Through the Fog

Blog

  • Alone

    Photo by Noah Silliman

    I know how to be alone.

    Maybe too well.

    I know how to fill a room

    with noise

    so I don’t notice

    there’s nobody in it.

    How to leave the television on

    just to hear another voice.

    How to stare at my phone

    without actually having

    anyone I want to call.

    I’ve learned

    that loneliness

    isn’t always about

    having no one.

    Sometimes

    it’s lying beside someone

    and feeling miles away.

    Sometimes

    it’s being surrounded

    by people who know your name

    but don’t know

    what’s happening inside you.

    Sometimes

    it’s realizing

    you’ve spent so much time

    making yourself easy

    for everyone else to handle

    that nobody knows

    the difficult parts of you

    at all.

    And maybe that’s why

    being alone hurts differently now.

    Because when everything

    gets quiet,

    there’s no performance.

    No smile to hold up.

    No conversation

    to hide inside.

    Just me.

    And all the things

    I’ve been avoiding.

    The regrets.

    The people I miss

    but shouldn’t reach for.

    The life I thought

    I’d have by now.

    The version of myself

    I keep trying

    to find my way back to.

    Some nights

    the silence feels peaceful.

    Other nights

    it feels like proof

    that everyone eventually leaves.

    I’m still learning

    the difference.

    Still learning

    that solitude

    isn’t rejection.

    That an empty room

    doesn’t mean

    I’m unwanted.

    That being alone

    doesn’t have to mean

    I’ve been abandoned.

    Maybe there is something

    to be found here.

    In the quiet.

    In finally hearing

    my own voice

    without everyone else’s

    mixed into it.

    Maybe I spent so long

    being terrified

    of ending up alone

    that I never considered

    I might need

    to meet myself there.

    So tonight

    I’ll sit with the silence.

    Not pretending

    it doesn’t hurt.

    Not pretending

    I don’t wish

    someone were here.

    Just reminding myself—

    alone

    and unloved

    were never

    the same thing.

  • I Still Think About You

    I still think about you.

    More than I should.

    Less than I used to.

    I guess that’s progress.

    You show up

    in stupid places—

    songs I didn’t choose,

    roads I’ve driven

    a hundred times,

    the middle of conversations

    that have absolutely

    nothing to do with you.

    And suddenly

    there you are.

    Not really.

    Just the version of you

    my memory refuses

    to throw away.

    Sometimes I wonder

    if you think about me too.

    If my name ever crosses

    your mind unexpectedly.

    If you ever reach

    for your phone

    before remembering

    we don’t do that anymore.

    I hate wondering.

    Because wondering

    is just hope

    wearing clothes

    it thinks I won’t recognize.

    And I recognize it.

    Every fucking time.

    The truth is,

    I don’t even know

    what I want from you anymore.

    I don’t know

    if I’d come back.

    I don’t know

    if I’d answer.

    I don’t know

    if hearing your voice

    would heal something

    or tear open everything

    I’ve worked so hard

    to close.

    I only know

    that I still think about you.

    And maybe that’s allowed.

    Maybe moving on

    doesn’t mean forgetting.

    Maybe someone can matter

    without belonging

    in your life anymore.

    Maybe I can miss you

    without reaching for you.

    Love what happened

    without asking

    for it to happen again.

    Remember you

    without turning the memory

    into an invitation.

    So yes—

    I still think about you.

    Sometimes softly.

    Sometimes angrily.

    Sometimes with an ache

    I can’t quite explain.

    But I don’t mistake

    thinking about you

    for needing you anymore.

    And maybe that’s

    how I know

    I’m finally letting go—

    you still cross my mind,

    but you don’t get

    to take me with you.

  • I Hate Me

    I hate me.

    There.

    No metaphor.

    No pretty way

    to make it easier to read.

    Some days

    I genuinely cannot stand

    the person inside my skin.

    I hate the decisions

    I knew were wrong

    while I was making them.

    The people I hurt.

    The people I let hurt me.

    The way I can see

    every red flag from a mile away

    and still walk toward it

    like maybe this time

    red means welcome.

    I hate how much

    I fucking feel.

    How one word

    can ruin my day.

    How silence

    can turn into rejection

    before I even know the truth.

    How my mind

    can take something small

    and drag it through

    every wound I’ve ever had

    until suddenly

    I’m bleeding from all of them.

    I hate that I know better

    and don’t always do better.

    That I apologize

    then repeat myself.

    That I want peace

    but sometimes

    I’m the one

    setting everything on fire.

    And God—

    I hate looking backward.

    Because hindsight

    makes everything obvious.

    Every exit I ignored.

    Every boundary I crossed.

    Every moment

    I abandoned myself

    just to keep someone else

    from leaving.

    People tell you

    to love yourself.

    Like it’s easy.

    Like you can stand

    in front of a mirror,

    say something kind,

    and undo years

    of believing

    you’re the problem.

    I’m not there yet.

    Some days

    forgiveness feels impossible.

    But maybe

    I don’t have to love myself

    today.

    Maybe I just have to stop

    being cruel to the person

    who already hurts.

    Maybe I can look at her

    without calling her worthless.

    Maybe I can admit

    she fucked up

    without deciding

    she is a fuckup.

    Because underneath

    everything I hate—

    she’s still trying.

    Still waking up.

    Still carrying consequences

    and somehow believing

    she might become better

    than the choices behind her.

    So yeah—

    sometimes

    I hate me.

    But I’m starting to wonder

    if hatred is just another wound

    I’ve mistaken

    for the truth.

    And maybe someday

    I won’t look at myself

    and see everything

    I wish I could erase.

    Maybe I’ll see someone

    who survived being

    her own worst enemy

    and finally learned

    how to stop fighting herself.

  • Save Your Time While It’s Cheap

    Save your time

    while it’s cheap—

    before regret

    puts interest on it.

    Before someday

    becomes five years ago

    and you’re standing there

    wondering how the hell

    you let that much life

    get away from you.

    I spent mine

    like I had an endless supply.

    On people

    who couldn’t decide

    if they wanted me.

    On arguments

    that changed nothing.

    On proving myself

    to people

    who had already decided

    who I was.

    I wasted whole nights

    replaying conversations

    that were over.

    Whole mornings

    recovering from choices

    I knew better than to make.

    Whole years

    waiting for something

    to change

    while doing everything possible

    to stay exactly where I was.

    Time felt cheap then.

    Another weekend.

    Another drink.

    Another chance.

    Another I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

    Tomorrow seemed endless

    until I started noticing

    how many of them

    were behind me.

    That’s the fucking trick.

    You never know

    what your time costs

    while you’re spending it.

    You find out later—

    when someone is gone.

    When the opportunity closes.

    When you finally become ready

    for a life

    that no longer exists.

    And suddenly

    you’d pay anything

    for one ordinary afternoon

    you barely noticed

    while you had it.

    So save your time

    while it’s cheap.

    Spend it

    on people who stay.

    On mornings

    you’ll remember.

    On becoming someone

    you don’t constantly

    need to escape from.

    Say what matters.

    Leave what hurts.

    Love while it’s here.

    Start before you’re ready.

    Because eventually

    time gets expensive.

    And regret

    has never given

    a fucking refund.

  • Fucked Up

    I know I’m fucked up.

    You don’t have to tell me.

    I’ve spent enough nights

    inside my own head

    collecting evidence.

    Every bad decision.

    Every person I hurt.

    Every bridge I burned

    then stood beside

    wondering why

    I had nowhere left to cross.

    I know.

    I know I’ve mistaken chaos

    for something familiar enough

    to call home.

    I’ve pushed away

    what felt too good

    and chased things

    that made me miserable.

    I’ve begged people to stay

    then made myself impossible

    to stand beside.

    I’ve wanted peace

    and somehow

    kept choosing war.

    That’s fucked up.

    But what nobody asks

    is how you get that way.

    How many times

    something has to hurt

    before pain becomes

    your first language.

    How long you have to survive

    before survival habits

    start looking like

    personality flaws.

    None of that excuses me.

    There are apologies

    I still owe.

    Things I’d undo

    if regret had hands.

    Versions of myself

    I wish I could sit down with

    and ask,

    What the fuck were you thinking?

    But I already know.

    I was hurting.

    And hurt

    doesn’t always make you gentle.

    Sometimes it makes you angry.

    Reckless.

    Distant.

    Sometimes it makes you destroy

    the very things

    you were terrified

    of losing.

    So yeah—

    I’m fucked up.

    But I’m also aware of it now.

    And maybe that matters.

    Because I don’t want

    to spend the rest of my life

    using my wounds

    as permission

    to keep creating new ones.

    I can’t rewrite

    who I’ve been.

    But I can decide

    who gets my name

    from here.

    And maybe someday

    I’ll look back

    at this version of me—

    messy,

    ashamed,

    trying like hell—

    and realize

    I wasn’t fucked up.

    I was unfinished.

  • Wasted Time

    I used to think

    I wasted years.

    On the wrong people.

    The wrong choices.

    The wrong version

    of myself.

    I counted birthdays

    I barely remember.

    Conversations

    that led nowhere.

    Dreams

    I kept postponing

    until they forgot my name.

    I called it

    wasted time.

    But time

    doesn’t disappear.

    It leaves something behind.

    A scar

    that taught me

    where not to bleed.

    A goodbye

    that taught me

    what staying should feel like.

    A mistake

    I stopped repeating.

    Even the years

    I spent lost

    were years

    I learned the sound

    of my own footsteps.

    Would I take them back?

    Some days.

    Some days

    I’d erase entire chapters

    if I could.

    But then I’d lose

    the lessons,

    the strength,

    the quiet understanding

    that came only

    because I lived through them.

    Maybe time

    is only wasted

    if it leaves you unchanged.

    And I didn’t stay

    the same.

    I became someone

    who knows

    that healing

    takes longer

    than hurting.

    That leaving

    can be an act of love.

    That starting over

    isn’t failure—

    it’s faith.

    So maybe

    I didn’t waste my time.

    Maybe I spent it

    becoming someone

    I couldn’t have been

    any other way.

  • Summer Sun

    The summer sun

    never asks permission.

    It spills across the fields,

    warms cracked sidewalks,

    finds its way

    through half-open curtains

    and into rooms

    that forgot what light

    felt like.

    It doesn’t rush.

    It simply arrives.

    Steady.

    Certain.

    The kind of certainty

    I’ve spent years

    looking for

    in people.

    I used to think

    healing would feel dramatic.

    Like lightning.

    Like fireworks.

    But maybe

    it looks more

    like summer.

    Slow mornings.

    Warm air.

    The smell of fresh-cut grass.

    A breeze that reminds you

    the world keeps turning

    whether you’re ready or not.

    There is something comforting

    about a season

    that doesn’t ask you

    to become anyone else.

    It just invites you

    outside.

    To breathe a little deeper.

    To remember

    that not everything beautiful

    has to fight

    to exist.

    So I stand there

    beneath the summer sun,

    letting it rest

    on all the parts of me

    that spent too long

    hidden in the shade.

    And for one quiet moment,

    I stop searching

    for what comes next.

    Because this warmth,

    this breath,

    this ordinary afternoon—

    is enough.

    Maybe happiness

    isn’t always something

    you chase.

    Maybe sometimes

    it simply finds you

    standing still

    beneath the summer sun.

  • Somewhere Between

    I always felt like I was

    in between—

    something like home

    and somewhere far away.

    Never fully arriving.

    Never fully leaving.

    Just existing

    in the space

    between who I was

    and who I wanted to become.

    I knew the roads.

    I recognized the faces.

    But even in familiar places,

    I carried the feeling

    that I was only passing through.

    Like everyone else

    had roots,

    and I only had directions.

    I spent years

    thinking I was searching

    for a place.

    A city.

    A person.

    A life

    that would finally make me feel

    like I belonged.

    But no matter

    how far I ran,

    I took the distance

    with me.

    Because it wasn’t miles

    I was trying to cross.

    It was something inside me.

    A quiet emptiness

    that kept whispering,

    Almost.

    Not here.

    Keep going.

    So I did.

    Until one day

    I realized

    maybe I wasn’t meant

    to find home.

    Maybe I was meant

    to build it.

    Piece by piece.

    From forgiveness.

    From healing.

    From learning

    to stop running

    from the person

    I kept leaving behind.

    I always felt like I was

    between something like home

    and somewhere far away.

    Maybe that’s what becoming feels like.

    Not lost.

    Just traveling

    the long way

    back to yourself.

  • Where Is My Mind?

    Where is my mind?

    I swear

    it was here yesterday—

    before the overthinking,

    before the memories

    started rearranging the room,

    before every quiet moment

    became another place

    for my thoughts to wander.

    I search for it

    in unfinished conversations,

    in songs

    I should’ve stopped listening to,

    in old photographs

    that remember

    more than I want them to.

    Maybe I left it

    in a version of my life

    I never got to keep.

    Maybe it’s still sitting

    at a table

    where I thought forever

    meant forever.

    Or maybe

    it’s buried beneath

    every expectation

    I couldn’t live up to,

    every mistake

    I replay

    like changing the ending

    is still an option.

    Some days

    my head feels

    like a house

    with every light on

    and nobody home.

    Every room

    filled with noise,

    every hallway

    echoing

    with questions

    that don’t have answers.

    But every now and then—

    there’s a moment.

    A deep breath.

    A quiet sunrise.

    A laugh

    I didn’t have to force.

    And for a second,

    everything settles.

    The noise steps back.

    The weight

    loosens its grip.

    Maybe my mind

    was never lost.

    Maybe it was just

    buried beneath

    everything

    I never gave myself

    permission

    to put down.

    So I’ll keep looking.

    Not for the person

    I used to be—

    but for the peace

    I’ve been carrying

    inside me all along,

    waiting

    for the noise

    to finally make room.

  • The Version That Stayed

    I’ve met a lot of versions

    of myself.

    The angry one.

    The broken one.

    The one who swore

    they didn’t care anymore.

    The one who drank

    to quiet the noise.

    The one who chased people

    who were already leaving.

    The one who sat awake

    at three in the morning

    wondering how life

    ended up feeling this heavy.

    Some of them

    I barely recognize now.

    Some of them

    still visit when I’m tired.

    But none of them stayed.

    Not completely.

    Because every version of me

    that thought they were finished,

    was wrong.

    Every version

    that believed the pain

    would last forever,

    was wrong too.

    They survived things

    they never should’ve had to.

    And then they became

    someone else.

    That’s the strange thing

    about living.

    You don’t notice

    you’re changing.

    Not day to day.

    Not while you’re in it.

    Then one morning

    you look back

    and realize the person

    who carried all that hurt

    isn’t the same person

    looking through your eyes now.

    The scars came with me.

    The lessons too.

    But the weight—

    some of it finally stayed behind.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe growth

    isn’t becoming someone new.

    Maybe it’s realizing

    the strongest version of you

    was the one

    who kept showing up

    long enough

    to become anyone at all.