Scorched but Still Breathing

I used to believe healing was something you eased into. Soft as breath. Quiet as dusk.

But healing doesn’t ask for silence. It howls.
It scorches what kept you small.
It spits out your name until you remember how to carry it.

This month felt like ruin. But even ruin leaves roots.

And Elowen? She’s seen the ache that plants itself deep and wide. She’d say healing isn’t kind, not always. It scrapes. It howls. It drags you by your marrow and dares you to keep walking. But she’d also remind us—soft and stubborn—that this won’t swallow us whole. That the tearing is part of the rebuild. And when it lifts, we won't just be mended. We’ll be re-shaped, fire-forged, tender in new places.

Healing is a fire forest—feral and holy.
You walk through the ash, lungs blackened, feet blistered.
Not to survive. To learn what still lives beneath what burned.

I am not soft right now. I am not gentle.
I am the wildfire that resurrected me.
I am the map etched in smoke.

And if you're feeling scorched, just know:
The ashes were never empty.
They were an invitation.

What are you letting burn so something else can bloom?

@notesformysoulmate

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Because when storms are named in silence, writing becomes ritual—and ritual becomes release.
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