Sometimes we’re broken
and we don’t know why—
there’s no moment to point to,
no sharp edge we tripped over,
no memory that explains
the heaviness we wake up with.
Some wounds aren’t from events,
but from seasons.
From slow storms
that soaked us through
before we even realized
we were standing in the rain.
Sometimes the sadness
isn’t loud or dramatic—
it’s quiet,
a small tear in the soul
that widens over time
until the light slips through
and we mistake it for emptiness.
We say we’re fine
because nothing “bad” happened,
but our hearts ache anyway,
caught between the person we were
and the one we’re trying to become.
And maybe that’s the truth—
maybe being broken
doesn’t always have a reason.
Maybe sometimes
the heart just gets tired
from carrying everything alone.
But even then,
even in that quiet unraveling,
you’re not beyond repair.
You’re just learning yourself
in the hardest way—
piece by fragile piece,
pain by honest pain.
And one day,
the why won’t matter
as much as the fact
that you made it through
without needing an answer.
Through the Fog 