Through the Fog

Category: life

  • Meeting Myself

    I met both the happiest

    and saddest versions of myself last year—

    sometimes in the same breath,

    sometimes in the same night.

    I met the one who laughed freely,

    who believed again without checking the cost,

    who felt light enough

    to imagine a future

    that didn’t scare her.

    And I met the one

    who sat on the floor too long,

    who questioned her worth in silence,

    who carried grief

    like it was part of her anatomy.

    They didn’t recognize each other at first.

    One wanted to stay.

    One wanted to disappear.

    Both were tired of pretending

    they didn’t exist.

    Last year taught me

    that joy and sorrow

    aren’t opposites—

    they’re neighbors.

    They borrow from each other,

    shape each other,

    prove we’re alive in different languages.

    I survived by learning this:

    I don’t have to choose one version

    to be real.

    I can hold them both,

    thank them both,

    and keep moving.

    Because meeting myself—

    all of me—

    was the hardest

    and most honest thing

    I’ve ever done.

  • The Ocean, Palm Trees, and Regrets

    The ocean keeps breathing

    like nothing has ever been broken.

    Waves arrive, waves leave,

    each one pretending it isn’t carrying

    someone else’s grief back out to sea.

    I watch them anyway,

    hoping they’ll take something from me

    without asking what it costs.

    Palm trees sway overhead,

    carefree and rooted,

    as if they’ve never questioned

    where they belong.

    They don’t ache for other lives.

    They don’t replay moments

    they should’ve handled differently.

    They just exist—

    and I envy them for that.

    The air is warm,

    salt clinging to my skin,

    sunlight making everything look

    forgiven.

    From a distance,

    this place looks like healing.

    Like peace.

    Like the kind of postcard

    people think fixes you.

    But regrets travel well.

    They pack light.

    They follow you barefoot through sand,

    show up uninvited

    between sips of something cold,

    whispering names

    the ocean can’t drown out.

    I think about the words

    I didn’t say soon enough,

    the moments I let slip

    because I was afraid

    of what choosing would cost me.

    I think about how easy it is

    to mistake beauty for closure,

    movement for growth.

    The ocean keeps rolling in,

    unbothered by my spirals.

    The palm trees keep dancing,

    unaware of the weight

    I’m carrying under calm skin.

    And I stand here—

    sun-soaked, smiling for strangers,

    learning that sometimes regret

    doesn’t mean you chose wrong.

    Sometimes it just means

    you cared deeply,

    and the tide hadn’t turned yet.

  • When the Magnolias Bloom

    When the magnolias bloom,

    the world remembers how to soften.

    White petals open like quiet forgiveness,

    thick with scent and patience,

    unhurried by whatever we rushed through.

    They bloom after the cold

    as if it never owned them,

    as if survival didn’t leave marks.

    No announcement.

    No apology.

    Just beauty insisting on itself.

    I think about timing then—

    how some things wait until they’re ready,

    how some hearts don’t open

    until the frost finally loosens its grip.

    How blooming late

    doesn’t mean blooming wrong.

    When the magnolias bloom,

    I let myself believe in return.

    In second chances that don’t explain themselves.

    In tenderness strong enough

    to come back every year

    without asking who stayed to see it.

    And for a moment,

    everything feels possible again—

    not because life is easy,

    but because something beautiful

    chose to open anyway.

  • Can’t Save Myself From 5AM

    Can’t save myself from 5am—

    that thin, trembling hour

    when the night is almost gone

    but refuses to let go,

    and I’m caught between yesterday’s ghosts

    and tomorrow’s promises

    I don’t know how to keep.

    There’s something cruel

    about the quiet at that hour,

    how it magnifies every bruise

    I thought I’d healed,

    how it pulls old memories

    back into my hands

    like I’m meant to cradle them

    instead of bury them.

    I lie there, staring at the ceiling,

    watching the darkness pulse

    in slow, aching waves,

    feeling the weight of every thought

    I pretended didn’t hurt.

    It’s the kind of loneliness

    that doesn’t shout—

    it whispers,

    it lingers,

    it crawls under my skin

    and makes a home there.

    5am is where the truth comes out—

    the truth I hide in daylight,

    the truth I swallow before speaking.

    It’s where the what-ifs return,

    where the could’ve-beens settle

    in the corners of my chest,

    where the world feels too wide

    for someone who feels

    so unbearably small.

    I try to breathe through it,

    try to remind myself

    that morning always comes,

    that light always finds a way in—

    but some nights,

    the dark wraps around me

    like it knows my name,

    like it’s claiming something

    I’m too tired to fight for.

    Everyone else is dreaming,

    and I’m wide awake,

    trying to stitch myself together

    before the sun finds me

    broken again.

  • Life Is Beautiful

    Life is beautiful,

    even when I don’t always see it—

    even when the days blur together,

    when the light feels distant,

    when the weight in my chest

    makes everything look dimmer

    than it really is.

    But beauty has a way

    of slipping through the cracks—

    in the sound of someone’s laughter,

    in the warmth of a morning sunbeam,

    in the quiet moments

    I forget to appreciate

    until they’re already gone.

    I don’t always notice it,

    don’t always feel it,

    don’t always believe

    the world still has softness

    left for me.

    But then something small happens—

    a gentle word,

    a familiar song,

    a breath that comes easier

    than the one before—

    and it reminds me

    that beauty doesn’t vanish,

    it waits.

    Life is beautiful,

    even when I don’t always see it—

    and maybe the seeing

    will come easier

    if I keep looking.