Through the Fog

Category: Reflections

  • Perceived Abandonment

    It’s strange how loneliness can make you believe you’ve been abandoned, even when no one’s gone anywhere.

    It creeps in quietly — not as an event, but as a feeling.

    A hollow shift inside the chest, a soft whisper that says they don’t care anymore, even when they do.

    I know it’s not true.

    But in the moments when silence stretches too long,

    when messages go unread and days pile up in quiet stacks,

    it feels like proof.

    Proof that I’m too much, or not enough, or somehow both at once.

    It’s the oldest wound — that fear of being left behind.

    Not just by people, but by life itself.

    You start to think maybe everyone else got the map,

    and you were born to wander lost.

    I’ve learned that perceived abandonment isn’t about others leaving.

    It’s about the part of me that still believes love is temporary,

    that care has an expiration date,

    that any warmth will eventually fade.

    So I brace myself for endings that haven’t even begun.

    I pull away before anyone has a chance to.

    And then I call it loneliness, when really it’s just fear —

    the quiet kind that pretends it’s truth.

    But loneliness doesn’t mean I’ve been abandoned.

    It means I’m here, still longing, still feeling, still alive enough to miss something.

    And maybe that’s not weakness.

    Maybe that’s the part of me still hoping

    someone will stay long enough to prove my heart wrong.

  • Made for the Grey

    Maybe just maybe I’m not meant for happiness.

    I don’t mean that in a dramatic, attention-seeking way. It’s just… there are people who seem to glide through life with ease — who laugh without effort, who wake up without dread, who find peace in the simplest things. And then there’s me, constantly trying to piece together fragments of myself that never quite fit.

    I’ve spent so long chasing happiness like it’s a finish line — something I could reach if I just worked hard enough, healed deep enough, or loved fully enough. But every time I get close, it slips through my fingers. Maybe happiness was never meant to stay. Maybe it’s supposed to be fleeting, just enough to remind me I’m still human before it fades back into the fog.

    Sometimes I wonder if my life is more about endurance than joy — surviving the weight, carrying the ache, learning to live with the quiet ache of “almost.” Maybe that’s okay. Maybe my story isn’t about finding happiness, but about learning how to exist without it.

    There’s a strange peace in that thought — not comfort, but acceptance. The kind that whispers, you’re still here, and maybe that’s enough.