Veil & Feather isn’t just a blog — it’s a battleground for truth.
Built by a woman who walked through fire, this space was never meant to speak over — it was built to stand beside. We don’t claim stories that aren’t ours. We listen. We witness. We use our voices to amplify those too often silenced — especially Native women and survivors whose truths have been buried for generations.
Our mission is to:
This isn’t about saving anyone. It’s about walking with them — and raising hell when the world won’t listen.
Use this space every day. Rant, reflect, rage, pray — write whatever keeps you breathing.
Because too many of us were taught to stay quiet. Because the world punished us for surviving. Because healing doesn’t come from silence — it comes from stories. What you read here is sacred. What you write here belongs.
“When Did You Learn You Were Different?”
There’s always that moment — quiet or violent — when you realize the world doesn’t see you like everyone else. This month, we’re not shrinking from it. We’re claiming it.
Want to be part of the Fire Series or share a post? Send it here. You can be anonymous, messy, or loud. You’re allowed to be real.
They told me I was too much.
Too angry. Too intense. Too loud. But what they didn’t know is: this fire was never theirs to name.
It was born from generations who survived things we weren’t supposed to. My rage? It’s not a problem. It’s proof that I’m still alive.
I don’t owe anyone silence. I don’t owe anyone soft.
This fire is mine. We are done dimming. We don’t lower our flames to make others more comfortable. We burn clean now. We burn proud. We burn together.
They didn’t cover my mouth. They didn’t have to. They shamed me until I stayed quiet. Told me my pain was too loud. So I stopped talking. Stopped crying. Started folding myself smaller and smaller.
Until I couldn’t find myself in the mirror anymore.
But now I speak. And when I do, I shake the ground they buried me under. They tried to silence me. And in doing so, they gave me a reason to scream louder.
There’s a moment after the fire — when everything you thought mattered is gone. The roles. The masks. The should-haves. Ashes now.
What remains after burning is you. Wounded. Whole. Worthy.
And from here, you rebuild with hands that remember the burn.
You never, ever set yourself on fire to keep someone else comfortable again.