Why we still gather around the fire.

It is hard to breathe some days.

Every screen glows with urgency. Every headline demands outrage. And every conversation seems sharpened to a point, as though volume alone might grant meaning. Even moments meant for rest are crowded with arguments we never chose.

And yet, somewhere beneath all of that noise, something quieter persists.

Long before stories were written down or broadcast across the world in seconds, people gathered around firelight. Not to argue. Not to perform. But to listen. To remember. Stories were not distractions. They were anchors.

In the same way, a fire was never just about warmth. It was a boundary. Inside the circle, there was safety. Outside it, the darkness was forced to retreat. And within that glow, stories did something remarkable: they slowed the heartbeat. They widened perspective. And they allowed people to feel connected rather than cornered.

We have not outgrown that need.

In a time when everything urges us to react, to shout, to stake a claim and defend it, choosing stillness can feel rebellious. Choosing wonder can feel naïve. And choosing gentleness might feel like surrender.

But it isn’t.

It is a return.

Storytelling, at its heart, is not about escape. It is about orientation. It reminds us that human beings have always lived through uncertainty, upheaval, and fear. And that meaning was never found by shouting louder than the storm. It was found by sitting together, tending the fire, and listening for what mattered.

To me, that is why stories still matter. Not because they fix everything, but because they help us breathe again. Because they offer a place where complexity can exist without becoming cruelty. But more importantly, because they give us permission to pause instead of perform.

The Pack Warriors was born from that impulse - not to add to the noise - but to create a space apart from it.

If you have found yourself tired of the endless scroll and weary of the volume,  know this:

There is still a fire burning.

And there is always room to step closer, warm your hands, and remember that the world is larger, older, and more patient than the noise would have you believe.

Michele, The Dreamcarver