There used to be a time when the fire was bright. It was fierce, and burned anything in the way. I was a young girl, courageous and fearless. I WAS the fire. I had no problem walking up to strangers, demanding answers, being the center of attention. I loved walking to the park to meet my friends or sitting in the house with all the windows open just because it was a nice day. I had no worries.Some time along the way that fire cooled. I no longer create the fire, I run from it. After going through abuse, assault, and losses over the years it’s like there’s a coal that covers the fire. The hundred-thousands of people dying every day and the constant reports of crime on any social media or broadcast I open just suppress it more and more. The more I’ve grown the worse it’s gotten. Especially being a mom. Those intrusive thoughts we all have work overtime for me. Everywhere I go my mind plays scenarios in which my kids could be in danger. Protecting them is the only fuel to the fire. I can’t feel comfortable being at home alone without thinking someone could come in; I don’t answer the door unless I know ahead of time that someone’s coming. I don’t talk to people unless I have to. I can’t even walk through the grocery store without feeling overwhelmed with anxiety. Somewhere along the way I lost it, but I want my fire. If not for me, for my kids. So in those times when they start to lose their spark, I can give them the courage to face the flames.