nature – 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.

Showing Up for Myself

Last night, panic wrapped itself around my throat and reminded me how easily my body forgets the difference between now and then. My breath shortened. My vision blurred. The room slipped out of focus, and the voices around me became distant, unreachable. Every instinct told me to leave. To run. To apologize for taking up space. To say, I can’t do this.

I’ve listened to that voice before.

It tells me that leaving is safer. That shrinking is easier. That disappearing is kindness—to others and to myself.

But last night, I stayed.

Not because I wasn’t afraid. Not because I suddenly felt strong. I stayed because I recognized the familiar fork in the road: self-protection or self-abandonment. And I’ve learned, slowly and painfully, that they are not the same thing.

Showing up for myself didn’t look heroic. It didn’t look calm or graceful. It looked like shaky breaths and grounding my feet against the floor. It looked like reminding my nervous system, again and again, that I was safe enough. That I was capable enough. That this moment did not get to rewrite my story.

There’s a quiet kind of bravery in staying when everything inside you is begging to flee. In choosing presence over escape. In trusting yourself to endure discomfort without betraying your own worth.

Healing doesn’t mean panic never shows up. It means that when it does, I no longer disappear to appease it. I don’t punish myself for struggling. I don’t hand my power back to fear.

I show up.

Sometimes that means asking for help. Sometimes it means sitting with the discomfort and letting it pass. Sometimes it means whispering, I’ve got you, to the parts of myself that learned long ago that survival meant silence.

Showing up for myself is choosing to believe that I am not fragile—I am learning. That I am not failing—I am practicing. That I am allowed to take up space even when my hands are shaking.

Last night, I didn’t run.

And that mattered.

Because every time I stay, I build trust with myself. Every time I choose presence over panic, I remind my nervous system that I am no longer alone inside my own body.

This is what healing looks like for me.

Not the absence of fear—but the refusal to abandon myself when it appears.

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.

🖤🔥🖤

Healing, Spiraling

Healing isn’t linear; it’s a spiral. We like to imagine healing as a straight line.

Start here. Do the work. End there—whole, peaceful, finished.

But healing has never moved that way for me.

Healing is a spiral.

I circle back to places I’ve already been. Old wounds flare. Familiar fears whisper. Emotions I thought I had outgrown tap me on the shoulder and ask to be seen again. And for a long time, I believed that meant I was failing—that I wasn’t doing it “right,” that all the work I’d done somehow didn’t count.

But a spiral isn’t a step backward.

It’s a return with new eyes.

Each time I come back to the same pain, I’m standing a little higher than before. I notice things I couldn’t see the last time. I have language now where I once had silence. I have boundaries where I once had none. I have compassion where I used to carry only shame.

The spiral doesn’t mean the wound is winning.

It means the wound is loosening its grip.

Some days healing feels gentle—like soft light, like breath moving freely through my chest. Other days it feels raw and exhausting, like I’ve been dragged back into a storm I swore I’d already survived. Those days can be especially cruel, because they come with that familiar voice: Why am I still here? Why isn’t this over yet?

But healing was never meant to erase the past.

It was meant to teach me how to live alongside it without bleeding out.

The crow returns again and again—not because it is lost, but because it remembers. The flame flickers, dims, flares—never constant, never gone. Together they remind me that survival is not static. It moves. It shifts. It revisits.

If you find yourself back in a familiar place, be gentle with yourself. Ask not why am I here again? but what do I know now that I didn’t before?

You are not starting over.

You are deepening.

Healing is a spiral—and every turn means you are still moving, still learning, still alive.

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.

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.

🖤🔥

I’m Not Making Myself Small Anymore

For a long time, I believed the problem was me.

I believed it because I was told—sometimes gently, sometimes cruelly—that I was too much. Too intense. Too emotional. Too driven. Too honest. I was told my presence made others feel inadequate, as if my light was something I should dim so they could feel comfortable standing beside me.

So I tried to become less.

I learned how to fold my needs inward. I learned how to quiet my excitement, temper my grief, soften my truth. I learned how to carry other people’s discomfort as if it were my responsibility. If someone felt small, I assumed I had taken up too much space.

Looking back, I see how deeply that shaped me.

In those relationships, I confused love with self-erasure. I confused compromise with disappearance. I thought being “easy to be with” meant abandoning the parts of myself that were inconvenient, powerful, or messy.

But growth has a way of revealing the cost.

Every time I made myself smaller, something in me went cold. The flame didn’t go out—it just learned to hide. And the crow, that inner voice that knows truth, grew quieter each time I ignored it in favor of keeping the peace.

What I’m learning now is this:

Someone else’s inadequacy is not proof of my excess.

My depth is not a flaw. My passion is not an attack. My healing, my ambition, my self-awareness do not exist to make anyone else feel less than. If my wholeness threatens a relationship, it was never asking me to be myself—it was asking me to be manageable.

Not making myself small doesn’t mean I stop caring about others. It means I stop betraying myself for their comfort. It means I choose honesty over harmony when harmony requires my silence.

I am allowed to take up space in my relationships.

I am allowed to grow, even if others do not.

I am allowed to outgrow people who only loved me when I was diminished.

This is not bitterness. This is clarity.

The crow does not pluck its feathers to soothe another bird’s insecurity.

The flame does not apologize for its heat.

So I am learning to stand in my full shape. To let my voice carry. To let my presence be what it is—neither sharpened nor softened for approval.

If that makes me “too much,” then perhaps I was never meant for small spaces.

And I am finally brave enough to choose spaces that can hold me.