Through the Fog

Category: healing

  • Not Mine To Save

    I used to think

    that I could save the world

    until I realized

    the world was never

    mine to save.

    I spent years

    trying to fix things

    I didn’t break.

    Loving people

    who didn’t know

    how to love themselves.

    Carrying burdens

    that were never mine

    to begin with.

    I thought if I cared enough,

    tried hard enough,

    gave enough of myself,

    somehow

    I could make everything

    turn out differently.

    I thought love

    could change people.

    That understanding

    could heal them.

    That if I just stayed

    a little longer,

    gave one more chance,

    forgave one more time,

    eventually

    something would give.

    And something did.

    Me.

    I broke myself

    trying to keep

    everyone else together.

    I became so consumed

    with saving people

    from their own destruction

    that I never noticed

    what it was doing to me.

    I called it compassion.

    I called it loyalty.

    I called it love.

    But somewhere along the way,

    I started confusing

    being needed

    with being important.

    And being useful

    with being worthy.

    I couldn’t stand

    watching people hurt.

    So I took their pain

    and made it mine.

    I couldn’t stand

    watching people leave.

    So I abandoned myself

    trying to convince them

    to stay.

    And the fucked-up part?

    I thought that made me

    a good person.

    Maybe it did.

    Maybe my intentions

    were always good.

    But good intentions

    don’t make you invincible.

    And having a big heart

    doesn’t mean

    you owe everyone

    a piece of it.

    I’ve had to learn

    that some people

    don’t want to be saved.

    Some people

    have to lose everything

    before they understand

    what they had.

    Some people

    will keep reaching

    for your hand

    only to pull you under

    with them.

    And no matter

    how much you love them,

    you cannot live

    their lives

    for them.

    That’s been

    the hardest lesson.

    Learning to care

    without carrying.

    To love

    without losing myself.

    To watch someone

    make the wrong decision

    and understand

    that it isn’t always

    my responsibility

    to stop them.

    I still struggle with it.

    I still want to fix things.

    Still want to reach

    for people

    who are falling apart.

    Still feel guilty

    when I choose

    my own peace.

    But I’m learning.

    Slowly.

    Painfully.

    That I can be kind

    without being consumed.

    That I can offer love

    without sacrificing

    everything I have left.

    That walking away

    doesn’t always mean

    I stopped caring.

    Sometimes

    it means I finally

    started caring

    about myself, too.

    I used to think

    I could save the world.

    And maybe

    that’s why I spent

    so many years

    feeling like a failure.

    Because no matter

    how much I gave,

    someone was still hurting.

    Something was still broken.

    Someone still needed

    more than I had.

    But the world

    was never mine to save.

    And neither

    was everyone in it.

    Maybe my purpose

    was never to rescue

    every broken thing

    I came across.

    Maybe it was simply

    to leave a little kindness

    where I could,

    love people

    without trying

    to become their salvation,

    and finally understand

    that I am allowed

    to have a life

    of my own.

    Because somewhere

    in all those years

    of trying to save

    everyone else,

    there was a woman

    quietly falling apart

    who deserved

    some of that love, too.

    And this time,

    I’m not leaving her

    behind.

  • 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.

  • I’m Lost and Losing

    I’m lost and losing—

    at least that’s what it feels like

    when the nights get long

    and my thoughts start keeping score.

    Counting every mistake.

    Every door that closed.

    Every person

    I couldn’t hold onto.

    The tally grows.

    And some days

    it looks like proof.

    Proof that I’m falling behind,

    that I missed something important,

    that everyone else

    got a map

    I never received.

    But feelings

    are convincing liars.

    They take a hard season

    and call it a hard life.

    They take a setback

    and call it an ending.

    So I sit here

    between what’s true

    and what hurts.

    And the truth is—

    I have lost things.

    People.

    Time.

    Pieces of myself

    I’m still trying to find.

    But losing things

    isn’t the same

    as being lost forever.

    Because even now—

    with doubt in my chest

    and questions in my head—

    I’m still moving.

    Still searching.

    Still showing up

    on days

    I’d rather disappear into sleep.

    Maybe I’m not losing.

    Maybe I’m just

    in the middle of something.

    The part of the story

    that feels like failure

    before it makes sense.

    And maybe being lost

    isn’t proof

    that there’s no way forward.

    Maybe it’s just proof

    that I haven’t found it yet.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • Happy

    I forgot

    what happy feels like.

    Not joy—

    I remember flashes of that.

    Moments.

    Temporary things.

    I mean happy

    in the quiet sense.

    The kind that settles in your chest

    without needing a reason.

    The kind that doesn’t feel borrowed

    or fragile.

    Lately, everything feels measured.

    Every smile examined

    like I’m trying to decide

    if I actually mean it

    or if I just got good

    at performing okay.

    People ask

    when I’ll finally be happy

    like it’s a destination,

    like one right choice

    or one right person

    is supposed to unlock it.

    But maybe happy

    is smaller than that.

    Maybe it’s not fireworks.

    Maybe it’s peace.

    A morning

    where your thoughts

    don’t immediately turn against you.

    A laugh

    that doesn’t feel forced.

    A moment

    where being alive

    doesn’t feel so heavy.

    And maybe

    I’ve been chasing

    the loud version of happiness

    for so long

    I forgot to notice

    the quiet kind

    still trying

    to reach me.

  • Learning to Swim

    At first,

    I thought I was drowning.

    Arms wild,

    lungs burning,

    heart panicking

    at the weight of it all.

    I fought the water—

    kicked against it,

    pushed,

    thrashed

    like survival meant

    winning.

    But water doesn’t fight back.

    It just holds you

    or lets you sink.

    No one told me

    how much of this

    was learning to stop

    fighting what I’m in.

    So I slowed.

    Not all at once—

    just enough

    to notice

    that the surface

    was closer

    than I thought.

    That if I leaned back

    instead of forward,

    if I trusted

    even a little—

    I wouldn’t disappear.

    I wouldn’t fall

    through the bottom

    of something

    that doesn’t have one.

    I’d float.

    Awkward at first.

    Unsteady.

    Unsure

    if I could trust it to last.

    But it held me.

    And maybe

    that’s what this is—

    not learning

    how to escape the water,

    but learning

    how to stay in it

    without losing myself.

    Learning

    that survival

    doesn’t always look like struggle.

    Sometimes

    it looks like surrender—

    like letting something

    carry you

    until you remember

    how to move

    without fear.