🖤 I’m Loui.

Sarah was my first name—I laid her to rest. I look back at her with love, because she carried me across. She held the weight of fibromyalgia, cluster headaches, hives, IBS, PTSD, body dysmorphia, and more. She lived inside a body that never stopped screaming. She was the “good girl” who openly wanted to die. She dreaded mornings. She didn’t want to wake up.

But I killed her. And in killing her, I lived.

I live in Omaha, Nebraska. I’m a disabled veteran of the Air Force. I’m blessed to stay home with my husband and son, to finally feel safe enough to unpack the ghosts. Safety is what lets me burn. Safety is what lets me speak. I wrote a song for my husband on the GORGEOUS album called “Unicorn”—because his love made this resurrection possible.

🔥 Why I Create

I could live a quiet life now. I could stay hidden. But I can’t—not knowing others are still caged in silence.

So I make rage rituals. I record mirror work. I dig with my rake into the dirt of my lineage, pulling up grief that was buried alive. I bury my ghosts and make music of their eulogies. That’s the FVNERAL work.

The crow is my witness. She circles the field. She doesn’t look away. When I scream, she carries the sound.

This music saves me every day. And if it helps one person kill the version of themselves that wants to die—if it helps someone else see there is a way out—it was all worth it.

I’m currently working on a double album dissecting my FVNERAL and ghost concept—the full process of laying false selves to rest through the Major Arcana. It is still writing me.

I don’t share because I’m healed.
I share because I’m healing.

🪶 Why Loui Crow

Loui isn’t my legal name. It’s my digital name—the self I stitched together so I could finish the songs Sarah couldn’t. A name with a beak, with wings, and enough room for my rage and love to live.

Loui Crow is the witness-self who guides me (Joy) through the wire, naming ghosts, breaking hinges, and returning her to her own light.

The name is rooted in two teachers who reshaped me in opposite—but necessary—ways:

Louise Hay — She taught me that speaking love to myself wasn’t vain—it was medicine. Without her, I would never have known how to call myself back home. She was my entry point into self-development—the over-loving grandmother energy I needed, soft voice and steel spine. She taught me that rage isn’t a flaw but a tool, that pain has a language, and that my body wasn’t betraying me; it was reporting the truth. She created a dictionary for sensations I thought were random and uncureable.

Aleister Crowley — He got a bad rap for the theatrics, but the point was simple: naming the wild self is what stops it from haunting the door. Magick, in his world, wasn’t fantasy or rebellion—it was choice in motion. Will wasn’t control; it was direction. The beast is your drive, your want, your pulse, tamed by nothing but truth. Crowley didn’t free the beast; he named it so you could finally know it’s yours.

One gave me permission to love myself.
The other gave me permission to wield myself.

If you want the long version — the full lineage, the deeper magick, and the teachers who shaped my worldview — I’ll have it written an extended piece under:

👉 Willcraft Magick → “My Teachers, My Lineage, My Magick.”

(coming soon)

🖤 Closing

I don’t pretend to be anyone’s savior.
I write music like I breathe: for myself first.

Most days, I’m writing from the self I’m becoming — not the one I’ve already mastered. Each song is a timestamp of who I was the day I survived myself enough to speak.

What I share isn’t a doctrine.
It’s weather.
It’s alive.
It’s messy, shifting, humming.

If anything here loosens a chain, opens a window, or gives you one honest breath, then we met in the right lifetime.

CROW BLESSING

May the voice you’re becoming speak louder than the voice you survived. May the small brave choices count as miracles. May your ghosts walk you to the door but never back inside. And may the next version of you arrive gently — feather by feather, breath by breath, whole enough to stay, wild enough to rise.