In the middle of a quiet street, a crow sits motionless. Its feathers are disheveled, wings slightly open but not in flight. Something is wrong. It’s sick, weakened, vulnerable in a way that makes it an easy target for predators. But instead of flying away to hide, it does something unexpected.
It finds an ant nest. And stirs it up.
Within moments, the ants swarm. They climb onto the crow’s body, moving across its feathers with purpose. To an outside observer, it might look like the bird is being attacked. But this isn’t aggression. This is medicine. The ants spray formic acid—a natural antimicrobial compound that kills germs and fungi. The crow stays still, wings open, letting the tiny pharmacists do their work.
No one taught the crow this. No elder bird passed down instructions. This knowledge is encoded somewhere deeper—an instinct passed through generations, a biological memory of what works. When you’re sick, you find the ants. You let them crawl over you. You endure the discomfort because you understand that healing sometimes requires inviting in something that feels strange or unsettling.
After a while, the crow usually feels better. The formic acid has done its job. The bird eventually flies away, stronger than it was before.
There’s something profound in watching a creature understand its own need for help and know exactly where to find it. The crow doesn’t try to power through its illness alone. It doesn’t pretend everything is fine or hide its weakness. It seeks out what it needs, even if the process is uncomfortable.
We could learn from that.
We live in a world that often tells us to be strong, to handle things on our own, to avoid appearing weak or needy. But the crow knows better. It knows that healing doesn’t happen in isolation. Sometimes you have to seek out the uncomfortable remedy. Sometimes you have to sit still and let the medicine work, even when every instinct tells you to flee.
The crow’s wisdom is ancient, but it’s still relevant. When we’re struggling—whether physically, emotionally, or mentally—we need to know where to turn. We need our own version of the ant nest: the therapist’s office, the friend who listens, the community that holds space for our pain, the practices that restore us even when they’re hard to show up for.
Healing isn’t always comfortable. It often requires vulnerability. It asks us to admit we can’t do it alone. And sometimes, like the crow, we have to sit in the discomfort long enough for the remedy to take effect.
The crow doesn’t question the process. It doesn’t wonder if it deserves healing or whether the ants will judge it for being sick. It just knows what it needs and seeks it out with the quiet certainty of instinct.
Maybe that’s the real lesson. Not just that healing is possible, but that knowing when and how to ask for it is one of the most intelligent things we can do.