mental health – Page 6 – Crow and Flame

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.

Haunted by My Own Ghosts

This October, when the air turns colder and the veil feels thinner, I can feel the ghosts stirring — not the kind that haunt forgotten houses, but the ones that haunt me.

They move quietly beneath my skin,

in the hollow between heartbeats,

in the rooms of my body where old pain still lingers like dust.

I am the house,

and she — the younger me — is the ghost.

The child who learned silence before safety,

who mistook invisibility for protection.

She still walks these halls, barefoot and trembling,

tracing her fingers along cracked walls of memory,

searching for someone to see her.

For years I tried to keep the doors closed.

I painted over the stains, lit candles, pretended the air didn’t hum with sorrow.

I thought if I kept moving forward, the past would stay buried.

But ghosts are clever — they find their way through the smallest fractures.

They live in the tone of my voice,

in the way my shoulders tighten when someone raises theirs,

in the tremor that visits my hands when I remember too much.

The haunting isn’t always loud — sometimes it’s a whisper.

A flicker of shame,

a shadow that passes when I catch my reflection.

A reminder of the girl I left behind but never really freed.

Lately, I’ve begun the slow, sacred work of exorcism —

not the violent casting-out I once imagined,

but the gentler ritual of acknowledgment.

I light the flame and let it burn.

I call her forward,

meet her gaze,

and say, I remember you. You are allowed to rest.

And in that moment, I feel her grief — not as a curse, but as a communion.

The crow in me — dark-winged and watchful — caws softly in recognition.

She has carried the bones of my sorrow long enough,

and she knows it’s time to lay them down.

The flame that once devoured now purifies.

It burns through the shame,

through the layers of silence and survival,

leaving only truth —

raw, glowing, alive.

Healing is not the absence of ghosts.

It’s the slow learning to walk beside them,

to listen when they speak,

to honor the ashes and the embers both.

I am not haunted because I am broken.

I am haunted because I am remembering.

And with each breath, each small act of love for myself,

I am reclaiming the house,

room by room,

light by trembling light.

The crow perches on my shoulder now,

not as an omen,

but as a witness.

The flame flickers at my fingertips — not to destroy,

but to guide me home.

Tuesday Morning Musings

Hold Your Head High

I used to walk with my head down, and sometimes still do when I forget.

It wasn’t just shyness — it was survival. I thought that if people saw me, really saw me, they’d glimpse the storm behind my eyes: the intrusive thoughts, the quiet self-loathing, the shame that curled around my ribs like a vice. They’d see the girl who struggled with an eating disorder, who was assaulted and turned blame inward, who used pain to feel in control, who mistook punishment for penance. They’d see the woman who endured domestic violence and learned to move softly, to take up as little space as possible — as if silence could make her safe.

For so long, I believed my struggles made me less.

Less deserving of tenderness, less worthy of being seen.

So I folded in on myself. I apologized with my posture. I kept my eyes on the ground, convinced that invisibility was protection.

But healing — real healing — is the slow act of learning that your scars do not make you unworthy; they make you real. It’s understanding that the parts of you you’ve hidden are not too much, but precisely the proof that you’ve survived.

It doesn’t happen all at once. Some days I still catch my reflection and see the ghost of the girl who flinched at her own shadow. Some mornings my head dips low before I remember who I’ve become. But then I breathe, lift my chin, and remind myself:

I have walked through things that tried to erase me.

I have been buried and still found the strength to bloom.

I have earned my space here.

So today, start with your head held high.

Walk into the world like someone who has overcome, because you have.

You are not less because of your challenges — you are more.

More compassionate, more aware, more radiant because you know the cost of light.

The world doesn’t need you smaller.

It needs the full truth of you — brave, imperfect, human, and healing.

What would it look like for you to hold your head high today — not because everything is perfect, but because you’ve survived enough to know you deserve to be seen?

90 Days of Effort

They say it takes ninety days of consistent effort to rewire the brain. Ninety days of showing up, of repeating a new pattern until the old one begins to fade — not erased, but softened, rewritten.

And I can’t stop thinking about that.

Because what if — instead of giving all our energy away to everyone else, all our care and attention and time — we turned some of it inward? What if for ninety days, we made ourselves a quiet promise: to show up with love, with nourishment, with gentleness?

What if we treated ourselves like something worth tending to?

We water plants so they don’t wither. We move them to the light so they can thrive. But how often do we leave ourselves in the dark, starving for care, forgetting that our own roots need tending too?

What if for ninety days we made an effort to love ourselves in action — not just in theory?

To feed our bodies with intention.

To move not as punishment, but as gratitude for the miracle of motion.

To speak kindly to the reflection in the mirror.

To rest without guilt, to breathe without apology.

Ninety days. That’s all it takes for the brain to begin to believe something new.

To build a pathway toward self-respect, self-compassion, and healing.

Imagine who we could become if we offered ourselves the same dedication we so freely give to others. Imagine what might bloom if we stopped waiting for permission to care for ourselves.

Even the wildest garden needs tending. Even the most resilient plant wilts when it’s ignored.

So here’s the challenge — not the harsh, perfectionist kind, but a soft, intentional one:

Make the effort. Water yourself. Step into the light.

For ninety days, choose yourself again and again until it feels natural, until it feels like home.

Because growth doesn’t happen in grand gestures — it happens in daily choices, in quiet persistence, in showing up when no one’s watching.

In ninety days, you might not become someone entirely new.

But you just might become someone who finally remembers how to love themselves.

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.

Atlas of Sadness: Crow Reflections on the Weight We Carry

Intro: The Heavy Days

There are mornings when the simple act of existing feels like too much.

The alarm rings, sunlight spills across the floor, and still—your body resists. The weight of sadness presses down like gravity, like Atlas holding up the sky.

On those days, even the smallest tasks—getting out of bed, showering, brushing your hair—feel like climbing a mountain made of stone. Depression doesn’t always look like tears; sometimes it’s stillness so thick it swallows sound.

I know that stillness. I’ve lived inside it.

But I’ve also learned that healing isn’t about grand gestures—it’s about tiny acts of defiance.

It’s the decision to open the blinds.

To let sunlight touch your face.

To press your bare feet into the grass, even when your mind whispers that it doesn’t matter.

The Weight of the Sky

Crow sits on the branch of a barren tree, wings tucked close.

The air is heavy, the sky low.

She does not try to lift it—she simply breathes beneath it.

Even the watcher must rest.

The Mundane as Medicine

Depression tells us that there’s no point. That nothing will change. But the truth is, every small act you take in defiance of that voice is change.

When I am at my lowest, I start with the most basic things:

Wash my face. Drink water. Sit in the sunlight, even if I don’t feel its warmth yet.

These are not cures—they’re reminders. Each act says: I am still here.

And sometimes, being here is the bravest thing we can do.

The body often remembers what the spirit forgets.

When I walk outside barefoot, the earth doesn’t ask me to smile or be better—it just holds me. The grass doesn’t judge my unwashed hair or tired eyes. It accepts me exactly as I am. That kind of acceptance, I’ve learned, can be healing too.

The Feather Falls

A single feather drifts to the ground.

It is not a loss—it is a release.

Crow watches it settle, light and slow, and then looks to the horizon.

There is a softness in letting go of what cannot be lifted today.

Learning to Move Again

Some days, movement feels impossible.

But movement doesn’t have to mean running or productivity—it can mean sitting by the window, noticing a breeze, or listening to birds call in the distance.

Depression shrinks the world until it fits inside your chest.

The work of healing is learning to widen it again—one breath, one step, one open window at a time.

If all you did today was get up, you have already won something invisible and enormous.

The Rising

Crow spreads her wings at dusk, shaking off the dust of the day.

She does not soar high tonight—just enough to feel the wind again.

Even the smallest rise is still flight.

Reflection

You do not have to carry the whole sky.

You only have to carry yourself through this day.

Let the light touch your face.

Let the earth hold your feet.

Let the breath return, even if it trembles.

The sadness may not vanish, but you are still here beneath it—alive, breathing, worthy of gentleness.

And that is everything.