The Crown in the Dirt

The sun kissed her cheeks like it had missed her.

Courtney stepped out from the tangled brush, blinking into the morning glow. Her boots, caked in forest mud, sank slightly into the edge of the path. She could still feel the woods breathing behind her—still feel the weight of what she left buried beneath the ancient roots.

In her hands, she held her crown.

Crooked. Handmade. Unapologetically colorful.

A little bent from the journey.

A little brighter, somehow, too.

It hadn’t sat on her head for days. Maybe weeks. Or maybe it never truly had. It had been something she held onto, out of habit, out of hope, out of memory. But not out of belief.

Not yet.

This chapter of her journey had begun like many others—not with clarity, but with collapse.

A week ago (was it a week? time was unreliable lately), she had found herself curled in a corner of her apartment, surrounded by unopened mail, cold tea, and the dull ache of unanswered texts. She couldn’t explain why everything felt heavy again. The depression didn’t knock. It seeped. Slow. Silent. A quiet thief that didn’t take anything except the will to try.

The idea of trying—of putting on the crown, smiling, pretending to be Wonderland’s brave survivor—felt like wearing shoes too small. Too tight. Too polished for the mud she was living in.

So she walked.

No destination. Just out.

The world blurred. And Wonderland found her, the way it always did when reality fractured.

But this wasn’t the whimsical Wonderland of teacups and riddles. This was the other one—the darker, older, raw version that lived beneath her skin. A sacred space woven of trauma, healing, truth, and twisted logic. A mirror world of her mind.

This time, Wonderland was a forest. Vast. Unforgiving. Still.

The trees didn’t speak in words, but in memories. Bark that pulsed with timelines. Roots that tripped her not out of cruelty, but out of recognition.

She wandered for what felt like days. Her thoughts unspooled like ribbon behind her—memories she didn’t know she was carrying. Every step unearthed something:

The time her dad told her she was being “too dramatic” after a panic attack.

The ex who said, “I love you, but you’re a lot.”

The counselor who smiled tightly and called her “resilient,” which really meant still functioning, so not my problem.

Each echo curled through the air like mist. Not to torment her—but to ask:

“Is this still part of your truth?”

On the second night (or maybe the fifth), she came to the clearing.

It wasn’t marked. It wasn’t lit. It simply… existed.

A ring of tree stumps circled a patch of moss. Each stump was different—some jagged, some smooth, one covered in dark, glassy sap that reflected moonlight like spilled secrets.

And in the center: a mirror.

But not a mirror.

It moved like water, shimmered like thought. Its frame was woven from thorned vines, feathers, bones, and small charms—bits of her story she recognized but couldn’t name.

The mirror didn’t show her face. Not first.

It showed her selves.

Seven-year-old Courtney with skinned knees and too many apologies.

Teenage Courtney glittered in a bathroom mirror, hoping sparkles could distract from her sadness.

Twenty-five-year-old Courtney explaining trauma to people who didn’t want to understand it—just wanted her to stop talking.

And then…

Current Courtney.

Exhausted. Maskless. Holding a crooked crown she wasn’t sure belonged to her.

The mirror pulsed.

“What story have you been telling yourself?”

She swallowed. “That I’m too much. That I’m not enough. That I’m wrong, somehow, no matter how I try.”

The mirror didn’t argue. It didn’t console.

It waited.

“Who taught you that?”

Courtney closed her eyes. “Everyone. And no one. And me.”

Her voice broke like a branch.

“But I don’t want to believe it anymore.”

She stepped closer. The mirror shifted again.

This time, it showed the people she had loved. Trusted. Lost.

It showed her being left on read. It showed her standing alone in crowded rooms. It showed her laughing a little too loud so no one would hear the shaking in her voice.

And then it showed a different version.

Courtney not performing.

Courtney breathing.

Courtney laughing without apology.

Courtney holding the crown like it wasn’t a burden, but a gift.

“Can you carry your past and still move forward?”

She thought about it. Really thought about it.

Could she be both broken and blooming? Both the girl who cried in stairwells and the woman who led others out of them?

Could she stop trying to be the “right” kind of survivor?

The kind who’s soft but not too soft.

Strong but never intimidating.

Honest but always palatable.

Her answer wasn’t neat.

But it was real.

“I don’t know how,” she whispered. “But I want to learn.”

She didn’t sleep that night. She laid beneath the trees, the crown beside her, staring up at a sky filled with stars that didn’t ask her to shine back.

And in the morning, the forest was different.

Not warmer. But welcoming.

The trees leaned slightly, guiding her. The path appeared—not paved, not perfect—but present.

The crown felt lighter in her hands.

She passed a tree with carvings—names and words etched in different handwriting:

“Still here.”

“I left and came back stronger.”

“Not a villain for choosing myself.”

She smiled.

She added her own:

“I bent, but I did not break.”

By the time she reached the forest’s edge, the sun was rising—painting the world in gold.

The last tree she passed held one final whisper:

“Leave behind what no longer belongs to you.”

Courtney stopped. Looked down.

At her shoes—caked in self-doubt.

At her sleeves—threadbare from old expectations.

At the small broken mask still tucked in her pocket.

She dropped it all.

And for the first time in what felt like forever—

She didn’t look back.

Now, here she stood. At the edge of the woods. Facing the sun.

The crown was still in her hands. Still crooked. Still hers.

She didn’t know what came next. She didn’t have a plan.

But she had herself.

That was enough.

Courtney took a breath. Deep and brave and messy.

And she stepped out into the sunshine.