Even the Eagle eats Roadkill

Majesty in the Mess

I saw a bald eagle on the way home today.

Not flying. Not perched in a tree looking poetic. Not doing anything majestic, really.

It was on the side of the road—eating roadkill.

And I don’t know why that hit me the way it did, but it did.

We’re taught to see bald eagles as these regal symbols of freedom. Power. Divinity in feathered form. They’re supposed to soar, not scavenge. But there it was: head low, talons grounded, ripping into something dead.

And honestly? It was kinda perfect.

We romanticize the rise…

…but we forget how gritty survival really is.

Sometimes you don’t get to fly. Sometimes you’re not the predator. Sometimes, you’re just doing what it takes to make it through the day—and that doesn’t make you less divine.

That eagle wasn’t any less powerful just because it wasn’t in the sky. It was still sacred. Still fierce. Still it.

It just wasn’t pretending.

Real talk:

You might be in your scavenger era. The one where you’re piecing yourself back together from scraps. Where you’re not soaring—you’re crawling. Where people pass by and don’t see your worth because you’re not shining the way they expect you to.

Let ‘em.

Because even the eagle eats roadkill. Even the most iconic among us have days where we pick through the leftovers and still call it a meal.

The takeaway?

Don’t confuse the mess with the meaning.

You’re allowed to be majestic and a little bit feral. You’re allowed to be holy and hungry. You’re allowed to be the damn eagle—on the ground, in the dirt, doing what needs to be done.

Because you’re still you.

And when the time comes? You’ll spread those wings again.

But today? Today you ate.