Through the Fog

Category: recovery

  • Stuck

    I’m stuck here—

    in this space between

    who I was

    and who I fought to become.

    And I’m scared.

    Not of falling apart loudly.

    Not of breaking in some obvious way.

    I’m scared of the quiet slide.

    The subtle shift.

    The old voice clearing its throat

    inside my head.

    I remember her.

    The version of me

    that didn’t care

    what burned

    as long as I felt something.

    The one who mistook chaos

    for control.

    Who called self-destruction

    freedom.

    Who wore damage

    like armor.

    I buried her.

    Or maybe I just

    outgrew her.

    But sometimes

    when I feel cornered,

    when life presses too close

    to my ribs,

    I feel her move.

    Not gone.

    Just waiting.

    I don’t want to lose control.

    I don’t want to wake up

    one morning

    recognizing the hunger

    in my own hands again.

    I worked too hard

    to soften.

    Too hard to breathe

    before reacting.

    Too hard to choose quiet

    over fire.

    Being stuck

    is better than being reckless.

    Stillness

    is better than self-sabotage.

    If this is the space

    between breaking

    and becoming—

    then I will stand here.

    Shaking.

    But standing.

    Because the fact

    that I’m afraid

    of going back

    means I already know

    I don’t belong there anymore.

  • When Reality Sets In

    In sober living,

    the air was softer.

    Time moved slower,

    like the world agreed

    to lower its voice.

    Everyone spoke the same language—

    triggers, steps, boundaries, hope.

    Pain was expected there.

    Relapses whispered about,

    not shouted.

    No one asked why are you still struggling

    because the answer was obvious:

    you’re human.

    Out here,

    the volume is different.

    Bills don’t care how long it took

    to relearn how to breathe.

    People don’t pause

    because your nervous system is still

    learning how to stand upright.

    The world wants productivity,

    not progress.

    In the bubble,

    healing was the job.

    Out here,

    healing is something you’re supposed to do

    quietly,

    after work,

    without letting it show.

    Out here,

    bars glow like invitations.

    Old streets remember your name.

    Old versions of you

    wait patiently

    in familiar places.

    No one claps when you don’t drink.

    No one sees the war

    that didn’t happen today.

    Sobriety stops being a celebration

    and starts being maintenance.

    And some days,

    that’s the hardest part—

    realizing the safety net is gone,

    but the fear came back.

    Still,

    you wake up.

    You choose it again.

    Not because it’s easy.

    Not because it feels good.

    But because you remember

    what it cost

    to survive long enough

    to get here.

    The bubble taught you how to live.

    The real world teaches you

    how to keep choosing it

    without applause.

    And maybe that’s what recovery really is—

    staying sober

    when no one is watching,

    when the world is loud,

    and the comfort is gone,

    and you’re still standing.