Through the Fog

Category: Reflection

  • Just Another Day

    They say it’s your day—

    like that means something

    you’re supposed to feel.

    Like candles and wishes

    are enough

    to make it matter.

    But it comes

    like any other morning—

    quiet,

    unremarkable,

    the same weight

    waiting for you

    before your feet

    hit the floor.

    Messages trickle in—

    “happy birthday,”

    short, bright,

    easy to send.

    You read them,

    type back something grateful,

    something light,

    something that doesn’t say

    how it actually feels.

    Because how do you explain

    that another year

    doesn’t feel like a celebration?

    That it feels like time passing

    without asking

    if you’re ready for it.

    Like you’re still

    the same person

    trying to figure things out—

    just older,

    just more aware

    of what didn’t turn out

    the way you thought it would.

    There’s no party

    for that.

    No candles

    for the things you lost,

    the versions of yourself

    that didn’t make it here.

    So the day moves on—

    like it always does.

    And you move with it,

    smiling when you need to,

    thanking people

    for remembering.

    But deep down,

    it doesn’t feel like yours.

    It just feels

    like another day

    you survived.

  • Apologies to the Past

    I’m sorry things ain’t what they used to be—

    I say it like an apology,

    like time took a wrong turn

    and I’m somehow to blame.

    We were softer then.

    Or maybe just less honest

    about the cracks forming underneath.

    Back when laughter came easier

    and silence didn’t feel so loaded.

    Now everything carries history.

    Every word knows what came before it.

    Every pause remembers

    how things fell apart

    without making a sound.

    I miss the simplicity—

    the way hope didn’t need proof,

    the way love didn’t feel like work

    or risk or loss waiting its turn.

    But I also know

    we didn’t lose something for nothing.

    People grow.

    Truth shows up.

    Life asks more of us

    than nostalgia can answer.

    So I’m sorry, yes—

    for the distance,

    for the change,

    for the way “used to be”

    still aches when I say it.

    But I’m learning

    that different doesn’t always mean broken.

    Sometimes it just means

    we survived long enough

    to become real.

  • The Dying Day

    The day doesn’t end all at once.

    It weakens.

    Light thinning at the edges,

    hours learning how to let go.

    I watch it die quietly—

    no drama,

    no final words—

    just shadows stretching

    like they’re tired too.

    The dying day carries

    everything I didn’t finish:

    conversations I rehearsed,

    apologies I swallowed,

    hope I meant to believe in

    a little harder.

    Night arrives

    like an understanding,

    not cruel,

    just honest about what remains.

    I sit with the dark

    and take inventory—

    what hurt,

    what survived,

    what I’ll try again tomorrow

    if morning is kind.

    The dying day doesn’t judge me.

    It just leaves.

    And somehow,

    that feels like permission

    to rest

    without explaining myself.

  • After the Fact

    Nothing teaches you faster

    than the sentence

    I wouldn’t do that again.

    It doesn’t mean you’re wiser now—

    just more aware

    of the cost.

    Awareness isn’t loud.

    It doesn’t brag.

    It just changes how you choose

    when no one is watching.