2. MOLT — Lyrics
Every change is good for me.
I molt with grace,
I molt with ease,
Every change is good for me.
(Scroll below the lyrics to read more about this song.)
Lyrics
[intro]
I live in a body that loves to renew.
Every cell knows what to do.
Change moves through me,
kindly and slow.
I welcome letting things go.
I am Molting
[verse]
Now—
slip the old fastening!
Feel the quiet work of becoming—
A strange itch.
Old feathers slipping.
New ones push in.
Molt says:
“Trust the chemistry.”
Change proceeds by necessity.
What sheds has served.
What emerges
has waited.
I feel the change and wish it well.
[chorus]
I molt with grace,
I molt with ease,
Every change is good for me.
Molt says: soften,
let it slide.
Feel feeds feather,
feather feeds flight.
Molt says: soften,
let it slide.
[bridge]
Pin-feathers rise—
Tender.
Alive.
Rest writes maps
for everything.
A whisper tells me
when to fly again.
[chorus]
I molt with grace,
I molt with ease,
Every change is good for me.
Molt says: soften,
let it slide.
Feel feeds feather,
feather feeds flight.
Molt says: soften,
let it slide.
[outro]
Stillness feeds the coming wing.
Old feather drifts with meaning.
A walker picks it up,
takes it home.
Every ending supports my molting.
About the Song
“Molt” is a body song.
How change actually happens when it isn’t pushed. The quiet kind. The kind that works underneath thought. Cells replacing themselves. Skin renewing. Breath adjusting without asking permission. The body already knows how to let go.
I’m learning to stop interrupting that process.
Louise Hay’s work sits right at the center of this track. Her teachings helped me understand that the body isn’t broken when it’s tired, tender, or shedding old patterns. It’s communicating. Repeating kindness. Asking for safety while it reorganizes.
A lot of her affirmations work the way molting works — gently, over time, through repetition. You don’t rip a layer off. You let it loosen. You speak to the body as if it’s listening, because it is.
“I molt with grace. I molt with ease.”
That line came directly from practicing that tone.
Not fixing. Not forcing. Letting.
What I Notice While Living With This Song
Change has texture.
It itches. It feels tender. It asks for rest. It slows things down. None of that means something is wrong. It means something is moving.
I’m still learning that stillness completes transformation. When the body is changing, it often asks for less movement, less decision, less urgency. Rest writes the map. Timing belongs to tissue.
Louise Hay wrote often about how healing responds to gentleness — how pressure delays release, and kindness invites it. That truth lives inside this song. Molt reminds me that feeling tired, sensitive, or quiet during change isn’t a setback. It’s the work.
Learning From Molting
Birds don’t molt all at once. They shed in sequence so they can keep functioning while they change. New feathers grow in before the old ones fully fall. Flight pauses or softens, then returns stronger.
During molting, birds often rest more. They eat differently. They stay close to cover. Their bodies direct energy inward, toward growth instead of display.
Crows molt too — often looking scruffy or uneven for a while. They don’t hide it. They don’t rush it. They let the process show.
That felt important to learn.
Molt teaches that change doesn’t require disappearance. I’m allowed to be visible while unfinished. I’m allowed to move slower while rebuilding. I’m allowed to look different while becoming.
Why Molt Sits Where It Does
Molt appears early in the album because softening comes right after witnessing.
Crow names what’s been carried. Molt teaches the body how to stay present with that truth without bracing. Release here happens through permission, not effort.
If Crow says, “This is what happened,”
Molt says, “You’re allowed to change now.”
I wrote this as a softer internal voice practicing itself out loud. Shared in case it helps someone else trust their own in-between a little more.
A little crow’s on the wire, keeping watch over you. 🪶
