mental health – Page 5 – Crow and Flame

The Strength to Be Soft

There was a time when I believed strength meant never needing anyone.

If I could carry it all, hold it all together, and never ask for help — that meant I was strong. If I could keep my voice steady, my smile convincing, my pain buried deep enough that no one could touch it, then I was safe.

I wore control like armor, perfection like a medal of honor. Every detail, every plan, every emotion managed — because if I let go, even for a second, everything might fall apart. I might fall apart.

Hyper-independence became my survival. It wasn’t confidence; it was self-preservation. It was the belief that the only person I could rely on was myself — because depending on others had once led to disappointment, abandonment, pain.

So I learned to be the strong one. The capable one. The one who didn’t flinch, didn’t falter, didn’t cry in public. The one who built her life with her own hands, brick by brick, wall by wall.

But here’s what I know now:

Walls keep you safe, but they also keep you lonely.

Control feels like protection until it becomes isolation.

Perfection feels like purpose until it becomes a prison.

Metal becomes strong not by resisting flame but by being reshaped within it. There’s a difference between steel that’s brittle and steel that’s tempered. One breaks under pressure. The other bends, flexes, adapts — because it’s been through the fire and come out changed.

I was brittle for years. I mistook my rigidity for strength. I thought if I just held on tighter, I wouldn’t break. But life, in its mercy, has a way of teaching softness through breaking us open.

Grief cracked me.

Loss hollowed me.

Love — real love — softened me.

And in that softening, I began to see that what I once called weakness was actually the most courageous act of all: to stay open, to stay kind, to let myself be seen without the armor.

The crow teaches this too. She is clever and resilient — but she also knows when to soar and when to rest. She doesn’t spend her life gripping the branch in fear of falling. She trusts her wings. She knows that flight isn’t control; it’s surrender to the wind.

I am learning that kind of trust.

To let life move me instead of trying to hold it still.

To believe that I can bend and not break.

To accept that sometimes, the truest strength is in the softening.

Softness, I’ve realized, is not the absence of pain — it’s the willingness to feel it. It’s the decision to stay human when it would be easier to harden. It’s crying when you need to. It’s saying “I can’t do this alone” and believing that doesn’t make you weak.

It takes strength to unclench your fists.

To stop fighting the world long enough to let it touch you.

To stop striving for perfection and start reaching for peace.

It takes strength to stay soft when you have every reason not to be.

There are days I still catch myself slipping back into old habits — reaching for control when I’m scared, hiding behind independence when I feel small. My instinct is still to fix, to manage, to perfect. But now I catch it. I breathe. I remind myself that I am safe even when I’m not in control.

I remind myself that survival taught me how to be strong — but healing is teaching me how to be soft.

There’s a quiet bravery in that shift. A surrender that isn’t giving up, but giving in — to trust, to love, to life itself.

Softness doesn’t mean I no longer have boundaries. It means I honor them with compassion instead of fear. It doesn’t mean I let everyone in. It means I let myself out — out of the armor, out of the constant vigilance, out of the illusion that I must carry everything alone.

Today, the flame that once burned me now refines me. The crow still perches on the edge of that heat, black feathers gleaming in the firelight, watching as I melt down what no longer serves me.

And when I emerge, I am not brittle anymore. I am tempered.

Soft, but unbreakable.

Gentle, but fierce.

Open, but grounded.

Because the strength it takes to stay soft — after everything that tried to harden you — is the kind of strength that builds worlds, that heals hearts, that transforms survival into living.

It is the strength that doesn’t shout, but breathes.

Doesn’t command, but trusts.

Doesn’t fight to prove it’s strong — because it already knows it is.

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.

Choosing Joy

This season, I’ve been reflecting on how healing doesn’t always look like strength or certainty. Sometimes, it looks like softness — like finally allowing yourself to feel joy without fear, to sit in the light without waiting for the dark to return. This piece is about that shift, about learning to receive love and happiness as deeply as I once held pain.

I have cried happy tears more this year than ever in my life.

Not because everything finally made sense, but because I stopped demanding that it had to.

Because I let myself feel the warmth without flinching, the softness without suspicion.

Because for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to believe that I deserve love, joy, and peace — not someday, but now.

For so many years, my tears were born from pain. They carved quiet rivers through nights that felt endless. I learned to brace for loss, to expect the world to take before it gave. But something shifted in me — slowly, gently, almost imperceptibly — like dawn creeping across a horizon that had forgotten the sun.

The crow in me remembers the dark — the weight of survival, the silence after endings, the ache of dreams buried before their time. She is watchful, wise, unafraid to face the shadows. But beside her burns the flame — wild and tender — reminding me that light has always lived inside me. That even in the ruins, beauty still rises.

This year, I let that light touch me.

I didn’t turn away. I didn’t say I was fine and swallow the joy before it could bloom. I let it fill me — awkwardly at first, like learning a new language of hope. I laughed until tears came, and I didn’t apologize for it. I stood in moments of love, and instead of waiting for the hurt, I stayed.

These happy tears are not fragile.

They are proof of healing, proof that my heart has found its rhythm again.

Proof that I can sit inside a moment of goodness and not shrink from it.

The crow gathers what was lost.

The flame illuminates what remains.

And I sit between them — open, grateful, alive — learning that joy, too, can be sacred.

Because I have cried happy tears more this year than ever in my life,

and each one feels like coming home

to the part of me that finally believes

I was always worthy of the light.

Dear Future Me,

I want you to remember this.

That after everything — the storms, the silence, the ache that hollowed you out — you found your way back.

Even when the world blurred and the map of your life seemed written in disappearing ink, you kept walking.

It took years.

It took tears that fell quietly in the dark and mornings when getting out of bed felt like carrying the weight of the sky.

But you did it. You came home to yourself.

There was a time when you forgot what light felt like,

when laughter didn’t reach your eyes,

when you questioned if healing was even meant for you.

But slowly, piece by piece, you remembered.

You began gathering the fragments — the forgotten parts, the ones buried under shame or fear —

and you whispered to each one: you still belong to me.

You found parts of yourself in art — in brushstrokes and ink, in the way colors bled together and still made something beautiful.

You found yourself in nature — in the steady rhythm of the wind, in the patience of trees that refused to rush their growing,

in the way sunlight filtered through leaves like forgiveness.

You began to see yourself reflected there —

not broken, not ruined — but becoming.

You learned that finding your way back wasn’t about returning to who you once were,

but about becoming who you were always meant to be.

You softened in places that once felt hardened,

you grew roots where you once only ran,

and you bloomed quietly, not because life suddenly became easy,

but because you stopped abandoning yourself.

You look at your scars now — the visible and the hidden — and you love who you are, even with them.

Especially with them.

They are proof of the journey, of how many times you’ve been shattered and still chosen to rebuild.

You learned that healing isn’t erasing the past; it’s carrying it gently,

like a story that made you who you are.

So when life feels heavy again, when the noise drowns out your heartbeat —

pause.

Take a breath.

Remember how you survived the impossible.

Remember how the ashes became soil for your roots.

Remember how you found your way back — not all at once, not perfectly, but honestly.

You found your way back to you.

And you love her now — the whole, wild, scarred, radiant truth of who you are.

More Than I Could Handle

They say, “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.”

They say, “Your struggles make you stronger.”

But I’m here to tell you — it was more than I could handle.

I could not keep going.

There came a point where my mind, my body, and my spirit fractured under the weight of it all.

My brain did what it had to do to keep me alive — it built walls, it buried memories, it softened edges I wasn’t ready to see.

My stomach rebelled, my nerves fired nonstop, my body screamed the words I couldn’t find.

I disassociated, floating somewhere between reality and oblivion, because existing in my body felt unbearable.

This wasn’t strength. It was survival.

And survival is not pretty or graceful or something that can be tied up in a neat little saying about resilience.

It was more than I could handle — and that doesn’t make me weak.

It makes me human.

The truth is, our minds and bodies are wired to protect us when the pain becomes too much.

Sometimes we shatter so that we can be rebuilt differently, safely, slowly.

Sometimes survival is the bravest thing we do.

People love to romanticize pain, to dress it up with purpose — as if every scar must be redeemed with wisdom, every heartbreak rewarded with strength.

But some things just hurt.

Some things simply are.

And we don’t owe anyone a story of strength to justify our suffering.

Am I stronger because of it?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Strength isn’t always the lesson.

Sometimes the lesson is that I deserved better.

Sometimes the lesson is that I was already enough before the breaking.

But this much I know for certain:

I survived.

My survival rate for hard days is currently one hundred percent.

And that, for now, is enough.

Takeaway:

You don’t have to find meaning in every wound.

You don’t have to be stronger because of what hurt you.

Sometimes, surviving is the miracle.

And today, that’s worth honoring.

The Mirror and the Flame

I was at the gym, mid-set, breath trembling, body alive with effort. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror — just a flicker of movement, a flash of reflection — and suddenly, the world tilted.

Panic bloomed in my chest, wild and suffocating. My pulse thundered in my ears as my mind spun stories faster than my breath could catch them. You’re going to fall. The equipment will break. You don’t belong here.

It was absurd, really. That machine had held hundreds of bodies — bigger, smaller, taller, stronger. It had held me before. But in that moment, the old ghosts stirred. My mind decided to be cruel.

It distorted my reflection into something monstrous, a funhouse version of myself, larger than life yet hollow inside. The mirror became a weapon, each glance slicing away at my confidence.

Sometimes, I look in the mirror and I see truth — strength carved into my muscles, resilience in the set of my jaw, a woman who has fought her way through shadow after shadow. But other times, that old narrative creeps back in, whispering poison: You’re too much. You take up too much space. You don’t fit.

It’s like a crow landing on my shoulder — familiar, unwelcome, persistent. I’ve learned not to swat it away too quickly, but to listen. Because beneath its cawing there’s usually something deeper: fear, shame, memory. The echoes of all the years I believed I wasn’t enough.

So I breathe. I place my hand over my chest and feel the flame there — steady, defiant, alive. It flickers in the dark spaces of my doubt, reminding me that I’ve walked through worse fires and emerged whole.

The panic eases when I remember what is real:

My body is not my enemy.

The mirror is not my judge.

The crow is not my truth — only my reminder to return to it.

Healing isn’t the absence of distortion; it’s the courage to see beyond it.

It’s meeting your reflection with softness, even when your mind tries to twist the image.

It’s whispering back to the voice that says you don’t belong here:

I do. I am here. I am enough.

And when I leave the gym, sweat-slick and shaky, I carry that flame with me — a quiet defiance against every lie that ever tried to shrink me.

Because I am not a distortion.

I am not the cruel whisper.

I am the crow’s song and the steady flame —

reborn again and again,

learning, always,

to see myself clearly.

Chasing Ghosts of a Life That Was Never Mine

I realize now that I was chasing something that never existed — a dream stitched together from expectations, comparisons, and the illusion of what I thought happiness should look like. I chased it so hard, so blindly, that I lost sight of the parts of me that once felt alive and true. In my pursuit of a life that was never meant for me, I dropped the pieces of myself that felt most like home — the laughter, the curiosity, the quiet knowing of who I was before the world told me who I should be.

I became consumed with the pursuit. Every milestone I didn’t reach felt like failure, every detour like proof that I wasn’t enough. I built my identity around what I thought I should be instead of who I was. And the more I reached for that illusion, the more I disappeared.

It’s strange how easy it is to lose yourself quietly. Not all at once, but in small, almost unnoticeable ways. A compromise here, a silenced truth there. You start to trade authenticity for acceptance, and before long you’re living a life that doesn’t even fit your own skin.

When I finally stopped running, there was a kind of grief that came with it — grief for the person I’d been pretending to be, and grief for the person I’d abandoned along the way. But there was also relief. The kind that comes when you finally exhale after holding your breath for years.

I’m learning now that coming home to yourself isn’t always graceful. It’s messy and uncertain. It means sitting with your own truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. It means forgiving the version of you that didn’t know better, and choosing, day by day, to pick up the pieces you once left behind.

There’s a quiet strength in that — in reclaiming what you lost, even when you were the one who let it go.

Because sometimes, healing isn’t about chasing the life you thought you wanted.

It’s about remembering the life that was meant for you all along.

Even my coffee tastes flat

This morning, I woke up wrapped in gray.

Not darkness — just that dull, colorless fog that drapes itself across my thoughts. Nothing feels quite right or wrong, just muted. Blah.

Even the coffee tastes like static. The sunlight barely touches me. My body moves, but my spirit lags behind, watching from a distance. There’s no rush of inspiration, no surge of purpose — only the soft hum of going through the motions.

It’s not sadness exactly. It’s more like the quiet between breaths, the pause between endings and beginnings. The crow within me — that wild, watchful part that usually soars through storms — feels grounded, wings heavy, feathers damp with apathy. It’s not that I’ve forgotten how to fly. It’s just that for now, the sky feels too far away.

The flame, too, flickers low. Not extinguished, just small — a single ember buried beneath the ashes of fatigue and routine. I used to panic when the light dimmed, as if my worth depended on my fire staying bright. But now I know: even embers still burn. Even in the quiet, there’s life waiting to rise again.

So I let the crow rest. I let the flame breathe.

I stop demanding that motivation appear like magic.

Instead, I make room for stillness — the kind that heals instead of hides.

Maybe today is about the simplest things:

a shower that rinses away yesterday’s noise,

a deep breath that reminds me I’m still here,

a cup of tea sipped slowly, like a peace offering to myself.

I used to think I had to earn my light.

Now I know it’s still mine, even when it’s dim.

The crow will fly again when the wind shifts.

The flame will rise when it’s ready.

And until then, I will honor the in-between —

the gray days that ask nothing of me but presence.

Because even the quiet carries healing.

Even the dull days are sacred.

Coping With Stress

Coping with Stress: Grounding Yourself When the World Feels Heavy

Stress doesn’t always come crashing in. Sometimes it creeps — a slow tightening of your chest, the hum of anxious thoughts you can’t quiet, the sense that you might shatter if one more thing goes wrong.

I’ve lived in that space — the one where you feel pulled between survival and surrender. But I’ve learned that even in chaos, there are ways to come home to yourself. Coping isn’t about escaping; it’s about returning.

Here are some of the grounding tools that help me find my center when life begins to tilt:

1. The Five Senses Grounding Technique

When your thoughts spiral, return to your senses — the things that root you in now.

5 things you can see: notice color, shape, light, movement. 4 things you can touch: feel texture, weight, warmth. 3 things you can hear: distant sounds, your breath, rustling leaves. 2 things you can smell: coffee, candle smoke, rain in the air. 1 thing you can taste: a sip of water, mint, tea.

It seems simple, but it works. It’s a small ritual of presence, a way to remind your body: we are here, we are safe.

2. Name Five

When stress feels like static, I use “Name Five” to pull myself out of the fog.

Name five things in the room, or five people you love, or five reasons you’ve made it this far.

It doesn’t have to be profound — just honest.

Each name is a thread that ties you back to reality, back to meaning.

3. The Temperature Reset

If your heart races or panic starts to bloom, use temperature to ground yourself.

Hold an ice cube. Splash cool water on your face. Step outside and breathe in cold air.

This helps calm your body’s stress response — a physical signal to your nervous system that you are not in danger anymore.

4. Box Breathing

When your thoughts are running wild, control what you can — your breath.

Inhale for 4 counts, hold for 4, exhale for 4, hold for 4.

Repeat.

It’s called box breathing — a steady rhythm that slows your heartbeat and clears the static.

You can do it anywhere — in traffic, in bed, in the middle of a storm.

5. Move Gently

When stress lives in your body, movement is medicine.

Stretch your arms overhead. Roll your shoulders. Go for a walk.

Or move in bigger ways — dance, punch a bag, run until the noise in your head softens into breath.

Movement tells your body that energy has somewhere to go.

6. Anchor Words

Sometimes I repeat simple phrases under my breath:

“I am safe.”

“I am here.”

“This feeling will pass.”

Mantras can become anchors — soft, steady reminders that you are more than the moment you’re in.

7. Comfort Object

Keep something small with you — a smooth stone, a piece of jewelry, a token that feels like home.

Touching it can remind you that you’re not lost; you’re tethered.

8. The Crow and Flame Reminder

In my own practice, I imagine the crow — dark, watchful, resilient — perched within me, guiding me to awareness.

And the flame — small, fierce, enduring — burning even in the wind.

Together, they remind me: I can carry my darkness and my light.

That balance is coping. It’s strength.

When Stress Returns (and It Always Does)

You won’t always get it perfect. Some days you’ll forget the tools, the breath, the grounding.

But that’s okay.

The work isn’t to never feel stress — it’s to meet it differently.

With awareness. With compassion. With a hand on your heart whispering, “You’re okay. You’re trying. You’re still here.”

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.