These days my biggest battle is with my mind every time I have a physical setback or illness within my body. The minute I have to reschedule or cancel something, my brain screams at me to just burn it all down because what’s the point? Why keep disappointing people and myself? Why try?
But here’s the thing about fire: it doesn’t just destroy—it transforms. Sitting in the fire is where I’ve learned to see myself, not as a victim of the flames, but as someone capable of rising through them. The scared part of me wants to run, to let it all burn, but the healing I’ve done whispers a different truth: the fire can be my teacher.
The healing gives me the opportunity to speak kindly to the side of me that fears the flames, but I won’t pretend it’s easy to choose to not quit, not walk away, not curl up in a ball and hide from the world. Choosing to stay in the fire, to face it, requires every ounce of strength I can muster.
Sometimes it’s harder when I’ve had a stretch of good days, a reminder of how good it CAN be. Those days feel like soaring above the ashes, wings spread wide. But even in flight, there’s a shadow of the fire below, a reminder that it’s always there. And when I fall back into it, my mind tries to convince me that this time, I won’t rise again.
Last year, I opted to close my photography business and stop doing certain things because I thought it would help. I thought if I could snuff out some of the flames, I could find peace. But it didn’t work. Turns out, just sitting can be the problem. Just sleeping can be the problem. Just breathing can be the problem. The fire doesn’t go out when I ignore it—it waits, smoldering, until I face it.
So, I’m done trying to wait out the problem.
Instead, I will work through it. I will step into the fire again and again, not to be consumed but to be transformed. I will give myself grace and keep doing things that heal, but I won’t keep trying to protect the fragility of what is or is not. I don’t need to run from the flames. I need to rise through them.
The fire will still burn. The problem is still the problem.
But I’ve learned that the fire can’t take everything from me. It doesn’t get to hold the power. The flames don’t get to be in control anymore. Instead, I’ll take their heat, their light, their energy, and turn it into fuel for my own wings.
Because here’s the truth: I am not the fire’s victim. I am its alchemist.
Every setback, every struggle, every scream of “why try?” becomes part of the transformation. The flames forge me, but they do not own me. I don’t have to burn it all down—I can harness the fire, shape it, and let it carry me.
Like a phoenix, I rise—not despite the fire, but because of it.
