The Fire That Heals
What does the fire that heals look like?
It doesn’t look like rage. Or bravado. Or performance dressed up as power.
It looks like breath. Stillness. A man who finally stopped running—from himself.
It looks like coals, not flames.
A steady glow in the chest of someone who stayed present when it hurt.
It’s not the fire that destroys. It’s the fire that transforms.
The kind that burns away the masks, and reveals the face beneath.
This fire lives in ritual.
In a circle of men who listen without fixing.
In the silence that follows a truth spoken out loud for the first time.
This fire is creative.
It doesn’t just burn. It cooks. It forges.
It calls things back to life.
It’s in the ink of a journal that finally names the wound.
In the steady hands of a man who’s grieving, but not gone.
It’s in a father saying, “I was wrong. And I’m still learning.”
It’s in the warrior who lays down the blade, and picks up the drum.
It’s in the moment you stop asking who you were supposed to be,
and start becoming who you already are.
This fire is ancestral. Archetypal. Old as myth.
It’s the flame Prometheus stole. The hearth Hestia guarded.
The bush Moses saw burning—not consumed.
It’s the fire your grandfather kept lit in his silence.
The one you’ve felt in your chest for years, but didn’t know how to name.
Now you do.
It’s the fire that heals. And you carry it.
Not to lead with noise. But to walk with light.
Not to fix men. But to hold the space where they remember who they are becoming.
Let it burn, brother.
Let it bless.
Let’s begin.
© 2025 Dennis Stevens, Ed.D. and SEMPERGEIST. The Fire That Heals. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without prior written permission.