Firewalking has existed across cultures for centuries—a ceremonial act of walking barefoot across glowing embers. For some, it symbolizes purification, courage, or transformation. For others, it’s simply a test of will. At its core, firewalking is about surrendering fear and stepping boldly into something that feels impossible.

       For me, firewalking was far more than a ritual. It was a battle with memory, with trauma, with the nervous system that still flinches at the crackle of flames. After losing my home and business to fire, I have lived with an invisible shadow—an anxiety that rises whenever I’m near open flames. So when the opportunity arose to join a firewalking ceremony under the light of a full moon, I felt equal parts terrified and determined.

      The night was beautiful, crisp, and electric. Drums echoed through the air, the beat syncing with my own anxious heart. The full moon illuminated the circle as we gathered, each of us there to face something within ourselves.

       Sitting beside my best friend, I could feel her quiet awareness. She knew the weight this night carried for me, even as she smiled through it. Every passing minute meant the fire was closer to being ready. My nerves twisted tighter, the cold air no match for the heat simmering in my chest.

      When the circle ended, the fire was raked into a glowing path of embers. Women went first, stepping quickly and bravely across. I lingered, hoping the coals would cool. My feet are notoriously sensitive, and the thought of them against burning embers made my stomach flip.

      But then reality set in—if I kept waiting, I’d never do it. My children’s faces flashed in my mind, and I knew I couldn’t go home and tell them I had chickened out. I remind them daily: you can do hard things. How could I say otherwise if I didn’t prove it to myself?

       I watched the path get raked one final time. My breath deepened. And then, before I could let my fear take over, I walked. With purpose. With defiance. With every nerve on fire.

The words that left my mouth were not elegant, not spiritual, but real: “F**kkk.”*

         My friend wrapped me in a hug and asked if I was okay. The truth? Nope. My right foot screamed in protest. The walk was done, but the fire had left its mark.

      The ride home was quiet, pain blooming with every press of my foot. Inside the house, my husband—who had dismissively said, “You’ll be fine” before I left—took one look and realized I was anything but fine. He forcefully suggested the hospital. I wanted no part of sitting in fluorescent light with strangers while I was sore, smoky, and grumpy.

        So we did what families do. Cool water soak. A frantic search through the mess of a medicine cabinet for burn cream. Paige, wide-eyed, held the flashlight for her dad as he gently cleaned soot off my feet. She declared, with childlike honesty, “Mom, you are not a firewalker.” And she was right. The fire had the better of me that night.

        It took days before I could walk properly again. The burn was real, the lesson even more so.

       In firewalking, there’s a belief that burns—sometimes called “fire kisses”—often land on spots tied to areas of tension in reflexology. Mine, ironically, was on the stress point. Figures.

       That night was not about becoming a master firewalker. It was about proving to myself that I could face something that terrified me, something I wasn’t sure I could do. And while I don’t intend to repeat the experience, I carry it with me.

         Firewalking reminded me that bravery doesn’t always look graceful. Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it ends with burn cream and a child’s blunt honesty. But bravery is showing up anyway. It’s standing before the fire, heart pounding, and walking forward—because you refuse to let fear be the last word.