Tag Archives: writing

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.

I Never Knew

There are moments in healing when the past rises like smoke — not to haunt, but to be seen. For so long, I carried stories stitched in silence, believing pain was proof of love and endurance was safety. But healing has taught me to unlearn. To loosen the old knots of shame, to lift my gaze, to let creation become confession. When I draw, when I write, when I listen to the crows outside my window, I remember that truth has wings.

This poem is for the part of me that once hid, and for every woman learning to speak again — not in whispers, but in flight.

I never knew what I never knew.

Every word uttered, I accepted as true.

I built myself up to make you proud,

and tore myself down when you said I was too loud.

The higher I climbed, the harder I fell—

broken memories I’ll never tell.

⸻

Crow watches.

From the fence line of my memory, she tilts her head,

black eyes gleaming like obsidian truth.

She has seen this pattern before—

the fledgling mistaking the cage for sky.

She croaks a sound like warning, like mourning, like wake up.

⸻

Believing you were my guide,

believing you would stay by my side,

I took each onslaught to heart.

Every word, a lash and cut, slicing me apart.

The perfect doll, I sewed myself together

with needle and thread—

hiding with a razor under my bed.

I tear myself apart when you tell me I’m all wrong,

building up the walls inside to keep myself strong.

Poison infiltrates my mind.

⸻

Crow circles.

Feathers catch the wind like memory—

a dark shimmer of knowing.

She lands beside me, close enough to hear my breath.

“Release,” she whispers, “is not forgetting.

It is remembering without the chain.”

⸻

So I open my palms to the sky.

Ash, feather, thread—let them scatter.

What was once silence becomes song.

What was once fear becomes flight.

And the crow—

my witness, my teacher, my reflection—

rises.

So do I.

Strong Enough: Standing in the Light

When I was asked to speak at the Strong Enough Women’s Conference, I froze for a moment.

Not out of fear of the crowd or the microphone, but because I realized what I’d have to do — stand up, with my head held high, and tell the truth about what happened to me.

For years, I carried shame like a shadow. It followed me into rooms, whispered behind every new opportunity, and weighed down even moments of joy. Shame doesn’t announce itself; it hides in the pauses — the way your shoulders hunch slightly, the way your voice softens when you talk about your past. It’s the invisible chain that keeps you looking down.

But lately, I’ve been learning to put that weight down.

My healing hasn’t come all at once. It’s been slow, like moss growing on stone — quiet, steady, patient. Nature has been my teacher. When I sit by the river or walk a wooded path, I see how the world holds both beauty and decay without judgment. A fallen tree still becomes a home. A broken shell still shines in the sand. Nothing in nature hides its scars.

That truth has become my freedom.

These days, I spend more time sketching and painting — crows perched on branches, the way light filters through leaves, the shifting color of water at dusk. When my hands are moving, I feel the story release from my body. The brush doesn’t lie; it tells what words sometimes can’t. Art has given me permission to be both the wound and the healing.

Preparing to speak at the conference, I sat outside one evening with my sketchbook open. I drew a crow standing tall on a weathered fence post. Its feathers were ruffled by the wind, but it didn’t move. It just looked out — steady, unafraid.

That’s how I want to stand: not as someone untouched by pain, but as someone who has faced it and kept her wings.

When I step onto that stage, I won’t be carrying shame anymore.

I’ll be carrying strength — forged through silence, sorrow, and creation.

I’m not just strong enough to speak.

I’m free enough to fly.

Light the Dark

Face the Sun. Be the Hope.

Visions play in her eyes,

A poignant cinema of her own life.

She dances in the past,

Praying history doesn’t last.

Targeted violence reincarnated,

Haunting cries with serrated edges.

Agony rains.

Shadows stain the walls of memory.

A crow lands on the edge of her window, silent but knowing. Its black feathers absorb the light, yet its eyes glimmer with an understanding she cannot name. It tilts its head, curious, patient, a witness to her storms.

His glance lands upon me, a crazed gaze,

A question burning:

Is she insane?

Lost in space, waiting in vain.

Shutters close on her eyes

Before an image she despises.

Scars illustrate a fate

That she’s finally ready to realize.

Another crow descends from the twilight sky, wings slicing through the dusk. It circles, calling softly, like a bell tolling for remembrance. Each caw reminds her: your pain is real, but it is not all that you are.

She lives in the darkness.

She is the light.

Dance with the stars.

Glow in the night.

She lives amongst the constellations,

A nebula falling like heaven’s consolation.

From the shadowed branches, crows gather. One steps forward, ruffling feathers in the cool night air. It perches boldly, meeting her gaze. Its presence whispers: courage. Watch. Learn. Transform. Each feather a lesson in resilience, each shadow a map of strength.

Her heartbeat aligns with the universe,

A rhythm pulsing through the cosmos.

Every scar, every cry,

A note in her symphony of survival.

The crows watch, always watch,

As if carrying the memory of her pain

And the promise of her flight.

She lifts her arms toward the moon,

Breathing the night into her lungs,

Exhaling fear, releasing sorrow.

She is not bound by yesterday.

She is starlight. She is wind.

She is hope incarnate.

A final crow lifts from the forest floor, ascending, wings spread wide. It vanishes into the constellation-strewn sky, a reminder: light the dark. Face the sun. Be the hope. You, too, can rise.