Through the Fog

Blog

  • The Things That Stay

    Some things leave.

    People.

    Promises.

    Versions of yourself

    you thought would last forever.

    They slip away quietly,

    without asking permission,

    without caring

    how badly you wanted them to stay.

    I used to chase them.

    Used to run after endings

    like I could change their minds,

    like enough love,

    enough effort,

    enough pain

    could make something remain.

    But loss

    has never listened to bargaining.

    It takes what it takes.

    And eventually

    you get tired

    of chasing ghosts

    through doors

    that only open one way.

    So you stop.

    Not because it hurts less.

    Because you finally understand

    that some things

    aren’t meant to be carried forever.

    Still—

    not everything leaves.

    The lessons stay.

    The scars.

    The songs that remind you

    of who you were.

    The strength you never wanted

    but somehow earned.

    And maybe

    that’s the strange gift of surviving—

    realizing that while life

    takes more than its share,

    it leaves something behind too.

    A wiser heart.

    A deeper soul.

    A quieter understanding

    of what truly matters.

    So let the leaving happen.

    Let the endings end.

    Trust that what belongs to you

    isn’t always the thing that stays—

    sometimes it’s the person

    you become

    after it’s gone.

  • What the Mirror Knows

    The mirror knows things

    I never say out loud.

    It sees me

    before the smile,

    before the practiced answers,

    before I remember

    who I’m supposed to be today.

    It sees the tired.

    The kind sleep

    doesn’t fix.

    The kind that settles

    behind the eyes

    after carrying too much

    for too long.

    Some mornings

    I barely recognize

    the person staring back.

    Not because they’ve changed—

    because I have.

    Piece by piece.

    By heartbreak.

    By regret.

    By all the things

    I survived

    that never completely left.

    And still—

    the mirror keeps showing up.

    Never judging.

    Never looking away.

    Just reflecting the truth

    whether I’m ready for it

    or not.

    The cracks.

    The strength.

    The damage.

    The healing.

    All of it.

    And maybe

    that’s why I keep looking.

    Not to find perfection.

    Not to find

    the person I used to be.

    But to remind myself

    that after everything—

    I’m still here.

    Still standing.

    Still becoming someone

    the mirror

    hasn’t met yet.

  • The Places I Hide

    There are places I hide

    that no one knows about—

    not rooms,

    not addresses,

    not somewhere you could find

    with a map.

    I mean the places

    inside myself.

    The quiet corners

    where I keep old heartbreaks,

    old mistakes,

    old versions of me

    that never learned

    how to let go.

    I visit them more often

    than I should.

    When the night gets long.

    When the house gets quiet.

    When a memory

    catches me off guard

    and suddenly

    I’m years behind myself again.

    That’s the thing about healing—

    people think it’s a straight road.

    It isn’t.

    It’s circling back

    to wounds you thought were closed

    and finding out

    they still know your name.

    It’s carrying ghosts

    without inviting them

    to stay.

    And some days

    I get tired.

    Tired of being strong.

    Tired of rebuilding.

    Tired of learning

    the same lessons

    in different disguises.

    But even then—

    even in the places I hide—

    there’s a part of me

    that keeps the light on.

    A stubborn little thing

    that refuses

    to abandon itself.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe healing

    isn’t about never hiding.

    Maybe it’s about

    finding your way back out

    every single time.

  • The Ghost I Became

    Somewhere along the way

    I became a ghost

    in my own life.

    Not gone—

    just distant.

    Watching days pass

    through windows I never opened,

    standing in rooms

    without really being there.

    People still say my name.

    Still ask how I’m doing.

    Still tell me stories

    like I’m part of them.

    And I answer.

    I smile.

    I nod.

    I play my role.

    But there are moments

    when I feel transparent—

    like everyone is talking

    to the version of me

    I used to be.

    The one who laughed easier.

    The one who believed

    tomorrow would fix things.

    I miss that person.

    Not because they were happier.

    Because they were present.

    Because they knew

    how to exist

    without carrying the weight

    of every mistake,

    every loss,

    every unfinished goodbye.

    But ghosts

    aren’t dead things.

    They’re lingering things.

    Things that haven’t found

    their way home yet.

    And maybe that’s me.

    Not lost forever.

    Not broken beyond repair.

    Just wandering through

    old memories

    a little too long.

    Trying to remember

    how to become flesh and blood again.

    Trying to remember

    what it feels like

    to truly be here.

  • The Weight I Carry

    Some days

    I carry the weight of everything—

    every mistake,

    every goodbye,

    every version of myself

    I wish I could forget.

    Not because I want to.

    Because it follows me.

    In quiet moments.

    In songs I didn’t expect.

    In the pause

    between one thought

    and the next.

    I tell myself

    to put it down.

    As if grief

    is something you can leave

    on a table

    and walk away from.

    But some things

    cling to your hands.

    Some memories

    learn your shape

    so well

    they fit inside you

    like they were always meant

    to live there.

    And maybe

    that’s what growing older is—

    not learning how to forget,

    but learning how to carry

    what stays.

    The regrets.

    The losses.

    The people

    who became stories

    instead of futures.

    Still—

    I keep moving.

    Not because the weight

    gets lighter.

    But because somewhere along the way

    I got stronger

    than the things

    trying to drag me down.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe survival

    isn’t the absence of burden—

    maybe it’s learning

    how to walk forward

    with it anyway.

  • The Things I Don’t Say

    There are things

    I don’t say out loud—

    not because I don’t feel them,

    but because once words exist

    outside of me,

    they become harder

    to survive.

    So I keep them buried.

    The anger

    that never fully leaves.

    The loneliness

    that shows up

    even in crowded rooms.

    The fear

    that maybe I’ve spent so long

    pretending to be okay

    I forgot how to actually be it.

    People think silence

    means peace.

    They don’t realize

    silence can also mean

    containment.

    A dam holding back

    everything

    I don’t trust myself

    to release.

    Because I know

    what happens

    when pain spills over.

    How quickly

    it can ruin a moment,

    a relationship,

    an entire version

    of yourself.

    So I swallow it.

    Turn it inward.

    Carry it quietly

    until it becomes

    part of my posture.

    And still—

    some part of me

    wants to be understood.

    Not fixed.

    Not rescued.

    Just seen

    without having to translate

    every wound

    into something easier

    for other people to hold.

    Maybe that’s why I write.

    Because paper

    doesn’t flinch.

    And poems

    don’t ask me

    to make the truth

    sound prettier

    than it is.

  • Somewhere Between Healing and Ruin

    I exist

    somewhere between healing

    and ruin—

    not fully broken,

    not fully okay,

    just carrying both versions

    of myself

    at the same time.

    One side of me

    wants peace.

    Wants quiet mornings,

    steady hands,

    a mind that doesn’t turn

    every small hurt

    into something catastrophic.

    The other side—

    the one built from survival—

    still waits for things to fall apart.

    Still flinches

    at softness.

    Still searches for exits

    in places

    that haven’t given me

    a reason to run.

    And it’s exhausting

    living like that.

    Wanting to trust life again

    while secretly expecting

    it to disappoint me.

    Wanting love

    without believing

    it stays.

    Wanting to heal

    while holding onto pain

    like it’s proof

    I survived something.

    But maybe healing

    was never meant

    to look graceful.

    Maybe it’s messy.

    Slow.

    Two steps forward

    and one memory

    pulling you backward again.

    Maybe it’s waking up

    and choosing

    to keep trying anyway.

    Even when the past

    still echoes.

    Even when the weight

    hasn’t fully lifted.

    Because ruin

    would’ve been giving up.

    And I didn’t.

    Not completely.

  • Story of My Life

    Story of my life—

    always halfway somewhere.

    Half over it.

    Half still hoping.

    Half healed.

    Half wrecked.

    Too aware

    of what’s wrong

    and somehow

    still repeating it.

    I leave doors cracked

    for people

    who already walked out.

    Replay conversations

    like maybe this time

    the ending changes.

    Say I’m done

    while still checking

    for signs

    I shouldn’t care about.

    I call it moving on

    when really

    I’m just dragging

    old versions of pain

    into new rooms.

    I get good

    at surviving things

    I should’ve never

    had to survive.

    Good at smiling

    through exhaustion.

    Good at saying

    “I’m fine”

    with a straight face.

    Good at making chaos

    look manageable.

    Story of my life—

    wanting softness

    but wearing armor.

    Wanting peace

    while feeding the thoughts

    that steal it.

    Wanting to be loved

    without knowing

    what to do

    when someone gets close enough

    to actually try.

    But somehow—

    despite all of it—

    I’m still here.

    Still trying.

    Still becoming

    something other than

    the worst chapters.

    Maybe that’s the story too.

  • Stuck Between Here and There

    I’ve been living

    stuck between here and there—

    between who I was

    and who I’m trying to become,

    between letting go

    and still looking back.

    Nothing feels settled.

    The past still pulls at me

    like it wants another chance,

    while the future stands distant,

    blurred out

    like something I’m not sure

    I’ll ever reach.

    So I exist in the middle.

    Half-healed.

    Half-hoping.

    Halfway out of places

    that no longer fit me

    but still feel familiar enough

    to miss.

    And maybe

    that’s why it hurts so much—

    because becoming

    isn’t clean.

    It’s uncomfortable.

    Lonely.

    A constant tug-of-war

    between comfort

    and growth.

    Some days

    I want to run backward—

    toward old habits,

    old people,

    old versions of myself

    that at least knew

    what to expect.

    But something in me

    keeps moving forward anyway.

    Even slowly.

    Even scared.

    Because deep down

    I know

    I can’t stay suspended forever.

    Eventually

    I’ll have to choose

    what parts of me

    come with me

    and what parts

    have to be left behind.

    Until then—

    I’ll keep standing

    in this in-between place,

    trying to believe

    that lost

    and becoming

    sometimes look

    exactly the same.

  • Heart of Stone

    They say I’ve got

    a heart of stone—

    like I woke up this way,

    cold from the beginning,

    untouched by anything

    that ever tried to reach me.

    But stone

    isn’t born hard.

    It becomes that way

    through pressure,

    through weather,

    through years

    of standing in storms

    with no shelter.

    People see the surface

    and stop there.

    They don’t see

    how many times

    I tried to love softly,

    how many times

    I opened my hands

    just to watch

    everything good

    slip through them.

    So I learned.

    Learned how to close off

    before something

    could get close enough

    to ruin me again.

    Learned how to act indifferent,

    how to keep my voice steady,

    how to pretend

    nothing touches me anymore.

    But pretending

    and feeling nothing

    aren’t the same thing.

    Because even stone

    remembers pressure.

    Even stone

    can crack.

    And underneath

    everything hardened in me—

    under the distance,

    the silence,

    the walls I built

    to survive—

    there’s still a heart there.

    Just one

    that got tired

    of bleeding

    every time

    it tried to be soft.