I spent years
looking for home
in other people.
In their words.
Their promises.
The way they looked at me
when I still believed
I could be saved.
I thought belonging
was something you found.
A place.
A person.
A feeling you could hold onto
long enough
to stop feeling lost.
But every road
led somewhere temporary.
Every answer
turned into another question.
And every time
I built my life
around something outside myself,
it left.
Or changed.
Or taught me
that nothing stays exactly
the way you need it to.
So I kept wandering.
Through heartbreak.
Through bad decisions.
Through years
I barely recognize now.
And somewhere along the way,
I realized something.
Maybe home
was never a destination.
Maybe it was learning
how to sit with myself
without needing to escape.
Learning how to forgive
the person I became
while trying to survive.
Learning how to stay
when every instinct
told me to run.
It’s not easy.
Some days
I still feel like a stranger
in my own skin.
Some days
the past feels louder
than the future.
But less often now.
Because little by little,
I’m finding my way back.
Not to who I was.
To who I am.
And after all these years,
that feels a lot like home.
Through the Fog 