flame inside me—flickering, fragile, stubborn—refused to go out.

Because I am good enough. I am more than enough.

It doesn’t matter if one person sees my work, or a million, or none at all. What matters is that I am creating, because creation is what the flame inside me knows how to do. Every word, every brushstroke, every story that rises from the ashes is an offering—a small resurrection.

It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t even have to be understood. It just has to be mine.

The crow within me still carries soot on her feathers, but they shimmer iridescent in the light. The flame still wavers some days, but it burns on—steady, alive, and mine.

And that, in itself, is beautiful.

That, in itself, is freedom.

Grounding In the Season of Change

Autumn invites us to slow down. The air cools, the light shifts, and the trees let go — not with panic, but with trust. This is the season of grounding, of returning to the roots beneath the noise. For those of us who carry both the crow’s shadow and the flame’s fire, grounding becomes a sacred act of balance — a way to honor both the darkness and the light within us.

When the wind inside you begins to howl, when old ghosts stir with the falling leaves, try these autumn-themed grounding practices to come home to yourself again:

1. Touch the Earth

Step outside barefoot or in thick socks, and stand where the leaves have fallen. Feel the soft decay beneath you — the reminder that endings can be gentle. Breathe in the scent of damp earth and let it anchor you. Whisper, I am here. I am safe.

2. The Crow’s Breath

The crow teaches presence — the steady awareness between sky and soil. Breathe in deeply through your nose, feeling the air chill your lungs. Hold for a count of three, then exhale slowly through your mouth, releasing the static. Imagine your breath as wings beating away the noise.

3. Candle and Flame Ritual

Light a candle — something warm and autumnal: cinnamon, clove, amber. Watch the flame dance, alive and steady. Name one thing you are grateful for and one thing you are ready to release. Let the smoke carry it upward, trusting the universe to transform what you no longer need.

4. Gather the Colors

Collect fallen leaves — the reds, the golds, the deep purples that mirror bruised skies at dusk. Arrange them on your table or altar as reminders that even in dying, beauty endures. Each color can become a small prayer: red for strength, gold for joy, brown for peace.

5. Sip Something Warm

Wrap both hands around a mug of tea or cider. Feel the heat against your palms, the steam rising like a quiet offering. Let each sip draw you back to this moment — this breath, this body, this safety.

6. The Crow’s Call (Sound Grounding)

When your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind, mimic the crow’s call out loud. A simple “caw” — sharp, grounding, embodied. It’s okay to laugh. Laughter is grounding too.

7. Write by Firelight

Journal or write by candlelight or a soft lamp. Ask yourself: What am I ready to shed? What am I ready to keep? Let the pen move like a falling leaf, effortless, surrendering.

Autumn teaches us that grounding is not about holding still in fear — it’s about rooting deeply enough to survive change. The crow reminds us to stay aware, watchful, resilient. The flame reminds us to stay warm, alive, and capable of transforming even our pain into light.

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.